Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

This is great practice.

This is what we’ll have to do in a week.

Then, come April, we’ll be traveling together on the team plane. Going out after games sometimes.

We’ll need to blend in.

So, as I line up the shot at the Cactus Club, I don’t think about who Grant is texting on his phone.

Nope. I don’t care if his attention is elsewhere. Just like I wouldn’t care if Crosby was keeping himself busy.

But Crosby is not.

Crosby is all teammate tonight as he tosses down a fifty-dollar bill. “Fifty bucks says the shortstop and I kick all your sorry asses,” he says to the other rookies.

I glance over at him as I line up the shot. “You’re so damn lucky I let you be my teammate at pool.”

Crosby laughs. “Because there’s no way I’d win without you.” Then he wiggles his fingers at Sullivan. “Come on. Pay up too. Bet’s for everyone.”

Sullivan shoots him a dubious look. “Wait. This is another rookie prank, isn’t it?”

“I bet it is,” Miguel puts in, arching a smart-aleck brow.

I toss a shrug Crosby’s way. “Guess they won’t find out until the end of the night.”

Grant’s hanging out by the end of the table when he looks up from his phone. “Bullshit. This isn’t a prank,” he says, one of the first things he’s said all night.

But I am not paying attention to him.

I am playing a game.

I aim, shoot, and send the ball into the pocket.

“Woohoo! My teammate can handle a stick,” Crosby says, thrusting his arms high in the air.

I bark out a cough then give him a side-eye stare. “Oh no you didn’t.”

Crosby’s face goes slack. “Oh shit, man. I’m sorry.”

I crack up, offering him a hand for high-fiving. “Don’t be sorry. You’re not wrong.”

Crosby rolls his eyes. “Of course you know how to handle a stick, you big stud.”

“And you’re an ace with the . . . glove,” I say, laughing, but I don’t risk a single glance at Grant.

Not one.

I take a few more shots till we miss. I grab my iced tea, and Crosby lifts a beer as Grant strides to the table with Chance, who is a steely-eyed mofo. This will be good practice for me too.

Watching and talking and not thinking about seeing Grant later.

Not at all.

I lean back against the wall and toss out a critical issue for debate to the guys. “LeBron or Jordan?”

Sullivan snaps his fingers. “Oh, man. That is a tough-ass question, but it has got to be MJ all the way. He did not lose a championship.”

“Nope. LeBron. Better stats,” Miguel puts in, punctuating his point with a stab of his pool cue to the floor.

That sparks a great basketball debate for another round as Grant lines up at the corner of the table, calls the shot, then pulls back the stick and smacks the white ball against the black one, sending it home, and winning the game.

I want to shout, clap him on the back, and say good shot.

Because I want to whoop and holler for this guy. But I’ve got to treat him just like any other teammate. He’s just another guy who played a solid round of pool. “Good game,” I remark.

He nods a thanks. That’s all.

Damn, he is good at ignoring the hell out of me too. I guess he could also teach a master class. He’s been doing it all night long.

I’m good with that.

So good with that.

He clears his throat and lays down the next debate as he racks up. “Who would win in a game against the ’27 Yankees. Us or Murderers’ Row?”

“Us,” Crosby says in a second.

“Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “Them.”

Chance hums thoughtfully. “And why is that?”

I hold my hands out wide, like it’s obvious. “Because you don’t disrespect Ruth and Gehrig.”

Grant cracks a smile. “Damn good answer, man.”

If we were alone, or hell, maybe if we were at The Lazy Hammock again, I would toss out a joke. I would say something to him like, “And I’d also bet on them too, because I don’t think Ruth wanted to fuck Gehrig or vice versa.”

Then Grant would say, “But what if he did? What if Ruth and Gehrig were really messing around after a game?”

We’d have a laugh as we ate our dinner on the deck, the warm night air surrounding us, the palm trees swaying. We’d be in the corner table that River hooked us up with.

It’d become our thing. Grant would call me Ruth and I’d call him Gehrig, and we’d joke about it the next day as we went for a run.

Maybe he’d even become my off-season guy. The one I poured all my energy into after October. I’d remove my baseball blinders and give him the best of me for a few months.

I’d take him out, take him home. Be seen or not be seen. I wouldn’t have to care. We could just . . . be. No need to post selfies of our dates, but no need to sneak around either.

For a fraction of a second, hell, for more than that, I look at Grant like that’s where we are.

Out together.

Then in bed, alone.

I look at him exactly the way I shouldn’t. Like he’s my lover.

And that’s no good.

I need control. Must have it. Like I have at the plate.

Don’t swing at just anything. Don’t let bad calls get to you.

That’s how I've been.

And so, I do need to think about Ruth and Gehrig. Anything but Grant.

Except when the rookie catcher lifts a drink and brings it to his mouth, my eyes sail to the bottle.

Diet Coke.

I swallow roughly, itching to touch him, aching to taste his Diet Coke lips. I want to take him in my arms and kiss the hell out of him.

I practically break the stick in my hands because there’s so much tension flowing through my body.

Then Grant sets down the bottle, reaches into his pocket again and grabs his phone. He turns away, tapping on it once more.

I force myself to look away too.

Practice. This is practice. Doesn’t matter if Grant’s on his phone, if Chance is on his phone, if Sullivan is on his phone.

It’s not like I’m jealous.

It’s not like there’s some other guy he’s talking to.

I’m not worried about that.

But I do want to know why he’s distracted.

When it’s time to go, I’m no closer to finding out because half the gang piles into my car, the other half into Chance’s rental.

Grant’s not with me, so I chat with Sullivan and Miguel.

My crew walks through the door of the hotel at 10:31 and I make a show of yawning. At 10:33, I’m in my room. At 10:34, I text Grant.

At 10:35, he replies that the hall is empty, but to give it five minutes anyway.

I do just that and at 10:40 I leave my room, head for the stairwell, bound up the steps to the sixth floor, and push on the door. I glance right. Left. Right. Left.

My heart skitters, pulse pounding.

Coast is still clear.

But my heart won’t calm down. It’s not from the exertion. A two-flight jaunt is nothing. It’s beating fast from the secret.

From the sneaking around.

And the chance that we could get caught.

I suppose we could book a room at another hotel, but we’d still have to slip out and sneak back in. So even if we were elsewhere, it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.

I act like I’m doing nothing wrong as I stroll down the hall and head for his room, taking one long glance behind me, making sure no one is around when I reach his door.

I push it open.

Once inside, I slide it shut, lock it, exhale.

Do my best to leave the tension behind me. I made it here, safe and sound, unscathed. To my secret hideaway where no one can find us.

Grant’s waiting for me on the edge of the bed.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

He shudders a sigh. “I’m a fucking mess.”

My heart thumps with worry, as I head to the bed and sit next to him. “I noticed.”

“You did?” His voice is stretched thin with worry.

I run a hand down his thigh. “I kind of notice you,” I say, softly, repeating his words back to him. Speaking my truth.

“You do?” He can’t seem to mask the smile.

“Yeah, I notice you, Grant Blackwood.” I squeeze his thigh. “What’s on your mind?”

I hope to hell it isn’t anything involving us.

Because right now, right here, all that pretending, all that practicing, and all that rapid heart-beating disappears.

This is where I want to be.