Scoring With Him Read Online By Lauren Blakely - Read Scoring With Him(29) Online free

Declan

Emma lifts her golf club, waggles her hips, and stares down the range the next day. “Mark my words, gentlemen. I’m going to hit the one-hundred-yard sign,” she declares.

“Next stop PGA tour,” Fitz announces from his spot next to his sister.

“Don’t bet against me,” she says, then takes aim at the little white ball, whacking the hell out of it. It soars, arcing over the grass at the driving range, then flying high before it lands smack underneath the one-hundred-yard sign.

My eyes bug out. “Whoa. Have you been holding out on me? I didn’t know you were a golf prodigy.”

Laughing, she polishes her nails on her shirt. “I didn’t either. Then I went to the driving range with a friend, and it turned out I was a natural.”

“A friend?” Fitz asks, as he lifts his five-iron. “Is this friend a boy?”

She rolls her blue eyes. “And what if he is?”

I set down my club and wag a finger at her. “Emma, are you seeing someone and forgot to get him approved by your big brother?”

She smacks her forehead. “My bad. I must get all potential dates approved by James.”

“Thank you for remembering the house rules.” He stabs the head of the five-iron against the turf. “Now, I want all the details. Profession? Name? Any criminal arrests? Pets? And is he going to be good to you for the rest of your life?”

His sister cracks up as she drops another ball onto a tee. Since today’s my off day, the three of us decided to snag some time on the range before we grab lunch.

Plus, I won’t be able to catch up with Fitz after the hockey game, since I’m pretty sure my focus post-game will be singular.

Getting Grant naked and under me.

Stat.

But for now, it’s friend time, and Grant is on the back burner of my mind.

Albeit on a simmer.

Or maybe a low heat.

Possibly a medium boil.

“My friend is definitely not going to be good to me for the rest of my life, James,” Emma says, answering. “Because I’m not interested in a forever thing. I just returned from a year studying in England, and I have zero interest in anything serious. But his name is Clint, he works at the Getty, he studied art history, and he’s hotter than Declan.”

I straighten my spine. “How is that possible?”

Fitz cuts in. “So, not very hot, Ems?”

“More like, ‘How did you meet someone at the hotter-than-Mercury level?’ But hey, good on you.” I hold out a fist for knocking and Emma knocks back.

She gives me a saucy wink. “Thank you. You’re a hottie but he’s a hottie-er. And I’m seeing him in LA tomorrow.”

“Ah, so he’s the thing in LA,” I say, sketching air quotes.

“He is definitely the thing.”

We chat more about Emma’s date as we work through a few more rounds. When we’re done, we turn in the clubs, then head to a nearby taco joint for some grub.

As we nosh on chicken tacos, I hunt for just the right spot to drop the news of my date tonight.

My stomach roils though, and it’s not from the spicy salsa.

Why does it feel so strange to say that Grant’s coming with me? Maybe because they’re the first people I’m telling about him? Or maybe because I’ve enjoyed the secret of us.

But possibly, there’s another reason for the churning in my gut.

Exposure.

What it means.

How it’s gone for me in my life.

So far, not so well. I’ve learned when you yank a secret out of the dark and into the light, it dregs up drama along with hurt and shame.

But this thing with Grant is not my past, and I’m not dragging it into the limelight. I’m simply sharing guy news with two good friends who’ll have my back.

Only, Grant hardly feels like other guys I’ve dated. He’s not like Nathan with his empty promises, or Kyle with his lack of boundaries. They’re sepia photographs that faded fast. Grant is vivid, high-definition color, and I can’t look away from him.

And I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack what that means for the end of spring training. The end of our affair.

I lift my iced tea, take a cold drink, and gird myself. “So that extra ticket you gave me to use for the game tonight,” I say in as even a tone as I can muster.

“Yes?” Emma arches a brow.

“I’m bringing a guy.”

Fitz wiggles his fingers. “Serve it up. Who is your spring training hookup?”

I bristle at the term. Grant hardly feels like a hookup. I don’t want to pretend he is. Not with two people I can be honest with. I hate lying to anyone, but especially to my friends. I won’t do it.

“Actually, he’s kind of more than a hookup,” I say and it’s strange to speak those words aloud for the first time, but also . . . not.

That time with Grant last night, talking about baseball, reassuring him, felt like one of the purest moments of my life. The connection between us went deeper, the understanding felt truer than it has with anyone else in the past.

It felt real.

Fitz sets down his fork, leaving his plate of tacos looking lonely. “Dude.”

That one word contains multitudes.

So does the look in his eyes. Concern crossed with curiosity. Maybe he can read my body language and tell this is no ordinary date.

“Who is he?” Emma asks as she squeezes my arm. “Also, you’re in trouble. Why is this the first I’m learning of your new man?”

I swallow roughly. Draw a breath. As I test the words in my mind, they’re so forbidden. Grant is completely off-limits. I’m going to shock them. Jaws will drop. Forks will fall.

I shrug, then go for it. “He’s a teammate.”

Emma gasps.

Fitz freezes.

And all I can do is gulp, shrug, and take another bite of my taco, like the food will cover up the enormity of the bomb I dropped in the middle of the table.

Complete with a countdown clock that’s ticking fast to the end of this fling.

After several seconds of stunned silence, Fitz goes first. “For real?”

I give a what-can-you-do shrug. “For real.”

“Wow.” He drags a hand through his hair, processing the grenade.

“Is it serious?” Emma asks in a gentle voice with no judgment.

I scratch my jaw before I answer, my throat tightening. We aren’t serious, Grant and me, so the answer should tumble from my lips.

A quick, fast no.

But no is wrong.

These nighttime trysts have all the ingredients of something serious. They’re the recipe for an off-season affair. Only I’m having it now.

“Not really,” I say hoarsely, but that sounds like a vicious lie. So, I follow it up with something true. “But it feels like it could be.”

Fitz sighs sympathetically. “What are you going to do?”

The next word that comes out tastes like sand. “Nothing.”