Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

Today is the day, and I am fired all the way up.

Since Declan spent the night—he took off at five—we agreed to skip our morning workout.

Instead, I catch up with the other rookies in the gym for weights and nautilus machines. As I head into the workout facility, I’m already pumped. I’m a Labrador who’s downed two espressos. I’m wired like it’s the playoffs.

I sneak a glance at the clock. Eight-thirty. If the hockey game starts at seven, lasts about two and a half hours, we should be back by ten and in my bed by ten-thirty, so in a little more than twelve hours the rest of the world will disappear.

“Leg day!” Sullivan shouts like a frat guy at spring break, his exuberance palpable.

He breaks me out of my dirty daydream.

“Let’s see who can squat the most,” Miguel challenges as the two strut over to the weight bench. “You in, G-man?”

Is he for real? I tap my chest. “You guys want to take me on in squats?”

The rangy Miguel parks his hands on his hips. “Why not?”

I chuckle, shaking my head as I glance at the outfielder who easily weighs forty pounds less than I do, then the relief pitcher who’s tall and long. “Have at it, bros.”

“No, seriously, I want to know why I can’t take you on in squats,” Miguel pushes.

Sullivan lifts his chin defiantly, but the spark in his eyes says he’s playing dumb. “Yeah, are you a squat guru, G?”

“Allow me to show you,” I say, and I proceed to school the fuck out of my teammates, squatting more weights, more reps, more times.

When I’m done, I rub my thumb and forefinger together. “Do not bet against a catcher when it comes to squats. My entire life is squats,” I say to them, though I’m sure Sullivan was putting on his naïve act.

“Dammit,” Sullivan mutters, smacking the outfielder. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Maybe because we’re dipshits sometimes?” Miguel answers.

Sullivan cracks up, big and loud, pointing at Miguel. “Or maybe you are. How the hell did you think you could beat G-man in squats?”

Miguel grumbles. “Maybe because I’m a competitive bastard.”

“Keep that up, especially on the field. And feel free to lay a wager down next time you want to compete with me in the weight room. You might not have noticed, but I’m kind of one of the biggest guys on the team. Catcher and all,” I say as I move on to lunges.

“Yup. And we want a brick wall at the plate,” Sullivan says, switching to deadlifts, then shifting conversational gears too. “Off day. Know what I have going on tonight?”

“A date with your Xbox?”

“A nice, hot bubble bath?” Miguel puts in, and I shoot him a well-played smile.

“Nope,” Sullivan says with a wicked grin. “I’ve got a date with a . . . wait for it . . . thirty-year-old research scientist at the local university.”

“Well done,” I say, since Sullivan loves the brainy ladies. “But how did she find you?”

He clucks his tongue. “Smart women are on Tinder, and they like hookups too.” Then he whispers, “And let me tell you, it has been too long without any action, know what I mean?”

“Do I fucking ever,” Miguel seconds, then tips his chin at me. “But not you, I bet. You’re probably getting it every night on Grindr.”

I scoff. “You think because I’m gay I get laid all the time?”

“Dude, don’t slut shame. That’s not cool,” Sullivan chides.

Miguel cringes. “Is that slut shaming?” The outfielder sounds devastated, and it’s hilarious to watch since I know what’s coming next from my former roomie.

Living with Sullivan in Bakersfield revealed there’s much more to him than meets the eye.

“Actually, slut shaming is criticizing women and girls and often gay men as well for behaviors that might be considered promiscuous,” Sullivan offers clinically, sounding like a Wikipedia entry.

“Did you take a gender studies class or something in college?” Miguel asks.

“My major was psych,” he offers. “Also, straight men are rarely slut shamed for liking sex, or for engaging in behaviors like wearing sexy clothes, so it’s not cool to slut shame women or queer people.”

“I don’t even think he slut shamed, Sully,” I say.

“I know. But now he’ll know what it is,” Sullivan adds in a teacherly tone.

“I love getting more woke,” Miguel says, rapping fists with Sullivan. “So, I am all good with this.”

“Also, I believe everyone should have more sex,” Sullivan says.

“What are you? Like the Santa of sex?” Miguel puts in.

“Maybe I am. Or Oprah. You get sex! You get sex! You get sex! Everybody gets sex!” he says, imitating the TV star handing out cars.

“I will accept that gift,” Miguel adds.

“Also, for the record, I’m not on Grindr so no, I’m not hooking up,” I correct, and it feels good to say that. Sure, I was into quick hookups in college, but right now I’m definitely not.

However, I’m absolutely into whatever is happening tonight with the shortstop.

“So, what are you doing tonight then, G-man? Bubble bath for you and a good book?”

Oh shit.

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I go deeper into the lunge, hoping the weights cover up the flare of embarrassment.

“Going to a hockey game,” I say, as evenly as I can. Do I add with Declan?

Would that be weird? Or weirder if I don’t mention him? But what if they see us leave together? Ah, hell, I’ve got to say it, and I’ve got to remember there’s nothing wrong with going to a hockey game with a teammate. “Sweet! I heard New York was in town. I’m jelly. Good seats?” Miguel asks, as he drops down into another squat.

“Definitely. Center ice,” I say, wincing as the half-truths roll off my tongue.

Miguel’s dark eyes twinkle. “Got extra?”

Ah hell.

I can’t hide this.

“Don’t think so. Fitzgerald got them for us. Declan is tight with Fitz’s sister, so I’m going with the two of them.”

Please don’t ask anything more.

“Got it,” Miguel says, then launches into dead lifts. “You and Declan?”

My pulse spikes. Tension tightens my bones.

But Sullivan cuts in with a side-eye at Miguel. “They’re friends. Don’t make assumptions.”

Miguel holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m cool with whatevs.”

I clench my jaw, hating assumptions, hating when other people try to tell your story, hating it even more when they get it right.

“We’re friends,” I say. “Just like I’m friends with you guys.”

That ought to make it clear, even though that’s a bald-faced lie.

One that twists my gut.

When I’m back in my room, I need to find a way to untie the knot in my stomach, or it’ll weigh me down. And I think I know how to do it. I grab my phone, and text Reese.

Grant:You around for a call?

Reese:For you? Anytime.

I ring her in a split second.

“That was fast. Are you okay?” she asks.

I sigh heavily. After lying through my teeth, I’m pretty sure I’m about to vomit up the truth. Like my insides are heaving, and I need to puke out all the words, I hurl them up at my best friend. “I’m having a thing with Declan. He’s incredible, and we’ve been getting together every night, and I’m out of my mind for him.”

Silence comes first, then it’s chased by a long, intrigued ohhh.

“Really?” She sounds excited, and her tone buoys me. “How did this happen?”

“We started working out together and talking.” As I flop onto the couch, I tell her nearly everything.

“Wow. That kind of sounds . . . amazing,” she says, but there’s a hitch in her voice, like she knows this can’t end well.

Dropping my head in my hands, I sink farther into the couch, dread stalking through my veins. “He’s . . . just . . . soooo . . .”

I can barely talk. I can hardly put into words the enormity of what’s happening to me all at once. My career is shooting sky-high, I’m on the cusp of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to catch my first Major League game in less than two weeks, if I make the roster, and I’ve got a massive thing for this guy.

I squeeze my eyes shut as if it’ll make the next sentence easier. But it doesn’t. It’s still hard to say. “I can’t get him out of my head,” I admit. “It’s kind of making me crazy.”

“Oh, sweetie. It sounds amazing and awful at the same time,” she says.

“Exactly.”

“So, what happens next?”

I lift my face. At least this is easy to say. “Well, we’re having sex tonight.”

“Ooh la la. So, I guess you’re ready.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I’m going to shower before the game. Make sure I’m good and clean in all the ways.”

“Good plan. But I meant are you ready in other ways? Emotionally? You always wanted your first time to be with the right guy. Is he the right guy?”

My heart thunders, knowing the answer before I do, trying to tap it out in the Morse code of beats. “Aside from being a ballplayer and also my teammate, he absolutely is.”

There are just those two big barriers between us.

That’s all.

But I don’t want to think about obstacles, so I ask what she’s been up to, and we shoot the breeze for a few minutes. When we end the call, I find a new text on my phone.

One that punches me in the chest.

It’s from my mom.

Mom: Hey, handsome! Did my dad tell you we’ll be at Opening Day??? Can’t wait to see my little boy catch his FIRST MAJOR LEAGUE GAME! Frank and I are so happy for you. He says it’s been too long. He can’t wait to catch up. He has so much to talk to you about.

Yeah, he probably wants to apologize for the ten thousandth time. Whatever, I’m over it.

Over all of my mom’s boyfriends and husbands. All my dad’s wives and girlfriends. I don’t need to be their show pony.

But I find it’s best to just smile and wave, so I tap out a quick reply.

Grant: Let’s hope I make the starting lineup. If so, see you then! Should be an awesome day.

The day I’ve longed for my whole entire life. But I don’t want them to ruin it, so I try to shove my parents out of my mind.

I shed my workout clothes, pull on shorts and a shirt, then grab a Lyft to The Lazy Hammock, since I’m jonesing for a distraction.

As I eat a light lunch, I chat with River at the bar about growing up in Northern California, then moving here.

“What brought you to Phoenix?” I ask.

The inked bartender sighs a little wistfully and scrubs a hand across his short beard. “A man.”

“Your partner?”

He shakes his head, frowning, but seeming resigned. “Nope. He’s history now. Caught him cheating.”

“Ouch,” I say, crinkling my nose.

“Yup. But that’s okay. I won’t let one bad one get me down,” he says, smiling quickly, like he’s letting the world know he’s all good.

“Words to live by.”

“And you and that guy from the other night looked quite cozy. Is he someone serious?” River’s eyebrows rise in question.

I shouldn’t say a word. But River already saw us. River was on the receiving end of Declan’s fit of jealousy when my teammate threw down a claim on me. “He’s the kind you wish you could be serious with, you know?”

River pats my hand. “I do, hun. I absolutely know.” He flashes a sympathetic smile, one that seems to telegraph where Declan and I are headed. “Enjoy it while it lasts, right?”

I lift my Diet Coke and drink to that.

Time to kick this funk to the ground. Tonight, I’m getting laid, and that’s what I want.

I don’t want to think about endings.

Six hours later, I’m showered, shaved, dressed in tight jeans that make my ass look great, a gray T-shirt that shows off my arms, and a ball cap. After grabbing a hoodie, I head down to the lobby to meet Declan.

When I spot him just outside the sliding doors, tossing his keys up and down in his palm, I have to fight not to stare at him the way I want.

He’s so damn handsome it makes my chest hurt.

He wears jeans and a blue polo that stretches just so across his pecs, that hugs his arms deliciously, that teases at his flat stomach that I love to kiss and lick.

But it’s his face that does me in. His chiseled jaw, his full lips, his strong cheekbones. Most of all, his eyes. They are my downfall. Dark brown and brimming with passion and possibility.

Once I lock eyes with him, I will go up in flames.

When he spots me walking to him, he turns in slow motion, his eyes meeting mine. He takes me in, and shoots me a hungry, needy look that says he can’t look away either.

Yep, fire.

But it’s so much more. I burn deeply for him.

He’s not only all I can think about. He’s all I want to think about.