Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

Emma is the loudest.

“I nearly forgot what it’s like to go to a game with you,” I say to her above the noise and the shouting in the arena as New York evens the score against Phoenix.

My friend shoots me a saucy look, her blonde ponytail whipping as she turns to me. “You forgot that I’m the biggest fan on the planet?”

“It seems I did. Maybe sometime around when you burst my eardrums,” I tease.

Grant laughs, rubs his knuckle against the side of his head. “You and me both.”

“You guys can handle it,” she says, then swings her gaze back to the ice as Phoenix moves the puck toward the goal.

Emma claps several times. “Come on, James. Stop that puck.”

I toss a glance at Grant, a seat away since Emma is in the middle.

“She’s a little passionate about hockey,” I deadpan.

“Welcome to the club,” Grant says.

“I’m especially passionate when my brother is playing,” Emma chimes in, and when Fitz blocks a Phoenix goal, she loses her mind, jumping up and down, thrusting her arms in the air. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“You’re going to lose your voice,” I warn.

“I already am losing it,” she jokes, her pitch a little rumbly.

“Were you a cheerleader in high school, woman?” Grant asks.

She flashes a bright smile. “Don’t let my cheerleader looks fool you. I was full-on nerd.”

“Nerds can be cheerleaders too,” I add.

“I know. But I was only a nerd,” she says, then shouts once more at the players.

A frizzy-haired woman a few rows ahead cranes her neck around, looks up at Emma, smiles. Next, she makes eye contact with me. Recognition flashes in her features. “Go Cougars,” she says with a big, bright smile.

I tip my chin toward her and grin back. “Go Cougars.”

“Spotted in the wild,” Emma whispers.

“So famous,” Grant teases.

I roll my eyes. “You’ll be next, rookie.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says, and we return our attention to the ice.

A minute later when New York scores, Emma unleashes the most crushing cheer I’ve ever heard.

It’s contagious.

I’m so glad I’m not sitting next to Grant or I’d kiss him right now. Kiss him hard and celebrate. Clenching my fists, I draw a tight breath.

Resist him.

I keep my hands to myself, but it’s a tough battle. I don’t know what’s happening to my vaunted self-control, but it leaves the building when he’s around.

Must refocus.

As game play resumes, I cast about for a random question, the pool table chatter we engage in when we’re out with the guys. Something, anything so Grant feels like one of the guys, and not the man I desperately want to spend the night with.

“Question for both of you. If you could do anything else, besides be a ballplayer, or an art historian for Emma, what would you do?” I ask.

Grant gestures to Emma. “Ladies first.”

She adopts a wicked grin. “Hockey play-by-play commentator.”

“Oh yeah, I can totally see that,” Grant says.

“And you, G-man?” I ask, tossing out the nickname Sullivan and the other guys use with him. It sounds all wrong on my tongue.

He smiles my way, his blue eyes sparkling maybe with mischief as he gives a casual shrug. “We’re birds of a feather, Emma and me,” he says, tapping her shoulder. He’s touchy-feely with her in the way I suspect he is with female friends. Maybe in the way he’s fully able to be only with women. He’s a physical guy, and with females he can set a hand on an arm or a shoulder without any undertones. Then he answers, “Though in my case, I’d play hockey.”

“Sports, natch.” As I do, my brain snags on something. What Grant said in the car on the way over. If we were other people. If I played baseball and he played hockey. Is his comment just now about us? Is it a private remark? And why do I like it so much?

“What, this surprises you? Sports is my love,” he says to me, all casual and charming.

Yeah, it’s not about me. It’s not about us, and that’s fine too. His answer is all him, all one-track-mind athlete, and I laugh. I am in knots over him.

Grant’s face goes starkly serious. “Baseball is everything,” he says, then shoots me a stern stare. “Don’t try to pretend it’s any different for you.”

“No arguments here,” I say. “Baseball is life.”

Emma shakes her head, laughing. “You guys.”

“What?” I ask.

She lowers her voice to a barren whisper. “You’re so ador—”

I growl, a warning sound.

She holds up her hands in surrender.

“She’s not wrong, Deck,” Grant whispers.

Emma’s eyes twinkle with Cupid’s arrows. “Deck.” She clasps her heart. “I die.”

“Rookie,” I rumble in an even lower voice.

Emma gasps, flaps her hands. “Stahp, stahp.”

Grant clears his throat. “Okay, how about we answer what we’d do outside of sports. I’ll go first. I’d be James Bond. How about you, Declan?” he asks, making a production out of sounding all professional when he says my name.

And it is adorable.

One of the guys.

He’s one of the guys.

My answer is easy—same thing I’d say to anyone. “If I could do anything besides baseball, I would shred a guitar like nobody’s business. I would rock out to Guns N’ Roses.” I pick up my air guitar. I play the opening notes to “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” humming along. Grant’s eyes light up, twinkling. “Damn, that’s good.”

“Thank you. If only I could do it for real. What about you, Emma?”

She exhales deeply. “I suppose if I can’t call a game, I’d be a ski jumper or a fighter pilot.”

Grant offers her a fist for knocking and then dives into a conversation with her about jets. The fact that he gets along so easily, so smoothly with everyone, but especially my friends, makes my brain scramble a little more.

I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do when this fling ends in another day, another night.

This man is gorgeous inside and out.

He’s the heart-stopping kind. It’s frying my sense of reason.

When intermission comes and Grant excuses himself for the restroom, Emma grabs my arm, drops her voice, and murmurs in my ear, “Holy Rembrandt. Holy Vermeer.”

I crack up. “Explain.”

“Those are some of my favorite Dutch painters,” she says, wildly animated as she whispers, “Seventeenth Century Dutch art is my favorite time period.”

“And?”

“He’s like a painting,” she says.

I laugh. “Didn’t Rembrandt paint dudes with fancy collars?”

She rolls her eyes. “Rembrandt painted gorgeous works of art. Vermeer painted the most incredible images that move my very soul.”

“Fine. I hear ya. Though that’s not the comparison I’d use.”

“How’s this? He’s like a Bugatti. Is that better?”

That makes my engine purr. Grant is top-of-the-line everything. I grin, wide and honestly proud. “I know, right? He’s a ten.”

“More like a fifteen.”

I stroke my chin. “If he’s a Rembrandt, and he is, then he’s a one in a million,” I say, a little in awe because how the hell did someone like Grant fall into my lucky lap? But mostly I’m damn grateful that he’s with me.

At least for now.

And for now, he feels like mine.

She keeps her voice low, understanding the importance of discretion. “He’s funny and sweet. I bet he’s as besotted with you as you are with him.”

“No way. I’m not besotted.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Emma,” I chide.

“I know, I know. It’s impossible. Still.”

“It is. We are impossible.” I underline the cold, hard truth with a Sharpie.

“I get it,” she says sadly and pats my shoulder, rubs it sympathetically. “I do get it. It’s just that after college and poetry class, and the things you shared and knowing your heart . . .” Her voice hitches. This woman knows the truth about some of the toughest times in my life. She knows more about me than almost anyone.

That’s not because she could never be a lover.

At least, I don’t believe the absence of physical attraction is a requirement for a man and a woman to be friends. Maybe it’s that Emma’s friendship was exactly the safe landing I needed at that point in my life after the tumultuous end to high school, and the stupid mistakes I made.

But mostly, I think we glommed onto each other because that’s who she is. A warm, wonderful person who didn’t judge my past. Who just wants to love me for me.

She’s a pure, true friend.

Maybe the first one I’ve had in my life.

My chest tightens but I keep the emotions reined in. I keep it all under control, recalling more T.S. Eliot.

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all . . .

I think of college. The reasons I needed that class. Memories swirl past me of my father, moments upon moments I wanted to undo. All those times he showed up to my games clutching a beer, shouting my name, waving drunkenly as I stepped up to the plate in middle school, in high school.

Wincing, I try to shake away the images of teammates. Parents. Umps. Their feeling sorry for me faces. Ones I saw over and over again.

Then, those memories tunnel down to me. To what I did. How I nearly tanked my own career when I was seventeen.

But I didn’t, thanks to my mom, to Emma, to T.S. Eliot. But my God, I don’t like anyone to know how I nearly lost the best thing I ever had.

I reroute to the present, to Emma, to what she said about Grant. “Do you think anyone can tell?”

“Nah, you’ve got me as your buffer. Use me,” she says playfully.

I don’t want her to think that’s why she’s here. She might play a necessary part tonight, but I need her now and always. “Please say you know that’s not the reason you’re in my life?”

“I know, Declan. I know. But if I can help you, I will.”

“So, you don’t feel used? I’d hate it if you felt that way.”

She shakes her head adamantly. “I feel essential to your life. And I love it, my friend. Don’t forget. I’m here for you.” She sets her head on my shoulder and I pet her hair gently.

“Means a lot to me.”

She lifts her head, and a few seconds later, Grant returns, flashing me a smile that latches into my soul. That lights me up. That makes my fingertips tingle. My God, the desire to touch him, to slide a hand along his thigh, to wrap an arm around him—it’s so fucking powerful.

He’s one in a million, all right.

It’s not even the way he looks. It’s everything about him.

I have got to get it under control or I’m going to be staring at him like a starving cartoon character lusting after a turkey leg.

“Bond, James Bond,” Grant says in his terrible English accent.

“Slash.”

Emma lifts her head, laughing. “And I’m Maverick from Top Gun. Also, for the record, we just attained major dork status right now.”

“We so did,” Grant says. And as the third period begins, she drapes one arm around me, the other around Grant, and squeezes us.

Right then, the Cougars fan in front whips her head around again, asks, “Can I take a pic of all of you? I am such a huge Cougars fan.”

“Of course,” I say. Emma tucks the three of us a little closer and we smile for the camera. The seats in front of us are empty, giving the woman a clean shot. She snaps the pic.

Then she nibbles on the corner of her lips, points to me then to Grant. “Do you mind if I just get a picture of the two of you? The guys on the team?”

I pause for a second.

Pictures of the two of us. These are going to go online. These are going to be posted.

“Why don’t we take a picture with you in it?” I ask.

Her gray eyes widen. “Oh my God. That’d be amazing.” She climbs over the seat, switches with Emma, and Emma takes a picture of the three of us.

Just two pals.

Two baseball players. Flanking a fan. That’s all this is.

That’s all this can ever be, and I’d do well to remember that.

When the game ends, we find Fitz and hang out with him for a little bit at the arena. He and Grant chat about the game and when we leave, I offer to take Emma to her hotel.

She says yes.

In the car, Grant opens his phone, says he’s going to check Instagram, and finds the picture the woman snapped. He shows it to Emma and me at a light. “It’s no big deal. It’s just you and me and a fan.”

“It’s no big deal,” Emma says in a reassuring voice.

I cast my eyes to the screen. It’s nothing. It’s just two ballplayers. That is all.

But my heart is beating faster, and my mind is swirling.

What if she’d just taken a picture of me and Grant. Would everyone know? Would everyone be able to tell?

I grit my teeth.

“Hey! Idea. Instead of dropping me off first, do you want me to go in with you? To your hotel?” Emma asks. “So, we can hang out for a little bit before . . . you know.”

“Yes,” Grant jumps in, sounding relieved. I reach a hand to the backseat, set it on his knee. He covers my hand with his, and for that split second, everything feels right in the world.

“I’ll wait for you in the room,” he says in a quiet voice that’s just for me, even though she can hear our private plans.

But that’s okay. She’s helping with them.

That’s both a good thing and a bad thing. Because it’s part of the problem. The big problem.

I’m silent the rest of the ride.

I’m not even sure what to say. Maybe I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll say too much.

To Grant.

To Emma.

Most of all, to myself.

At the hotel, Grant takes off for his room, giving a quick goodbye, then bumping into Crosby and Chance as he heads to the elevator.

Relief floods me when they say hi to him, then swing their gaze to us. Waving hellos.

She’s the perfect cover.

Emma and I go to the lobby bar, where I order an iced tea and we make a show of being seen for twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes that last forever.

“You doing okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“How long will you keep doing this?”

“We set a time limit.”

“And what is that time limit?”

I wince, not wanting to think about it. It’s not even really a time. It’s an action. It’s the end-of-our-sex plans, even though we still have another week or so of spring training. But we agreed to finish this fling well before then. The longer we hold on, the harder it’ll be to keep to the ground rules anyway, so it’s best that we stick to Grant’s dirty list. And we’ll have worked our way through it in twenty-four more hours. “Tomorrow night,” I say heavily.

She gives me a sympathetic smile, pats me on the knee, and then gestures to the door. “I really should go then. I’ll grab a Lyft.”

My stomach dips and plummets at the same time.

This thing with Grant is ending.

But not tonight.

“Thank you. For everything,” I say.

“Don’t mention it,” she says with a smile, and soon she gets into her car.

I shut the door, wave her off, and head straight for the stairwell.

Blinders on, I hope and I pray I run into no one.

Up the stairs I go.

One floor, two, three.

I’m all alone.

Until footsteps echo in the stairwell, heading down.

Someone’s singing a tune in another language. Portuguese, I think.

It’s Miguel. Seconds later, I come face-to-face with the other rookie on the landing.

“Hey man, what’s up?” he asks with a bright smile.

“Not much,” I say, cursing privately, smiling publicly.

“Saw New York killed Phoenix on the ice,” he says.

My brow furrows. Did he see the picture? Does he know we’re . . . together?

“Yeah, good game,” I remark, tension winding through my veins.

He lifts his chin, shooting me a reassuring grin. “G-man told us he was going with you.”

“Right. Sure,” I say, keeping my tone even.

“And your friend,” he adds, eyes locked on mine.

“Yeah.” I don’t say anything more. I don’t have anything else to say.

“All right. I’m gonna hit the pool. Want to join?”

I shake my head. I don’t even bother to fake a yawn. I don’t want to sell it to the jury. I just want to go. “Nah, I’m going to hit the hay.”

“Catch ya tomorrow.”

I dart out on the fourth floor, drag both hands through my hair, and breathe deeply.

I consider finding a fire escape or climbing a drainpipe up to Grant’s room. All this sneaking around is driving me insane.

But I won’t let him be the one caught.

Grant’s too young. Too new. Don’t want my guy to be running into teammates. Better for me to handle the run-ins.

I wait in the hallway, listening to the stairwell, texting Grant that I’m on my way. When it’s quiet again, I duck back into the stairwell, race up the steps to his floor, scan left, right, then just go.

I march down the hall, imagining a scorched earth of nerves behind me.

With every step, I burn off the worries.

I shed them.

I leave them behind.

And would it have been worth it, after all . . .

Yes, T.S. Eliot. The Rembrandt is worth it.

When I reach my guy’s room, I almost stop in my tracks as the realization hits me hard.

After only a few nights, I think of him as my guy.

And I’m motherfucking fine with that.

So damn fine with it.

I push open the door, find my guy on the other side, and kick it closed behind me. Grant rises from the couch, heads straight to me, and grabs my face. The rookie claims my mouth in a searing, passionate kiss that makes every stairwell encounter in the world worth it.

I see stars.

My whole body hums with pleasure as the universe goes out of focus. As need grips me.

From this sweet, desperate ache of a kiss.

I want to drown in his kisses.

I want to be smothered in them.

Want his mouth on me everywhere, unraveling me, taking me apart.

Like he’s doing to me right now.

But first, I’ll do all that to him.

When he breaks the kiss, he whispers hotly, “It’s just you and me now, Deck.”

“Me and you, rookie,” I say, and nothing beyond those doors matters for the next several hours.

He is mine.