Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

Newsflash: I am not sore the next day.

Nope.

I’m not sore as I crouch behind home plate, catching a scrappy inter-squad game before our afternoon one against the Bandits.

I am not sore what-so-fucking ever as one of our starters throws to me and the team goes through a split-squad scrimmage.

Okay, maybe I am sore.

But I don’t care.

I know how to put pain out of my mind to focus on my job.

That’s what I do because as amazing as last night was, I still have a goddamn job to do, and the memory of my shitty game against the Sharks isn’t far from my head.

How could it be?

I’m not stupid. I know why I’m catching this scrimmage.

The same reason we’re having one.

Our last game sucked.

My last game sucked.

This is the hierarchy. This is how it works. Show that you have the mettle for the starting job.

The bullpen catchers aren’t here today behind the plate. It’s me against Rodriquez. Rodriguez against me.

Can you say metaphor for my entire spring training?

Right now, he’s at the plate. He’s on the squad with the stars—Crosby, Declan, Chance.

Which probably means he’s starting today’s game against the Bandits.

That’s not good for me.

But it’s also an opportunity.

If he starts it maybe I can finish it. Maybe I can show the skipper why I deserve the starting catcher slot on Opening Day. Rodriguez is good but I need to be better.

There’s no room for pain.

Plus, I know the man’s weakness. Dude swings at sinkers every time. Misses most of the time. I call for one, and he shifts his hips, then slices the bat through the air as the ball drops.

Yes!

That beautiful white orb finds a home in my glove with a welcome thunk.

A few more like that, and Rodriguez whiffs.

Better luck next time.

Not.

Crosby ambles over to the plate, adjusting his helmet, chewing gum, then blowing a bubble and cracking it so damn loud I swear it splits my eardrums.

“Is that your new distraction strategy?” I ask.

He wiggles a brow. “Yeah. Is it working?”

“Considering I figured it out in a second I’d say no,” I say, then laugh. He snaps his fingers in an aw-shucks gesture as he adjusts his batting glove, hoists the bat, and then gets into the stance, taking a few practice swings.

“Big game today,” he says, since he’s always been a chatty mofo at the plate. He does it to drive catchers crazy. To distract them.

“Why is that? Do you have a tee time that you don’t want to miss?” I tease as I settle into the crouch. If I’m not distracted by the lingering ache of a big cock up my ass last night, I’m not gonna be distracted by Crosby’s yammering.

“Touché.” He laughs, and I’m firing on all cylinders at being a part of the team today. Giving the guys a hard time and talking smack.

I guess sex is good for me.

Maybe I’ll go on a streak thanks to great sex.

Maybe I could convince Declan to keep this up throughout spring training.

But I shake that notion from my head as the pitcher nods at me and I give him a sign. A few pitches later we send Crosby packing to the dugout with a checked strike.

Two outs and it’s Declan’s turn.

Lowering my mask, I crouch back down, wishing this could be our norm. Opposing teams.

That would come with its own set of challenges, but it’d be worlds better than being on the same team.

Opposing teams would be workable, not insurmountable. We’d be competitors, but on a path to more rather than a road to nowhere.

Me behind the plate, him at the plate—we’d be doable.

I let that new fantasy play out for a few seconds as he takes a couple practice swings.

A baseball fantasy.

Striking out my lover.

Oh, fuck yes.

I want to watch him go down swinging, and my gut tells me how to do it. It shows me a flash of the game where he hit the grand slam off the slider last season. As I replay it, the memory sharpens.

Did the pitcher hesitate?

I don’t know, so I shelve it, but leave a mental Post-it to look it up on YouTube later. For now, I stick to a solid plan.

Velocity.

I call for a fastball, and he connects with a sharp line drive to second that turns into an easy out at first.

Not a strikeout, but I’ll take it, thank you very much.

I grin, since, damn, it is so satisfying to send my lover back to the dugout. As Declan walks away, I pretend he’s on the other team.

But even though he’s not, maybe we can pull this off for a little bit longer. Would that be so crazy? Another few nights? Another few days?

That idea takes hold of me the rest of the morning, and on into the afternoon when the Bandits arrive.

Hell, if I pulled off that excellent scrimmage, I can pull off a terrific game.

Especially since Fisher has me start.

Yup. I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.

Except in the second inning, a pitch skitters past me and I don’t fucking have it. I race after the passed ball, hustling to the backstop to field, but the runner on third scores and I curse.

That was one hundred percent my fault.

I return to the plate. As the pitcher goes into the windup, the runner on first makes a move to steal. Once the ball hits my glove, I throw to second. It should be an easy out—the runner lumbers like a bear—but I’m too late.

He’s in safely.

Fuck me.

I grit my teeth, huff, and finish out the inning.

When I reach the dugout, I park my sore ass on the bench and drop my head. Crosby claps me on the shoulder. “Focus, rookie. Get your head in the game. Is it someplace else?”

I wince. Can he see right through me? My head is in the same stupid place as my stupid fucking heart. It’s fantasizing. It’s galloped off to tra-la-la land after the scrimmage. It’s picturing things it doesn’t have any right to picture.

Declan’s not on another team.

We can’t keep on doing this.

We’re done at the end of tonight, and that is all. Baseball is what matters.

I laser in on that when I’m at bat. But a pop fly to center ends my chance.

Fisher pulls me aside and says Rodriguez will finish the game.

“Hit the shower, rookie,” he says.

Kiss of fucking death.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll talk later.”

Dread crawls over me as I go into the locker room, shower and dress, and wait for Fisher.

But all he says when the game ends is a crisp, “We need you to pick it up soon.”

“I will, sir,” I say tightly, then I take off before the rest of the team pours in.

I call my grandfather when I leave, walking along the road by the complex so I can burn off these fumes. “I had the worst game ever, Pops,” I say, my head hanging low.

“But that happens. You have bad games,” he says.

I blow out a long stream of air as I stalk down the street. “I can’t have bad games. Rodriguez has been playing better. I went into spring training thinking I had this locked. That he’d be my backup catcher. But he might get the starting spot, and I don’t even know if I’ll be the backup or if the team will call on someone else,” I tell him, my voice as strained as my heart. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“All you can do is focus on the fundamentals, kid. Focus on the game. You know how to play. You’ve always known how to play. And the only times you’ve been frazzled is when personal stuff has gotten in the way,” he says in that calm, paternal voice he has. “Remember all that stuff with Frank in high school and what a tough couple of games you had at the end of the season?”

I stop near a bus stop as I listen, lean on the signpost as I drop my head and grit my teeth. “Yeah, I remember.”

“And what did you do?” he asks.

I swallow roughly. “I went to you. I talked to you, and you helped settle my state of mind.”

“By reminding you that you’re a great ballplayer. The game is mental as much as it is physical. Your physical game is great. If you’re out of sorts, it’s usually because your mind is elsewhere.”

He says it gently, but firmly. It’s a message from someone who knows me. Knows me like he can see inside my soul.

God, I want to tell him.

I want him to know what happened.

I fell in love with this guy, and he’s all I can think about. I want to find a way to be with him, but I can’t. Do you have any idea what I should do, Pops?

I know what he’d say, though.

Tough break, kid. But you need to let him go.

“You’re right, Pops. I’ll keep my head in the game. Crosby said the same thing too,” I say heavily as I walk to the bus stop.

That’s what I vow to do tomorrow. Tonight is my one last time with the man I’m falling in love with.

Tonight, we end.

Tomorrow, I reignite my love affair with baseball.

“Grant,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “Is there anything else going on?”

A breath shudders out of me. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Emotion clogs my throat. And the truth comes pouring out. “I met this guy. He’s kind of amazing. But nothing will happen, so I just need to end it.”

End it.

It’s like a knife serrating my heart.

My grandpa sighs, a supportive, loving sound. “That’s hard. Love is hard when it comes at the wrong time.”

I close my eyes, the desert sun beating down on me as I sink onto the bus stop bench. “Yeah, it is.”

“You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “No. I just need to do what I have to do.”

“I’m here if you need me,” he says.

“I know. I love you.”

“Love you too” he says, and when I end the call, I let my head fall back against the concrete of the bus shelter.

Banging it once. Twice. Three times. Then the squeal of brakes makes me look up.

A bus has stopped.

I’m the only one here.

I wave it off.

It feels like my life passing me by.

On the walk back to the hotel, I put my finger in the fire and do something I rarely do.

I google myself.

Wincing, I find a sports blog covering spring training. The subtitle of It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over reads: Who’ll be behind the dish for the Cougars? It’s a toss-up.

The report mentions the Scoundrels game where the pitcher and I disagreed on the calls, then the hitless Sharks game, then today’s passed ball.

Embarrassment churns through me.

I close it and call Haven. She answers right away. “Talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

I tell her what happened at the game.

“It’s spring training. It’s one game,” she says, reassuring me.

“No. My game the other day was terrible. The one before wasn’t great.” My stomach twists with nerves. “Can you please try to get some info on where I stand? My role with the team?”

“You know they’re not likely to tell me who’s going to be their starting catcher. Do I think it’s going to be you? Yes. Do all signs point to it being you? Yes. But teams make their own decisions.”

“Can you try?” I ask, wracked with desperation. “Make some calls? Don’t you have sources or something?”

She takes a beat. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll see what people are saying. I’m heading to Arizona, anyway, for some meetings. But I can’t promise I’ll have any information.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

When I return to the hotel, the game is over. I run into Sullivan and he motions for me to come to his room.

I bet he wants to dish on his date last night. I know I need to be a better friend, so I should listen.

Inside his room I sit on the edge of the couch. “What’s up, man? Did you have a good night with that research scientist?”

“I did, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He parks himself in the desk chair, pulling it closer to me.

I sit up straight. “This sounds serious.”

“I want to ask you something because we’re friends, and I know you. And this might be awkward. I know you and Declan went to the game together, and I could be wrong, but . . .” Inside my head, the sirens wail like when the hero in the thriller breaches security in the government building, and all the guards come charging after him. Sullivan goes on in the same even tone. “But if he’s the reason you’re not playing well the last couple games, I just want you to know I’m here to talk to you about anything.”

A secret agent would escape by any means, avoid the guards by rappelling down a telephone wire with his own belt.

I heave a sigh, shoot him a sharp look, and twist my gut with my own lie. “Are you really going there, man? Assuming something’s happening between the two of us?”

Everything is happening. Everything is ending.

He raises his hands in surrender. “No. Just seems like there’s a connection between the two of you, that’s all. I’m not telling you what to do or not to do.” He holds my gaze, nothing but support in his eyes. “I’m telling you that I’m your friend, no matter what.”

Half of me appreciates the sentiment.

The other half says I need to man the hell up and fix this mess I’m making. “Thanks. But I’ve got this. I would never get involved with a teammate. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t think so, but I had to put it out there,” he says, and my feet touch ground, a secret agent escaping by the hair of my neck. Now, all I have to do is walk away. “I want you to be catching for me for a long time. And I know relationship stuff can mess you up. Hell, any relationship your rookie year can be difficult. That’s why my date was only a date. I’m avoiding entanglements like the plague, and you should too.”

He believes me.

I pulled off a clean getaway.

Reaching across the table, I knock fists with him in agreement. This is no ruse—I am determined to follow his advice. Declan’s advice too.

Avoid relationships.

Avoid love.

“I promise, bro. I am not getting involved with a soul,” I say, renewing my vow.

But after I leave, Declan texts me that he has good news and he can’t wait to tell me.

And I can’t wait to hear what it is.

I need some good news.

Need it badly.