Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

A week before spring training

I’ve wanted this since I turned six. Knew when I would do it too. When I’d walk through the door of this tattoo shop, strip off my shirt, and flop down in the dentist-style chair, skin on display, ready to be marked.

The one thing that has changed over the years is what kind of ink I’d want when this moment arrived.

At six or seven, I imagined a ball or a glove, but later, those seemed too childish.

When I was a teen, I thought I’d get a saying. One of those great baseball adages from Yogi Berra about how it’s not over till it’s over.

Eventually, I realized this ink needed to be something bigger.

A tattoo to mark the dream I’ve been chasing since I was a kid, and what I hope is the start of the rest of my life.

I’m even at a shop in the town where I grew up. Seems fitting.

The electric-blue-haired, lip-ringed tattoo artist tugs on latex gloves, snaps them, and shoots me a now-or-never look. “Ready?” Echo asks.

“I’m always ready,” I say.

That’s how I’ve learned to live my life. Lord knows I was blindsided too many times when I was younger. I learned too many things I didn’t want to know about people I loved. People I trusted.

I toss my navy-blue T-shirt to my best friend, Reese, who catches it one-handed then clutches it to her chest. “Should I act like one of your adoring fans? Try to steal your shirt? Ask for an autograph?”

I laugh. “They’re free for you, babe.”

She hugs the shirt tight. “I’m so lucky.”

“Course you are,” I say with a wink. Then I shrug. “And I don’t have that many adoring fans.”

“Emphasis on yet,” Reese says.

“Did I say yet?”

“No, but I heard the yet,” she says.

The tattoo artist laughs as she rubs alcohol on my right pec. “Gotta say—I heard it too.”

“Fine, fine. If you ladies insist, I’ll try it again.” I clear my throat. “I don’t have that many adoring fans. Yet.”

“But you will so very soon,” Reese says as she sinks into the chair facing me in Echo’s work area.

“How long have you two known each other?” Echo asks as she reaches for a razor, quickly adding she’s going to shave the location for the ink.

“Since I was eight. She was six,” I say, tossing a glance at Reese, her blonde hair curling over her shoulders, her face as familiar as my sister’s. “We grew up on the same block, across the street from each other.”

“Our grandmothers are besties,” Reese adds. “They played competitive Scrabble together as teammates, and on nights when I would fall asleep in his room at their house, we’d hear them arguing over whether ‘ew’ is a word.”

“It’s definitelya word,” Echo says as she works the blade across my chest. Delicate vines and tiny flowers twine along the porcelain skin on her right arm. “And that’s adorable. The grandmas and the sleepovers. And that you’ve known each other forever.”

Reese’s blue eyes twinkle in my direction. We’ve been down this road many times, people always trying to figure out if we’re childhood sweethearts.

But Echo doesn’t ask the usual next question—are you two together? She just tosses the razor into the trash, grabs the stencil paper, and transfers it to my chest. The design is a simple arrow; my style is minimalist when it comes to my ink. No swirly lions or elaborate skulls for this guy.

“What’s the story with this arrow?” Echo asks, sounding genuinely curious.

I’m happy to share the meaning behind this ink—my words to live by. “Reaching your goals. Finding your way. And keeping your momentum.”

“Finding your way is a good message. A good reminder.” As Echo preps the needles and ink, her eyes stray to my other tats—the mountain design, the compass, and the bands around my biceps that look like water.

“Nice art. When did you get your first?” she asks, and I’m glad she’s not prying open the why of each one.

Echo seems to sense it’s best to tread carefully. Smart woman. Ink is usually personal, but I drop a nugget I bet she’ll dig. “My grandpa brought me here for my first one when I was eighteen. He wanted to make sure I went to a good shop with a good rep,” I say.

Her smile deepens. “Let me guess—Grandpa’s got some ink too?”

“He does.” I keep going, staying ahead in the story. “I like to mark the big events in my life. That’s kind of my thing. When I hit a milestone, I like to celebrate with a tattoo. Or a piercing.”

In some ways, I am an open book. People ask me questions, and I answer them.

A lot of times, I offer info.

I don’t see the point in being all secretive and shit about who you are. It takes you long enough to figure it out sometimes, but once you do, there’s no reason to hide it.

“Once you’ve figured it out” being the operative phrase.

“What about this one?” she says, pointing to the stainless-steel barbell on my left pec. “What’s that for?”

I glance down at the piercing that runs through my left nipple. I definitely want to get ahead of this story.

Sometimes it’s easy to say.

Sometimes it takes serious cojones.

It depends on who you’re telling, and you never know with people.

“Ah, this thing?” I say, “Got that when I knew for sure I liked guys.”

I wait for the momentary surprise, the quick rearrangement of her expression. Everybody’s got some sort of reaction. But this woman with the chill attitude? She just laughs then leans a little closer. “What do you know? I’ve got one too, on my left boob. Feels great when a guy touches it, right?”

I crack up. “I highly recommend it.”

Echo glances at my friend and shoots her a smile. “I had a hunch you two were just friends.”

Reese, who shares a name with the famous actress she looks like, twists her hair into a ponytail, smiling too. “He’s my best friend.”

I wink at Reese. “You’re mine, woman.” Then I turn to Echo. Since she didn’t assume we’re together, I have a chance to satisfy my curiosity. “What gave away that there’s nothing more between us?”

The tattoo artist gives me a smile. “You look at her like she’s your sister, not your lover.”

“Fair enough,” I say as Echo dips the needle into ink and gets to work.

Of course I don’t look at Reese that way. But what would it be like to look at someone like he was my lover rather than a hookup?

I’ve no clue. No clue at all.

As Echo colors in the stencil, she chats more about my ink, asking the what, why, and when. I give her some answers, but I don’t dive into the nitty-gritty of everything the tattoos mean to me.

There is more to them.

There’s more to almost anything in life. But I’ve learned that you need to pick and choose who you share your shit with.

I don’t mean the shit I’m easily open about now—I play baseball, I love board games and thrillers, I dig dudes, I will stand by my friends come hell or high water, and if you make bank and you don’t give a ton of it away, you’re a dick and not the good kind.

I’m talking about the darker truths.

The things that lie deeper beneath the skin.

That’s why I’m open about some things and closed about others. Some pieces of yourself you wear on your body, and others you bury so goddamn far inside you that you’re not sure anyone will ever see them.

“But the arrow is my favorite,” I say, glancing down at the one she’s doing.

She smiles as she works, her gaze never straying from my chest. “I’m flattered, but it’s not even done.”

“Almost though, and I already know it’ll be the one I like best,” I say.

“Why’s that?”

This is easy to share, part of the open book of me. Because nothing is hidden with baseball; everything is on the field.

“I promised myself this ink back when I was six.”

I’m stoked to be getting this milestone marker. I got the news from my agent the other day that the San Francisco Cougars were calling me up from Triple-A and sending me to spring training with the chance of making the majors.

“I haven’t met a lot of clients who planned to be tattooed when they were six,” Echo says.

“The first time I hit a homer in Little League when I was seven, I told my whole family I was going to get a tat when I had an opportunity to land a slot in the majors,” I say, shifting my gaze to Reese.

My best friend lifts her phone, angles it toward me, and snaps a picture. “And look at you now.”

Echo smiles, bright and wide. “Nice! When do you start?”

“Next week. Pitchers and catchers report first, and I’m a catcher. I’m heading to Phoenix. First time at spring training.”

“Then this arrow is even more perfect. Goals, focus, forward momentum. What’s your name so I can watch you become famous?”

Reese answers like a ballpark announcer, warbling the lineup. “And now, batting fourth, and hailing from the great state of California, with a .327 batting average in Triple-A, is Grant ‘Knows He’s Hot Shit’ Blackwood.”

I crack up. “Tell us what you really think, Reese.”

Reese shrugs. “Actually, I think you’re hot shit too. So, I suppose it works.”

Echo laughs as she finishes, putting down the needle on her work stand. “I will look out for that and maybe tell my brother to watch.” She gives me the instructions for tattoo aftercare, then sets her hand on my arm. “River lives in the Phoenix area if you’re looking for a friend during spring training. He runs a bar—The Lazy Hammock in Scottsdale. Don’t worry—it’s not a baseball bar.”

She whips out her phone and shows me a picture of a guy standing at the sign for a trailhead. He has a full sleeve of ink, a trim beard, and kind eyes. He’s white, like her, but his skin is more tanned, closer to mine. Bet he enjoys the outdoors like I do.

“Cool shot,” I say.

She’s not showing me his picture for feedback on the framing of the pic. She wants to know if I want to meet him, and sure, he’s good-looking, objectively.

Would I feel a spark in person?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But I won’t know because that’s not what spring training is about.

I’m hunting for a diplomatic answer when Reese slides over, peering at the pic then chiming in with a laugh. “I swear, Grant. You can pick up cute men anywhere. You don’t even have to be in the same state.”

The tattoo artist simply shrugs and locks eyes with Reese. “Right? It’s just kind of how it goes with the hotties, right? All you want to do is set them up.”

“And they don’t need it,” Reese says, shaking her head. “Hot queer guys need no help finding other hot queer guys.”

I’d beg to differ, but I’m not going to let on in front of Echo.

Besides, Reese knows the truth. And I should keep up appearances—that I put my money where my rainbow mouth is.

I grab my shirt, pull it on, then say, “Thanks, Echo. I appreciate the offer, and I’m sure your brother is a cool dude. But I think I’m going to lock it up during spring training.”

“His loss,” she says with a smile.

I pay for the tattoo, head out of Ink Lore, and wander down the street with my best friend.

She arches an eyebrow, giving me a questioning stare. “Lock it up? Are you really?”

“I am, indeed. Is that a surprise? Lock it up is my middle name.”

She taps her chest. “Yeah, I have the same one.”

I drape an arm around Reese, squeeze her shoulder. “You and me. We’re cut from the same cloth. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure spring training isn’t the place.”

She frowns. “The men of Phoenix will be so sad. Especially River. He looked cute from the pic.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, even though there is one man in Phoenix who intrigues me.

But his name isn’t River.