Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely
Declan
The flight from Phoenix to Tampa is four hours. I spend them all worrying.
That’s four hours contemplating Grant’s future.
I should be sleeping. Resting up after last night when I didn’t get much slumber. But I have no regrets. Unlike Grant, I’m not on the chopping block.
I wish there were something I could do for him. Some way to help him, to protect him.
But when the plane lands, I have to do what I came here to do.
Play ball. We have an afternoon game, and I need to be One-Track Steele.
That mentality has gotten me through the majors, brought me to where I am today—safe and sound from my past, and far away from the men who belong in the rearview mirror.
Far away from the damage.
Including the damage I’ve done.
I get off the plane, sling my carry-on over my shoulder, walk to baggage, and wait for my suitcase.
As the carousel goes ’round, my phone pings with a text.
My heart skips a beat with the wish that it’s from Grant. But when I open the messages, it’s my group chat with Crosby and Chance.
Crosby: Going on record now. I’m going to finish the season with more homers and RBIs than you, and when I do, you’re gonna buy me a beer in New York at the Sports Network Awards.
Declan: And you can buy me an iced tea when I school you.
I’m about to put the phone away when I sense an opportunity. The guys are my friends. They’ll hopefully be Grant’s friends for a long time to come. No reason they can’t look out for him now, especially with the news reports circulating. Hell, I looked out for him as a friend. It’s time to pass the mantle.
I write back.
Declan:In all seriousness though, can you guys look out for Grant for the next week? I know he’s nervous AF about the starting catcher job and maybe getting sent down. Take him out tonight, or grab a bite with him or something, okay? I’d appreciate that.
Crosby:We’ll have his back.
Chance:Um . . . Declan . . .
I wince at those two words. That can’t be good.
Declan:Spill.
Chance: You know we have the same agent, Grant and me?
Declan:I didn’t know that, but okay. What does that mean?
Chance:Crosby and I just ran into her after we finished our workout.
My pulse skyrockets. My nerves tighten as I write back.
Declan:And what does that mean?
As the dots wiggle on the screen, I glance at the luggage belt. I spot my bag coming around.
Chance:She’s here at the complex. But she didn’t come to see me. She’s here to see someone else and she wouldn’t say who. The thing is . . . she usually only shows up in person like this, unannounced, if she needs to let someone down.
My heart sinks—a hard, heavy weight. No way. No way can this be happening.
Declan:Look, if he gets sent down, just remind him it’s not the end of the world. It’s happened to plenty of others, and he’ll have another shot.
Crosby:Of course, man. We’d do that anyway.
Chance:We’ll look out for the rookie. He’s a good one.
Declan:He is.
I thank them, close the thread, and curse under my breath. I march over to grab my bag, and a few minutes later, I’m in the black limo the New York Comets sent for me.
The driver’s chatty, wanting to talk shop, discuss predictions for the season. I don’t have many, but I offer any tidbits I know about this team, mostly to take my mind off Grant. I finish with, “I hope to take them all the way back to the World Series and to bring the trophy home.”
When I reach the ballpark, I ask the driver to drop my bag at Brady’s house where I’ll be staying, not far from the Tampa complex.
The driver says he will, then I get out, head into the vaunted home of the New York Comets, and breathe in the history of this epic team. I reach the locker room, say hello to some of the guys who I know from playing against them, then button up the blue and white uniform they have waiting for me.
Number eighteen, just like I had in San Francisco.
It’s good to be treated like baseball royalty. Once more, my heart thumps painfully as I think of Grant.
He deserves to be baseball royalty. He deserves to be treated well. He’s so damn talented.
But what’s the best path for that?
What can I do to help him?
A dark thought flickers through my head, but I shove it away.
I trot out to the field, ready to join my team for batting practice before the game, when my eyes laser in on a familiar set of shoulders.
Is that . . .?
No. It can’t be. Not here. Not now.
I peer over, narrowing my eyes at the back of a man.
He’s in the first-base seats, leaning over the side, chatting with the players.
My chest craters, my heart slamming to the ground as my skin prickles cold and clammy when he turns around.
His eyes find mine.
A man from my past.
In one cruel second, everything I tried to put behind me breaks away. My past lurches viciously forward, spilling into my present, landing smack-dab in the middle of my new life.
