Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

My next thought is, Impress him.

I don’t mean like if we were in a bar and I were trying to pick him up with wit or banter or a 360-degree view of my arms.

I mean, impress the hell out of him as a ballplayer.

Declan Steele is one of the best in the majors. In his first four years, he’s amassed some killer stats, epic plays, and absolutely clutch RBIs, homers, and hits.

He’s exactly the type of guy you want on your team, and I want him to like me as a ballplayer.

I want all the guys on the team to trust me.

I go in nice and easy with Declan, homing in on the thing we have in common.

No, not the gay thing.

But everyone loves a compliment.

“That was a hell of a double play in that game against the Storm Chasers last fall. The one where you leaped ten feet above the runner as you threw to first,” I say, picturing that play perfectly.

Declan raises an eyebrow. His smile spreads slowly, taking its time moving across his handsome face. Then it reaches his eyes. There’s a glint in them, along with a crook in his lips.

“Impressed you saw it, rookie,” he says, emphasis on rookie.

That’s got to be good. If he knows it’s my first year, he knows who I am.

“You are a rookie, aren’t you?” he adds.

Ah. So, it was a lucky guess. The shortstop doesn’t know me. I straighten my shoulders instinctively. “Yes, I am,” I say, tempted to add sir. But this isn’t the military. He’s not my boss. I do, however, need to show respect for him and the time he’s put in. “First time here.”

“First time. Gotta make it good,” he says in a tone that’s a little raspy, a lot sexy. My skin sizzles as I picture other first times.

“So they say,” I say, keeping the banter light.

He takes a beat. “And what’s your story?”

My story? He asks it like Echo at the tattoo shop. What the hell am I supposed to tell him?

Should I give him my dating profile? Psychological flicks and fast-paced books rock my world, Daniel Craig is hands down the best James Bond, the designated hitter rule is the only way to go, and I’d love to take him out to dinner.

But before I can open my mouth to say something else entirely—because I am not saying any of that, especially the last part—he laughs, then adds, “Your baseball story, rookie. That’s all I mean.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “I was in Triple-A last season,” I say, and I make a mental note that he’s not one of those guys who follows the minors. That’s what I would do if I were him. But, hey, maybe I’d be so absorbed in my own game that I wouldn’t have time to worry about who was coming up. That’s probably why he doesn’t know who I am.

The man has more forward momentum than anyone. He’s in a league of his own and doesn’t have to peer in the rearview mirror to see who’s chasing him.

He scrubs a hand across his chin, studying me. It’s not a sexual look. He’s not shamelessly eating me up with his eyes. It’s more like he’s trying to read me, figure out if I have an ego the size of an SUV, if I’m just one of the guys, or a pushover, or somewhere in between. “So, you’re a hotshot, then?” Declan asks.

Fuck.

I am doing this all wrong.

I don’t want him to think I have a big head since I raced through the minors faster than most guys.

“No. I don’t think I am. And I’m also not a shortstop,” I say quickly, lest he think I’m gunning for his position.

Then he cracks up, sets a hand on my shoulder, and I go still so I don’t give away how much I like that big hand on me. The way he curls it over my muscle. How his palm fits on my body. That’s just a friendly hand, nothing more.

Too bad my body doesn’t feel friendly with him.

It feels hot.

Hotter still when he says, “Rookie, I’m just fucking with you.”

Does he know how much innuendo I can hear laced in his words?

Or is it just me, craving innuendo with him?

Note to self: you seem to have forgotten that your teammate is off-limits.

He drops his hand, then holds it out to shake. “Declan Steele,” he says, and I want to tell him, Dude, I know who you are. I’ve watched your games, seen your interviews, admired your career. And your deep brown eyes, perfectly messy hair, and chiseled jaw with just the right amount of scruff that blends together into the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.

By the way, you might not post shots online of your dates, but I’ve come across the pics of you having dinner with Nathan Sparks, and all I have to say is this—that guy’s a jackass and you can do better.

“Grant Blackwood,” I say. “I’m looking forward to playing with you.”

And I cringe.

Did that just come out of my mouth? That sounds so filthy. So deliciously, dangerously filthy.

And so wildly inappropriate.

The corner of his lips quirks up. The man exudes confidence. He gives off heady doses of charisma. He’s unflappable even as I step in it. “I’m definitely looking forward to playing with you too, Grant,” he says, then shakes his head, clearly amused by me.

Which is not the first impression I wanted to make on a teammate.

I have bungled this so badly.

I groan privately, then drag a hand down the back of my neck. I came on to the dude, and I didn’t mean to come on to him, and he’s going to think I meant something, and I didn’t mean anything. Even though some part of my lizard brain means everything because I would love to play with him in the bedroom.

But that is not happening.

That is not what spring training is about.

This is about me meeting a teammate, not some guy I’m hot for.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m here to say this—it is seriously hard sometimes being a queer dude on a sports team, even if everyone’s cool with queer dudes in pro sports.

Even if I already have sponsors lined up for endorsement deals.

Even if pro sports is no longer a bastion of homophobia, but instead a beacon of rainbow pride, embracing LGBTQ athletes.

I don’t want my teammates to think what small-minded people think about gay guys in a locker room—that we’re checking out all the men.

I vow to never look at Declan in the locker room.

Right now, I do my best to course correct. “All I mean is I’m a big fan of yours,” I say, and yeah, now I sound like a complete tool.

This is awesome.

I love meeting a player I look up to and making a complete fool of myself.

“Big fan,” I repeat, owning my tool-ery. “I sound like I’m calling into a sports talk show.”

“Long-time listener, first-time caller,” Declan quips, then adds, like he’s the radio host Jim Rome, “‘Welcome to the Jungle.’”

And I relax as he takes the conversational plane in for a smooth landing on the runway, making me feel like it’s okay that I put my foot in my mouth.

Like he gets my energy.

He spins around, then he turns back, urgency in his eyes. “Wait a second. You missed the drills, didn’t you?”

“What? No, it’s nine. First workout is at nine-thirty. Did I get the time wrong?”

His expression turns deadly serious. “Aw shit, man. You missed the early drills. Rookie drills were at eight-thirty. You better get out there now, or they’ll make you do all the dirty laundry for the next five weeks.”

Panic kicks in, swimming in my blood. I can’t fuck up. He points in the direction of the locker room that leads to the diamond. “That’s where you need to be. Main field,” he says.

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”

I step away, ready to jet, when he sets a hand on my arm. “Give me your phone, rookie. Skipper will have a fit if he sees you with the phone in the locker room,” he says.

“Really?” My brain scrambles, trying to figure out if he’s screwing with me. I can’t remember the manager mentioning a ban on phones in locker rooms.

“Yes. Go put on your uniform. Get out on the field and do the drills. You can thank me later when the coach doesn’t pitch a fit.”

I breathe, exhaling heavily as I hand him my phone. I hightail it to the locker room, pull on my uniform, and grab my glove.

I run to the field as the team streams in, but they’re not doing drills. They’re . . . milling about by home plate.

That’s odd.

The third baseman strolls over to me, holding his cap in front of him. “I can do the triple lift,” Crosby Cash says by way of greeting. “And I bet all these guys that I can do it. They don’t believe me. You in?”

I pat the back pocket of my baseball pants for show. “I don’t have my wallet with me.”

Scoffing, Crosby turns around. “He has no dough. Who’s covering the rookie?”

Seconds later, Declan’s voice calls out. “I’ve got his back. Fifty bucks says you can do it, Cash. You hear that, rookie? We’re betting for him.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, gulping.

Crosby turns, shoves his hat at Chance. “You in or out?”

Chance grabs a bill from his pocket, tosses it in. “I’ve seen you fail at it. A hundo says you will again.”

“You’re wrong.” Crosby turns around, pats the weight belt on his waist, then sets the hat on the ground.

“You ready?” The question comes my way from Crosby, and it’s time to improvise. I’ve no idea what the triple lift is.

But I won’t let on. “Absolutely.”

“Cool,” he says, then points to the grass. “Get on the ground. Lie down.” I do as I'm told while Crosby calls out to two other rookies, guys I know well from Triple-A. “Sullivan! Miguel! Get over here too. Grant’s in the middle.”

Sullivan trots over, his dark eyes eager as a puppy dog’s, and drops to the ground next to me. Miguel flops on my other side.

“Hook elbows around the other guys,” Crosby says to the three of us. “I’m going to lift you all at once.”

This doesn’t feel like a drill, but I get in position, the sun shining brightly in my eyes. Crosby leans over like he’s about to grab the waistband of my uniform to haul us up over his head.

Instead, Chance sweeps in, squeezing a red bottle at my face.

Before I even blink, I have red goop all over me, my hair, my uniform. I look like a one-man crime scene, and I crinkle my nose at the vinegary smell of ketchup.

Sullivan takes a direct hit of bright yellow mustard next to me, then Crosby is shaking another container on the three of us, dumping an avalanche of baby powder that flies everywhere and coats us in a layer of white talc.

I spit it out, laughing and grossed out at the same time, then Declan gets in on the act, dousing us with a couple of cans of whipped cream, spraying the dessert topping all over us.

My face is covered in condiments. My uniform is toast. But I wipe off the food with a grin.

This is not a drill. It’s a rookie hazing.

And I’m loving it.

Even when the manager walks onto the field. Fisher stops when he spots us, parks his hands on his hips, shakes his head in exasperation . . .

Then laughs his ass off.

I might look like an utter dipshit, but I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.