Scoring With Him Read online

  Which reminds me of someone.

  Of soft hair, and five o’clock stubble, and lips so lush I lost my mind. I flick over to “November Rain,” and that’s the dumbest gym decision ever because now I’m replaying last night, remembering how Grant went after me during that tune like I was his meal.

  He mauled my lips, and I wanted every second of the kiss attack.

  I blink, trying to send the tasty reel to the trash can in my mind.

  But even when I switch songs to something newer to vacuum up the memories, to Jordan Davis and Luke Bryan, my thoughts return to Grant and our talk last night. To the way he opened up to me, and how I did the same. To how effortless it was to connect, to tell him my story, and to hear his.

  Everything about the man intrigues me, especially his boldness.

  And my God, I hope he won’t regret me if he decides to go through with this.

  This thing I desperately want.

  And there I go, popping wood.

  I sit up on the weight bench so my semi is less noticeable and distract myself by firing off a note to Emma. She dragged me to a Guns N’ Roses cover band in college, so my playlist is a perfect entry.

  * * *

  Declan: Remember Arrows and Daisies?

  * * *

  Emma: Worst cover band name ever.

  * * *

  Declan: Could have been Ammo and Lilies.

  * * *

  Emma: Fine. That might have been worse. Also, it’s funny that you wrote to me.

  * * *

  Declan: Why’s that?

  * * *

  Emma: I just bought a peach.

  * * *

  I laugh then type out a reply.

  * * *

  Declan: Do you dare to eat it?

  * * *

  Emma: I did. I ate it. I always take the Eliot dare.

  * * *

  I laugh over our private poetry jokes, this one courtesy of T.S. Eliot. Emma turned me onto the poet in college when I needed to conquer my fear of public speaking. She was a lifesaver. I wouldn’t have been able to survive those classes without her, and she helped me see my way into T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

  As I make my way through the rest of the machines, I let a few lines from the poem play in my head.

  * * *

  I grow old . . . I grow old . . .

  I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

  Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

  I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

  I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

  * * *

  Drawing a deep breath, I ask myself some of the same questions. Not about a peach, but about a person.

  Do I dare to tell the rookie that I want to take him up on his offer more than I’ve wanted anything from any man in ages, but the barest chance he’ll regret me eats me alive?

  I need to know he’s not just thinking with his dick.

  Well, he is.

  But I want to know he’s making decisions with his big head, to make sure he’s thought this through.

  When I finish my workout, I find one more message from Emma.

  * * *

  Emma: PS: See you in a couple days!

  * * *

  It takes a second, then the lightbulb flicks on.

  * * *

  Declan: Yes, the hockey game. Can’t wait to see you.

  * * *

  Emma: I have a thing in LA after, so it’s perfect. I’ll be in for a night then go on to California.

  * * *

  Declan: Excellent. Let’s grab a bite before.

  * * *

  Emma: As if I’d let you get away with anything less.

  * * *

  Declan: You let me get away with nothing.

  * * *

  I send the last note then drop my phone in my pocket, done with the workout. Tugging out my headphones, I tell Chance I’ll catch up with him later.

  The pitcher points a finger at me. “Pool tonight? You still there?”

  “I’m there.”

  “Excellent.”

  I ask how Natasha’s doing, and he tells me she’s keeping busy but eager for spring training to be over.

  “And then you’ll be on the road,” I add.

  He shrugs. “The life of the ballplayer.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  Chance clears his throat, lifts his chin. “Hey, what do you think of the team? You think it’s coming together?”

  I get why he’s asking. Couple of guys were traded at the end of last season—notably, our longtime catcher, traded because of Grant. But also, our former catcher was older, getting rickety in the knees, and missing more games. Rodriguez is a solid backup, but he’s thirty-two and he’s always been a backup.

  “Our new catcher specifically, you mean?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I would think you know him better than I do. You throw to him. What do you think of him?”

  Chance grins. “The dude is like a sunrise.”

  I shoot him a what-the-hell look. “A sunrise?”

  “He’s steady and calm, and he’s always there. You can count on him.”

  I remember Grant’s comparison of women to sunsets, and I hold back a snicker that Chance wouldn’t understand. I guess Grant and I have a private joke now.

  Actually, Grant and I have a lot of private jokes, a lot of private moments, and maybe, we’ll have a lot more in the future.

  “You like him behind the dish?” I ask, stripping any laughter from my tone.

  Chance nods enthusiastically. “I really do. He’s like the ocean breeze, guiding me home.”

  I crack up. “You want to go for a triple metaphor? Maybe he’s a mountain too.”

  “Let’s call him Mountain Man,” he says. Then, more seriously, he says, “But, no joke, he has a gift.”

  “Yeah. He really does.” I tilt my head, searching his expression. “Why did you ask me, though?”

  I suspect Chance gets the unspoken question. Are you asking me what I think of him because we’re the two queer dudes on the team?

  He scoffs. “Because you work out with him every morning? Duh. You know the guy.”

  I let out a held breath. “Right, yeah. He’s a good one. Hell of an addition to the team.”

  I leave, texting my mom as I make my way through the complex. I haven’t checked in with her in a few days, so she replies quickly.

  * * *

  Mom: I’ve cleared my schedule for Opening Day.

  * * *

  Declan: As you should. I’m getting you tickets on the first-base line.

  * * *

  Mom: Where else? But the game seems so far away.

  * * *

  I look at the calendar on my phone. Three and a half weeks since I got to Phoenix, one and a half more to go. Anxiety knots in my chest—there’s so much I want to happen at spring training.

  * * *

  Declan: It’ll be here in the blink of an eye.

  * * *

  Mom: And Tyler and I will be there too. We’ll always be there.

  * * *

  That’s one of the truest things she’s ever said. I feel it deep in my soul, and that means the world to me. She was there when Dad left, cheering at all my games, taking me to early morning practices, and weekend tournaments all over the state. She stepped up as both parents, with Dad hardly around.

  Then later, when I struggled with the aftermath of a visit from my father, she was there too. Some shit went down at the end of my senior year, and that’s when I caught a glimpse of my own self-destructive potential. Mom did, as well, and she helped me get on a better path.

  * * *

  Declan: Love you, Mom.

  * * *

  Mom: I love you too.

  * * *

  I reach my room, and as I open the door, I find a new text.

  It’s not my mom.

  Speak of the devil.

&n
bsp; Anger lashes out of nowhere—anger I haven’t felt in years. Fury and shame and guilt wrap around each other into a treacherous ball that slams into me like a rogue pitch.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I shut the door and open the text from my dad.

  He hasn’t written to me in months. Not since he needed help paying his credit card.

  * * *

  Dad: Hey, kid!!! Miss you like crazy! How’s it going? I checked the spring training blogs. You’re killing it.

  * * *

  On the surface it’s innocuous, just a note from a dad checking in with his son. But a headache blooms behind my eyes.

  I sigh, leaning my pounding forehead against the door as I weigh my options: ignore it, ignore it and delete it, or engage with him.

  I want to ignore it, but he’s not asking for anything. He’s still my dad. The least I can do is let go of my anger and reply to his message.

  * * *

  Declan: It’s been good.

  * * *

  Leave it at those three words and hit send. His answer pops up quickly.

  * * *

  Dad: Proud of you. Have I told you that lately? I don’t think I tell you that enough.

  * * *

  The pain throbs in my head, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. He wants something. I know he wants something. I swallow roughly then reply.

  * * *

  Declan: Thanks.

  * * *

  Dad: You’re doing so well.

  * * *

  I grit my teeth. The hammering moves to my temples, a persistent banging. Inhaling deeply, I choose directness.

  * * *

  Declan: Dad, do you need something?

  * * *

  Dad: Just to tell my son that I love him.

  * * *

  My hand tightens on the phone. Fingers wrapped around it, I squeeze so damn hard it should break. I might smash it to smithereens.

  This is so typical of him. Reach out, drop a line, say something nice. Then I’m the asshole for being curt. I’m the shitty son for doubting him. But feeling shitty about it doesn’t change the feeling he wants something more—that this is just him buttering me up.

  I inhale. Exhale. In. Out. In that measured pace, I recite the opening lines of Prufrock.

  Let us go then, you and I,

  When the evening is spread out against the sky.

  Loosening my grip on the phone, I leave my room, head to the stairwell, bound down the steps, stride straight out of the hotel, get in my car, and drive to the foot of a hiking trail. At the trailhead, I park and get out, lean against the car, and name all the birds I see.

  A cactus wren. A sparrow.

  A woodpecker on a saguaro.

  He takes off when I walk closer.

  I get it, woodpecker. I understand why you show off those wings. That’s all I wanted when I was ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.

  Finding a seat on a rock, I close my eyes.

  I learned to recite poetry in my head because I was terrified to speak in public. I hated crowds, hated people looking at me. I was petrified at what they might think. I saw the way other kids in middle school stared at me any time my dad showed up at a game. I saw the way kids and adults looked at me with pity, feeling my shame.

  I saw them turn away.

  There by the saguaro, I go through the whole T.S. Eliot number, slowing at the line Do I dare to eat a peach.

  When I finish, I slide open my phone and reply to my father at last.

  * * *

  Declan: Love you too. Appreciate the note.

  * * *

  One of those things is true.

  * * *

  Closing the thread, I drag a hand through my hair, hating lying.

  I want truth.

  I don’t want the bullshit of Nathan and his I won’t do it again empty promises, and I don’t want the pop-up-out-of-nowhere style of Kyle, reappearing at whim, asking for another chance.

  I want a man who knows his mind and who speaks it.

  I flash back to yesterday. How Grant put his wishes out there for me the morning he said he wanted me.

  I’m pretty damn sure Grant Blackwood knows his mind. I feel confident it’s not changing. But more than that, I don’t want him to do all the work.

  And I want to say something that is wholly true. That doesn’t have a single shred of a lie in it.

  I send him a note.

  * * *

  Declan: There is no way I will regret you. The question is—do you still want me to come over tonight? Say the word, and I am there.

  19

  Grant

  Three hours later I roust my tired ass out of bed.

  Spring training is exhausting.

  Can’t remember the last time I slept so long.

  I roll over, yawning, and catch a glimpse of the clock.

  It’s eight, so I drag myself upright, brush my teeth, pull on board shorts, and head down to the pool. Crosby invited me to join him tonight, and I find him and Chance horsing around in the shallow end with some of the other guys, including Rodriguez, who slides a hand over his shaved head when he comes up from underwater, tiny droplets beading over his Black skin.

  “You’re gonna love our pool basketball,” Crosby shouts, right before I cannonball into the deep end.

  When I come up, the waves still rippling, I arch a brow as I swim to the middle where there’s a net strung across the glistening water. “This is just pool volleyball,” I point out.

  Chance scowls at me. “Dude. Don’t be a buzzkill.”

  Crosby seconds the indignation. “It’s our version of basketball, and it’s awesome.”

  I laugh. “Fair enough.”

  “Young guys. What do they know?” Rodriguez quips.

  I’m glad that the guy I’m vying against seems cool with me. He’s a good catcher and an even better person—he’s an advocate for both foster kids and adoption, since he was adopted and I respect the hell out of how he puts his heart back into the world.

  But no matter how cool he is, I want him to be my backup.

  I zone in on the game, spiking a ball over the net. Crosby jumps, slams it back to me, and I serve it right back. We’ve been playing for a few minutes when Declan strides out to the pool.

  I don’t pay him any mind. No more than anyone else. Clearly his answer to my offer is no, and that makes him just another one of the guys.

  I’ll survive. All baseball all the time—that’s how I should be. How he said I should be.

  We all goof off, and as the clock ticks closer to nine-thirty, Chance calls it a night. “Don’t know about you all, but I need my R and R,” the pitcher says as he clambers up the ladder.

  “Because you’re old,” taunts Crosby, who’s maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, at the most.

  Chance arches a brow. “If memory serves, it wasn’t too long ago when it was you covered in ketchup and baby powder.”

  Crosby grins evilly. “And since then, I’ve belted thirty homers a season.”

  Declan clears his throat. “Thirty-five for me.”

  “I’m twenty-six years old, just like our shortstop,” Chance puts in. “If that makes me old for hitting the sack at nine-thirty, fine. You can have an old all-star closer or a tired and drag-ass closer.”

  Crosby straightens in a snap. “Go! And say hi to Natasha from all of us. Sleep well. You’re our secret weapon.”

  Chance nods sagely. “I thought so. I’ll pass on your regards to the wife.”

  “Hell, I guess I should have hit the hay at seven since I’m the old fogey,” Rodriguez remarks.

  “Six-thirty for you, old man,” Crosby teases, and Rodriguez flips him the bird.

  I take this as my cue to get out too. Some of the other guys stay, but Declan heads up the steps, water droplets sliding down his muscular back.

  I jerk my gaze away, say goodbye to the others, drying my hair and tossing the towel in the bin on my way into the hotel.

  A minute later, I’m w
aiting for the elevator when footsteps grow louder behind me. I step in, Declan right behind me.

  The doors close, and it’s just us. He stares at me, his brown eyes intense. “You didn’t answer my text.”

  His text? I knit my brow, confused, and shake my head. “I didn’t see it.”

  He drags a hand through his wet hair and sighs heavily. “Rookie, you’re killing me.”

  That nickname sends a buzz of electricity down my chest, straight to my balls. But I won’t make any assumptions. Won’t rub up against him like a cat in heat. “I took a nap. I crashed. I left my phone in my room. But why am I killing you?”

  “Why?” He glances at the buttons on the elevator panel. We’re near the third floor. “Because I want to see you tonight.”