Until the day a rising star walks into my locker room. Outgoing, affable, and sexy-as-sin, Grant has confidence and talent for miles. He seems to get me too, maybe because we each have our fair share of secrets and scars — ones we’ll both fight to protect.
* * *
But, I’ve got far too much trouble in my past to want to bring any into my present.
* * *
All the more reason to resist the kind of dirty deeds his lips and eyes promise.
* * *
Even after I plant a scorching, hot kiss on the rookie one night after a game.
* * *
Even after he sends me the world’s sexiest selfie.
* * *
But when Grant reveals his biggest secret, I’m so damn ready to rip up the rulebook.
* * *
Turns out he’s a virgin and he wants me to help him get around all the bases.
* * *
The only rule? Don’t fall in love with him as we go.
Scoring With Him
By Lauren Blakely
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Dedication
This story is dedicated to both the women who helped shape the story—Helen, Jen, and Kim, and most of all to Kayti, who attained Goddess status in our plotting. And to the men who helped make sure it was authentic—Jay, Trent, and most of all, Jon. Thank you for helping build the foundation of this love story with me. I am endlessly grateful for all your support and insight. Also, thank you to Dan Levy, creator of Schitt's Creek, for the way he crafted his TV show. He has said that his show would not include any storylines about homophobia, but rather love and tolerance. Likewise, The Men of Summer series exists in a world of pro sports that has been imagined as largely free of homophobia - a world where queer and straight athletes exist and play the sport with the same opportunities for success, sponsorship, acceptance, and of course, love, as anyone else. While this fictional world is not a utopia, the sports universe in this series and in the locker rooms was deliberately constructed with acceptance and equality. I hope you enjoy their world. Love is love.
Prologue
Five Years Ago
At the Start of Rookie Year
* * *
Grant
If I were the kind of guy who made five-year plans, mine would include winning a World Series, playing in an All-Star game, and having my pick when it comes to endorsement deals.
Just putting that out there, universe. I’ll check back in when I’m twenty-seven and see what comes true. K, thanks.
And to do that, I need a killer first season.
I have to go into spring training and play hard every day.
Baseball is my one and only dream. This sport saw me through the toughest years. Hard times are in the rearview mirror at long last, and good riddance to those days I’d like to forget.
Hell, if I play my cards right, the opportunities for my career are endless.
That’s not cocky.
That’s just true.
Fine, maybe it’s a little bit cocky, but facts are facts, and these are mine. I’m twenty-two. I earned a degree in history from a good college, I racked up one bonkers season in minor league baseball, and thanks to going in the first round of the draft, I’m making bank as I get ready to head to Arizona for spring training. My goal there? Lock up the starting catcher slot. Lock it up so damn tight that the coach can’t picture anyone else but me behind the plate for the team.
Pretty sure I don’t have time for extracurricular activities. And that’s okay. I don’t need to be a hookup maestro. Besides, I bet the quest to be a player after hours is a recipe for disaster on the diamond.
So yeah, I suppose that’s my five-year plan. Don’t look back. Move the hell forward. Leave it all on the field.
Which means—don’t be distracted by men.
That shouldn’t be a problem for me.
I’ve learned to live, breathe, and eat the sport, and romance has taken a back seat. There will be time for men later in my twenties.
Not at my first spring training.
Not during my rookie year.
And definitely not with a man on my team anytime soon.
No matter how charming, sexy, smart, or easygoing a certain guy is. No matter how hot the attraction burns between us. And no matter how close I want to get to him.
And this turns out to be the biggest problem in my brand-new career. Not hitting a wicked fastball. Not scrambling for a wild pitch.
Nope, the problem is my shortstop.
Declan Steele.
From his easy confidence, to his deadpan wit, to the way he guides me through the complicated world of pro ball, I’m hooked on the man from the second I meet him.
Add in his movie star face and a carved body that makes me want to throw him against the wall and kiss the breath out of him—or hell, let him shove me against the door. I don’t care—and I’m not sure I stand a chance at my five-year plan.
Let alone a one-month plan.
Already I’m behind in the count, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to strike out on my first chance to make it in the pros.
But with Declan, I’m not sure I can be careful.
Or if I want to. Because he just might be everything I didn’t know I needed.
Prologue
The Same Time
* * *
Declan
* * *
A good thing about being a Major League baseball player is that dates aren’t hard to come by.
The pickings are plentiful, and I’ve enjoyed the offerings that have come my way over the last few years.
The off-season is me time, and I’ve used the winters to turn up the heat, to wine and dine to my heart’s—and dick’s—content.
Both organs have been quite happy, thank you very much.
My stomach too. There was that fling with the chef at a three-starred Michelin restaurant in Napa. Let me tell you, seared scallops are even better when a man makes them just for you in his fantastic wine-country home overlooking a vineyard. I then showed him how much I appreciated his skills in the kitchen by showing off mine in the bedroom.
Pretty sure I earned more than three stars with the things I did.
The year after, I played globe-trotter alongside a rich-as-sin internet executive with a private jet, and we hardly ever wanted that Gulfstream to land.
Then there was that TV star. You know, the guy in the Wall Street show who wears the fuck out of tailored suits.
I date here and there on my own time and dime. There’s no hiding, and I’m definitely not in the closet, so I’m sure pics of me out with guys surface now and then in gossip rags or where-the-fuck-ever.