Crushing On Him

A Prequel in The Men of Summer Series

Lauren Blakely

Lauren Blakely Books

Contents

Also by Lauren Blakely

About Crushing on Him

Crushing on Him

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

Also by Lauren Blakely

Contact

Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Blakely

Cover Design by Helen Williams.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Also by Lauren Blakely

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A Wildly Seductive Night

About Crushing on Him

Forbidden. Off limits. Dangerous.

This desire for my teammate was all of those things. For the last few years I crushed on him safely, from a distance. 

Then on the first day of spring training, I come face-to-face with him for the first time and when our eyes meet and linger, it’s a whole new ball game. A much bigger risk too, one that can threaten my brand new career. But, he’s always been irresistible...

CRUSHING ON HIM is a prequel in the Men of Summer series and it leads into the full-length novel SCORING WITH HIM. You don't have to read CRUSHING ON HIM to enjoy SCORING WITH HIM, but you'll likely enjoy this story before the story!

Crushing on Him

By Lauren Blakely

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Prologue

Now

Grant

This is the moment I’ve been longing for since I was a little kid.

Since I dug in at the plate during a Little League game and hit my first home run.

Since I caught my first game.

Through it all, I pictured this.

Finally making it to The Show.

Now I’m here, with a Major League team and a huge chance in front of me.

I’ve been at spring training for a full week, practicing with pitchers and catchers, showing the coaches what I’m made of. It’s been—knock on wood—damn good so far.

Today marks the start of the next phase of spring training. The position players will arrive, and soon we’ll start playing games against the other teams in Arizona.

That’s when my future will be on the line. When I have the opportunity, at last, to prove myself where it counts—on the diamond.

And I intend to do just that.

Every day, I make myself that promise. Focus on your goals.

It’s eight-thirty in the morning, and our first workout is at nine-thirty.

I leave the hotel, make my way to the team’s facility a half-mile away, and head inside. Even after a week, wonder spreads through my body as I check out the plaques and trophies on the wall.

I head to the locker room and try to visualize the first game, the pitches I’ll call, the approach I’ll need at-bat.

Baseball, and only baseball, runs through my mind as I turn the corner and nearly smack into someone.

But not just anyone.

My new teammate, who also happens to be the man I’ve been crushing on from afar.

And it started nearly four years ago.

1

Then

Grant

The first time I kissed a girl, it felt as eventful as making a sandwich.

You got the bread, you spread the mustard, you added a slice of meat.

It was just something you did in a day.

But the first time I kissed a guy? It was like an electrical storm had ignited inside my body.

We’re talking lightning, thunder—entire power grids frying.

And clarity too. Since I’d been trying to figure myself out for the last few years. Maybe I liked both guys and girls?

Before that first kiss near the end of my senior year of high school, I’d kissed a few girls in the backseats of cars. Gone on a couple of dates. Told my best friend, Reese, about the dates the next day, saying it was okay, it was so-so, I wasn’t that into the girl.

I had a pretty good inkling I’d like kissing a guy more.

But I’d wanted confirmation with my body.

And I got it the first time I kissed a guy.

It happened at a party with a man I’d just met. After a couple seconds, I had all my answers.

But for the sake of science, I tested some more, kissing him for longer.

I walked the rest of the way home in a world that was no longer black and white. It was bursting with color.

The next morning, I texted Reese and asked her to meet me for breakfast.

At the local diner, over pancakes and eggs, I cleared my throat.

This was going to be hard, wasn’t it?

Saying something I’d suspected for a while.

Saying it out loud to another person.

But then, we’d been friends since I was eight, and she was six. We’d already talked about our crushes on Chris Hemsworth, so I didn’t think I was going to shock her. Still, nerves whipped through me. I was saying this out loud for the first time to another person.

I set down my fork, took a drink of my coffee, and said, “So, I’m gay.”

It came out straightforward. To the point. I didn’t throw myself a parade.

Reese seemed to follow my lead. She kept her gaze on me, her eyes a touch serious. “Thanks for telling me. Any reason why you decided to tell me now?”

Good question. Easy enough answer. “I kissed a guy last night.”

Her blue eyes sparked with curiosity. Her voice too. “And…?”

“It was…pretty fucking good,” I said, laughing, as I remembered.

Her lips curved into a grin. “So a little better than the so-so kiss with Hannah? The meh kiss with Taylor?” she asked, recounting the stories of my other kisses.

I leaned back against the booth, relieved. “Exactly. Nothing so-so about it.” I took a beat, dragging a hand through my hair. “You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“And how do you feel now that you’ve said it?”

“Honestly? Pretty awesome,” I say, then let out a long sigh. “It was easy to tell you.”

She smiled, the kind that said she was grateful. “I’m really glad you knew you could.”

She knew all my hard truths—this one was no different. And telling her felt so good. “I should get a tattoo or something,” I said, jazzed by that idea.

Her irises twinkled. “I’m all for that. What are you thinking of?”

“Something to commemorate,” I said, practically bouncing. “I want all my tattoos to have meaning. Like these.” I gestured to the bands that looked like water on my arm.

“They’re a symbol of how close you and your grandfather are,” Reese said, referencing the fact that the tattoo there is a copy of the one my grandfather has. I admired him; he’d raised me. The ink felt like a symbol of our connection.

“Exactly. And now I want to mark this occasion,” I said.

“The moment when you knew for sure?”

I smiled. “Yeah. Is that crazy?”

“It’s crazy awesome,” she said, then scooted around the table, joined me on my side of the booth, and draped an arm around me. “I love you.”

“Love you too, girl,” I said.

“Back to Ink Lore?” she asked.

“Let’s do it.”

After I paid for breakfast, we headed to the tattoo shop. I pushed open the door and checked out the designs.

A skull and crossbones? Nah.

A rainbow? Too on the nose.

A panther for my favorite animal? That didn’t feel right either.

I shook my head as Reese and I flipped through each page in the binder.

“Nothing grabbing you?” she asked.

I raised my face, shook my head when my eyes landed on a display of stainless steel metal piercings right above the counter.

Images flashed in my head.

Nights alone in my room, with the Internet.

When I’d asked Google all sorts of questions about myself.

Some nights I’d looked at videos. Sometimes, I’d read articles. Other times, I’d taken those are you gay online tests.

Those were the nights when I’d started to figure out what I liked.

What attracted me.

What had turned me on.

And mostly, how I felt in my body. My body liked guys. I wanted something not just on my body but in my body.

I chose a barbell through my left nipple.

It seemed the perfect way to mark that I finally knew myself.

* * *

Another moment came a week later. I’d just caught a baseball game, and my phone pinged with a news alert when I was heading home in my grandfather’s car.

A guy named Declan Steele had made the starting lineup for the San Francisco Cougars. It was his first year as a shortstop. He was hot as fuck, talented for days, and out of the closet.

That was when my crush began.

2

A few months later

Grant

That summer after I graduated high school, Reese and I went to a few games in the city. We’d been doing that for as long as I could remember, but admittedly, I got a little buzz every time Declan came to bat. Sitting there in the stands, the sun shining, the crowd roaring, watching him come to the plate, gave me a thrill.

Partly a professional thrill. Partly a personal one. I admired Declan, even though I hardly knew him. I admired what he represented.

Being himself. Living free.

Every time the announcer warbled his name, I sat up straighter, leaned closer.

“And now at the plate, batting right, is number eighteen. Shortstop Declan Steele.” The fans went wild. No surprise. Declan was having a hell of a rookie season and winning the hearts of the San Francisco fans.

With her blonde ponytail bobbing in the summer breeze, Reese nudged me. “He’s so hot. He sort of looks like . . .” She drifted off as she stared at his image on the jumbotron. “Hmmm. What celebrity does he look like?”

“Ah, that is the question.”

This was a game we often played. That guy is a Chris Evans. That woman looks like Scarlett Johansson. I always teased my friend that she looked like Reese Witherspoon. She told me I look like Captain America.

I studied the humongous picture of Declan on the screen above the bleachers and tried to figure out what movie star, what singer, what famous person he looked most like.

But I came up short.

I couldn’t put a comp on him.

Declan had dark hair, deep brown eyes, a chiseled jaw, carved cheekbones, and a certain intensity in his gaze. I couldn’t compare him to anyone. He just looked like one of the sexiest athletes I’d ever seen.

“I think he just looks like Declan Steele,” I mused.

She bumped her shoulder to mine. “Someone has a crush.”

I rolled my eyes. “No shit, woman.”

“I approve of this crush. I kinda think he looks like —”

I clasped a hand to her mouth. “Nope. I don’t want to think of him like anyone else.”

Her eyes popped. “This crush is big time.”

I stared at her, then at the screen. “Duh. Just look at him.”

She held up her hands in surrender. “Utter hotness. He looks like one of those models advertising anything expensive.” She took a beat. “Do you want to try to say hi after the game? Maybe try to go down to the field? Or we could come tomorrow and go to batting practice?”

I scoffed, shaking my head like it was going out of style. “No effing way.”

She laughed. “Why do you say no way? Like that’s the craziest thing? We’ve gotten plenty of signatures on baseballs before.”

“Like, when we were ten,” I said.

“You mean when you were ten and I was eight.”

“Excellent math, Reese.”

“So you’re saying we grew out of it?” she challenged.

“Just a little bit.”

“Fine. Forget autographs. So why don’t you just go down and say hi? Tell him you admire him.”

I stared at her like she was crazy. “No. Just no. I’m going to college in a month. I was recruited to play at a great school with an awesome baseball program. I’m not going to go fanboy on a major leaguer.”

Reese pushed on. “For any particular reason?”

“Because . . . I don’t fanboy. It’s just . . . not cool,” I said, then I returned to watching his at-bat.

Fanboy just wasn’t the type of guy I wanted to be.

I wanted to be like these guys someday soon. If I bumped into a ballplayer at a coffee shop or on the street, I might say something. But going up to them when little kids were asking for their signatures was not my speed.

Pass.

Besides, Declan was simply a hot ballplayer who was out. He was like James Fitzgerald, who played hockey in New York. Or that pitcher for the San Diego Devils who’d married his high school sweetheart. Prom king and king.

There were a handful of out players in the various majors. Surely that was why I crushed on Declan.

And a crush was just a crush.

No big deal.

He would live in the back of my mind, along with Luke Evans and Frank Ocean and other out guys in Hollywood, and that was all.

When the inning ended, Reese patted my leg. “Fine, we won’t go talk to him, but you have to admit . . . this is cool.”

She waggled her phone at me, opened to Instagram.

“Look. He shared a post in June for Pride from the Trevor Project, saying it was a good organization to support,” she said, with a big grin. “That’s one of your favorite charities too.”

It was. But still. I wasn’t going to devote time to looking him up online, checking out every interview.

I heaved a sigh. “You’re not going to be one of those friends who shows me every post of his just because he’s hot, are you?”

She flashed a maybe I will smile. “We’ll see.”

“You’re terrible. Talk about something else,” I said, with a laugh.

She huffed. “Fine. I’m going to miss you when you go to college.”

I draped an arm around her. “You know I’ll miss you.”

“What are you looking forward to the most? Are you going to get involved with student groups or anything?”

That was an excellent question. One I’d thought about a lot lately. Ever since some shit went down after I came out to my parents.

“I think I’ll see if there’s a queer club. Some sort of LGBTQ org. I want to tell my own story. I don’t want others to do it for me. I’m already going there as an openly gay guy, so it’s just easier to embrace it.”

“Because of what happened?” she asked, a little heavily, since she knew the deets on what went down a few months ago with my parents at the end of my senior year.

“Yup. I just want to make sure I’m the one who’s using my voice.”

“I love that. I think it’s a great idea.”

That was what I wanted. To be a part of something.

Maybe that was why I was so intrigued by Declan. He felt like a part of something. A part of the two things that defined me the most—the sport I loved and who I might love.

* * *

After that day, I didn’t think about him for the rest of the summer. I didn’t have time to swoon over him, or many other guys, for that matter, since college started soon.

In August, I headed off to campus. Even though the baseball season wouldn’t start till winter, we still practiced and worked out as a team. That kept me busy in the mornings.

I added an extra class my first semester. My goal was to complete all my credits in three years instead of four. If I could pull that off, and if I was good enough behind the plate as a catcher, I could enter the Major League Draft at the end of three years of school.

My parents hadn’t gone to college, so earning a degree had always been a dream of mine.

Right along with playing pro baseball. Twin goals.

Those were the two things I cared the most about. So I focused on them, and I forgot that brief summer crush.

3

Early Fall, Freshman Year

Grant

The game was my reward.

I’d worked out that morning, hitting a new personal best with the bench press. I’d taken a History 101 test and aced it. And I’d turned in my first English class essay. I’d also gone to a meeting of the LGBTQ club.

After a busy day like that, I wanted to relax.

So the game was my chance to relax and have fun.

I stretched out on my bed, earbuds in, watching the Cougars on my phone. But I could never just watch. I always had to study the game too.

I could never separate being a catcher from being a fan. So I’d stopped trying. I studied the opposing batters, trying to guess the pitches that Rodriguez would call for. The backup catcher for the Cougars was behind the plate in the game since their regular catcher had twisted his ankle. When the Chicago Sharks’ first baseman came to the plate, I muttered, “Slider. Low and away.”

Yep. That was what Rodriguez called for.

“Fastball. High and tight.”

Boo-yah.

When the Cougars were at the plate, I did the same, analyzing each player’s hitting stance, imagining what I’d call for the pitcher to throw.

When Declan came to the plate in the second, I studied the way he rotated his hips, how he dug his heels in, how he lifted the bat just so. “Fastball.”

He popped it out to third base.

I pumped a fist. “Called it.”

The next time he was at-bat, I bet on a curve. The pitcher served one up and he hit it for a double.

Damn. Wrong call for both of us.

In the seventh, the bases were loaded with Cougars. Declan came to the plate. Adjusted his batting glove. Lifted the bat. Dug in.

If I were the catcher on the Chicago Sharks, what would I call for? How would I do my damnedest to get out of this jam?

The Sharks were ahead by two.

The game was on the line.

I’d seen Declan hit all summer. He had great eyes and patience for days. The man could wait for his pitch forever.

With guys like that, the pitcher had to get ahead in the count.

A four-seam fastball. Make him reach for it.

I was on the edge of the mattress, muttering, Come on, come on.

But the catcher called for a change-up.

And Declan swung, connected, and smacked the daylights out of it. It was going, going, gone.

I cheered, jumping up from the bed.

“Yes! Go Cougs!” I hooted and hollered, like the Cougars fan I was. Not a Declan fanboy.

When the game ended, a local sports reporter found him on the field, flashed a smile, and thrust a microphone in his face. “That was your first grand slam in your Major League career. How does that feel?”

Declan smiled, and my skin went warm. “I’m just happy it puts the Cougars that much closer to playoff contention,” Declan said.

The reporter pressed on. “But personally, what was going through your head when you hit your first grand slam?”

“Honestly? That my goal is to keep playing. To play long enough to keep hitting many more. That’s all I want.” He was so smooth. Such a pro with the media at such a young age. Only twenty-two. Four years older than me.

“And you’re off to an epic start. It’s been a terrific rookie season for you so far.” She rattled off some of his stats, his batting average, his home runs, his runs batted in. An epic start indeed.

It made my dirty mind wonder—what would it be like to see him finish?

Everything about him did it for me.

The way he talked with ease. The way he used his skills on the field. The way he handled himself with grace and confidence.

And the way he looked.

Declan Steele made my pulse surge.

The man was understated, sexy, tall and handsome, and I was crushing on him from afar.

4

Grant

Over the next few years, the crush lived where all good crushes reside—in that warm, hazy part of me. Sometimes when I was alone in my dorm room, I’d let my mind wander to Declan.

He’d joined the rotation of men in my mind. Celebrities like Jonathan Groff or Matt Bomer. Athletes like Robbie Rogers.

Porn stars too. I was quite a voracious consumer of porn, turning to the hottest subscription sites that featured sculpted guys with firm bodies. I liked what I liked.

And there was a whole host of men I could picture myself with.

Men I wanted to experience in the dark, under the sheets.

I’d picture the scorching kisses he’d paint all over my body.

I’d imagine tongues, and mouths, and lips exploring everywhere. Him, me—both of us at the same time.

Bodies coming together.

Him throwing me down on the bed. Taking me. Having me.

Or me doing the same to him.

Anything, everything.

It was all a playground I wanted to experience.

My brain cycled through image after image that brought me over the edge.

During the day, though, I stayed in the zone, doing my best in my history classes and hanging out with friends like Reese, since she now went to the same college as me, and I could see her on the reg.

On weekends when I didn’t have games, we’d go dancing with friends, check out local clubs. I’d flirt with cute guys; they’d flirt back. Sometimes I’d hook up here or there. Nothing serious, nothing that went too far, and no dates.

I simply didn’t have time between studying and baseball.

Through it all, I kept playing hard on the field.

Improving behind the plate.

Leading my team.

Hearing rumbles of scouts coming to check me out.

Soon, their presence at my games was more frequent. Old dudes in Aces jackets, or Storm Chasers jerseys, or Sharks gear, taking notes in their little notebooks as I caught and hit.

And I gave them something to talk about.

Oh hell, did I ever give them reports to bring back to the front offices.

I was dominant, and took my school to the College World Series, winning it all.

Agents checked me out too. In the spring of my junior year, I talked to a handful, but talking was all that was allowed with student-athlete eligibility rules.

Once I was finished with college ball though, the rules changed. And with my early graduation looming closer, it was time to pick and choose.

“Holy hell. Is this my life?” I asked Reese one night in my dorm as I was picking what shirt to wear to meet an agent named Haven. A former Olympic gold medalist in snowboarding, she’d made a name for herself as an athlete’s agent, with a fantastic client list and a keen understanding of what mattered to guys and gals playing ball.

“Pick the blue polo, you dork,” she said as she perched on my desk, polishing her toes a cherry red. “And yes, I can believe it. I’ve always believed in you.”

My chest went warm. Her support meant the world to me. Hell, she was the reason for another tattoo of mine—a mountain on my right hip. She came with me to Ink Lore for that, too, and the design hearkened back to our childhood dreams.

I strode to the desk and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Love you.”

“Awww. I can sell those locks of hair now for a million dollars,” she teased. “They’ve been kissed by Grant ‘Thinks He’s Hot Shit’ Blackwood.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think I am.”

She wiggled her brows. “No. You know you are.”

“C’mon. That’s not me.”

“I’m just teasing you. Anyway, I can’t wait to hear how it goes with Haven. I researched her, and she is one badass babe.”

“Of course you researched her,” I said as I checked my reflection in the mirror. “That’s what you do. And you’re a badass babe too.”

“You know it,” she said as she finished her last toe. “Voila. My power color.”

“Hey, you want to come tonight? With Pops and me?”

She knitted her brow. “To meet Haven?”

I shrugged easily. “Why not? She wants to meet my family. You and grandma and grandpa are my family.”

She smiled, tilting her head. “I’d be honored.”

We went to an Italian restaurant off-campus. My grandparents even drove here to meet Haven too.

“I think you’re going to go high in the draft. And I think you can have an amazing, incredible, wonderfully long career,” the confident woman said over dinner.

So this was what it was like to be wooed. I didn’t mind it. I didn’t mind it at all.

“I’ll protect you. I’ll fight for you,” she said, then she turned to my grandparents. “I know what it’s like to be an athlete. To give your all to something. And I will look out for Grant in a way that would do you proud.”

Aww hell.

My pops gave a tentative smile. “It’s up to him. It’s always been up to him,” he said.

After dinner, Reese and I wandered alone to our favorite late-night coffee shop, ordering a macchiato for her and a coffee for me, even though it was late.

“Do I sign with her?” I asked, then took a drink.

“What does your gut tell you?”

Good question. And an athlete should listen to his instincts. “She’s the one.”

Reese beamed. “Go for it.”

I called Haven the next morning and gave her the news. “I’m yours,” I said playfully.

She cheered. “Yes! I’ll do everything I can to make your career a wild success.”

* * *

A few weeks later, I was chilling at my grandparents’ house in Petaluma, playing a game of Scrabble at the kitchen table with my grandma, grandpa, and Reese.

“Xylophone,” Reese said as she built on the phone already on the board.

I whistled in appreciation. “That’s impressive.”

My grandma shot me a sly smile. “Wait till you see what I spell,” she said, then spelled jukebox for twenty-seven points.

I gave her a proper Wayne’s World we’re not worthy salute.

When it was my grandfather’s turn, he stroked his chin, contemplated the board, and reached for a letter.

My phone trilled.

Haven’s name flashed across the screen.

I mouthed be right back and swiped to answer the call. “Hey there, Haven.”

“Hi Grant. How would you like to play for the San Francisco Cougars organization?”

Chills swept over my body.

I parted my lips to speak but words didn’t come right away.

This was a dream come true. It was everything I’d worked for my entire life, and a few seconds later, I gave the one and only answer. “Yes.”

Screaming and cheering commenced with Reese thrusting her arms in the air, demanding we celebrate, and the two people who’d raised me yanking me in for a huge group hug.

Then my grandpa played his word. Strike. “Call lots of those, son,” he said, pride in his voice.

“I will,” I said, and it felt like a promise. To him, to me, to my family. To do everything with this opportunity.

The next week, I packed my bags to head to Bakersfield, California, home of the Cougars Triple-A team. I was on my way to play professional baseball.

5

Fall

Grant

I moved in with a hip relief pitcher named Sullivan. We shared a tiny apartment in downtown Bakersfield, which meant there was a laundromat, a 7-Eleven, and a couple of sandwich shops near us.

Translation: Not much to do.

Hence, we played Xbox a ton when we weren’t on the field, along with another guy on the team who hung out with us a lot. A funny ladies’ man of a centerfielder named Miguel. They’d both been in the minors for a couple years, hoping to get the call. I was the hotshot new guy who’d gone high in the draft. Still, the three of us became friends as we played our hearts out, hoping for that moment when we’d move to the next stage of our careers.

As we neared the end of the first season, Sullivan marched into the apartment one evening, strode straight over to the Xbox, and turned it off.

“What’d you do that for?” Miguel asked, since he was at our place that evening.

“It’s time to go out,” Sullivan announced.

“And why is it time to go out?” Miguel countered.

Sullivan stared at us, bug-eyed. “Because we need to celebrate. We’ve had a great season. We have an awesome chance at getting called up. Let’s go out tonight and celebrate being this much closer to going to Arizona for spring training,” he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space.

“That’s the only goal,” I said, setting the console down and pushing up on my feet.

We went to a bar in downtown Bakersfield, and a couple of local ladies came up to me, wanting to flirt.

I smiled and chatted, but I didn’t want to lead them on. “My friends might be more your type,” I said to a pretty blonde.

She pouted, set a hand on my shoulder. “But you’re mine.”

Sullivan laughed, tossed his head back. “Sweetheart, you’re not his.”

“Ohhhh.” Understanding dawned on her.

I just shrugged and smiled.

“Well, do you think your friend is cute?” she asked me, hooking a thumb at Sullivan.

I cracked up. “I’m not going to answer that. That’s for you to find out.”

And they did, as Sullivan and Miguel bought drinks for the ladies.

After thirty minutes, it was clear there wasn’t much there for me. I didn’t want to pick anyone up anyway. “I’m going to hit the road,” I said.

“G, you are the best wingman ever.” Sullivan offered a fist for knocking.

I knocked back, then took off.

I went home alone. I didn’t mind. There would be time for men later in my life. I didn’t need to be hooking up in the minors. All I needed was to continue on my epic tear on the diamond. To do right by my family. To do right by myself. And to show the world what I was capable of.

That night, as Sullivan and Miguel had their fun, I settled into the couch and tuned into the Cougars’ game as they played the Aces. I leaned closer, intensely studying every pitch.

Guessing what the catcher would call for.

How the batters would do.

Late in the game, Declan came to the plate again, and I drew a deep breath, narrowing in on his stance, recalling his performance this season.

The pitcher went into the windup and threw a slider.

And holy shit!

Declan connected hard.

The ball soared all the way over the fences for a grand slam, clinching a playoff slot for the Cougars.

I cheered, stoked for my team.

Yes, that was my fucking team.

Afterward, the press wanted to talk to the shortstop who’d clobbered that ball and sealed the spot in the divisionals.

“Just happy to put the team ahead,” Declan said with an easy grin to one reporter.

“Most of your home runs come when your team is behind. You’re getting quite a reputation for being a clutch home-run hitter,” the reporter said.

Declan’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m happy to have that rep.”

Then he looked directly at the camera and flung a happy grin its way. “Hi, Mom.”

And he walked off.

My stomach flipped, because wasn’t that all kinds of endearing?

I heaved a happy sigh, glanced around, and checked my phone. Sullivan had sent a text saying don’t wait up.

I replied with: As if I would.

I headed to the bathroom, stripped out of my clothes, and turned the water on high and hot.

Then I indulged in one of my most pleasurable activities. Blowing off steam.

I ran through my favorites.

Sometimes they were nameless, faceless guys.

Sometimes they were guys I’d checked out online. This time, there was no question. I pictured Declan, imagining his voice all rumbly, sexy.

How would he sound if he said, I want to take you to bed?

I wouldn’t say no to him. I bet he knew things. I bet he could teach me.

I’d want to get to know all about number eighteen. How those lips tasted. How that body felt. What those hands could do.

I went full fantasy, picturing a locker room, empty and echoing, and me under the water like this, rinsing off the day.

I heard footsteps.

As I slid the soap down my chest, I turned. The man himself had sauntered in, towel hooked low around his waist, revealing his chiseled abs, his V-cut, the tantalizing preview of his happy trail. He walked right past me, flashing me a sly grin. He tossed the towel on a hook, strode into the shower across from me.

I shuddered, my breath coming faster as I stroked.

My fist flew. The fantasy jumped ahead several levels as I imagined a wide-open stall, water streaming down Declan’s muscular body. He took his thick shaft in his hand and stroked nice and slow without looking away from me.

His eyes never looked away, smoldering, as if he wanted to touch me, suck me, fuck me, just as much as I wanted him.

“Fuck,” I moaned, and in seconds, I blew, coming hard in my hand to him just like I’d done countless times before.

* * *

A few months later, I got the call. The Cougars wanted me at spring training. And I had a hell of a shot at making the roster, Haven told me.

Yes!

My greatest dream was there for the taking.

Time for me to play better than my best.

That also meant I was going to come face to face with the man I’d been harmlessly crushing on for the last few years.

The solution?

Crush the motherfucking crush.

Erase it from my mind.

Forget I’d ever fantasized about a teammate.

Focus, pure focus.

That was what I needed to do as I got on the plane and flew to Arizona for spring training.

And that was what I tried to do that first week—get him out of my mind.

But that morning when the position players arrived, and I turned the corner in the corridor, all that focus flew from my brain.

Epilogue

Now

Grant

There he is. In the flesh. Gorgeous, confident, with a megawatt grin.

The struggle is real. My skin sizzles. My heart jackhammers. I’m a foot away from a man I admire, a man I’ve imagined fucking.

And it’s going to be so damn hard to put this crush back in the box.

Once we start talking, I’m even more attracted to Declan Steele than I ever thought possible, and that’s going to be a massive problem…

Grant and Declan’s epic romance begins in SCORING WITH HIM, available everywhere!

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Contact

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