Scoring With Him (Men of Summer 1)

The tattoo artist gives me a smile. “You look at her like she’s your sister, not your lover.”

“Fair enough,” I say as Echo dips the needle into ink and gets to work.

Of course I don’t look at Reese that way. But what would it be like to look at someone like he was my lover rather than a hookup?

I’ve no clue. No clue at all.

As Echo colors in the stencil, she chats more about my ink, asking the what, why, and when. I give her some answers, but I don’t dive into the nitty-gritty of everything the tattoos mean to me.

There is more to them.

There’s more to almost anything in life. But I’ve learned that you need to pick and choose who you share your shit with.

I don’t mean the shit I’m easily open about now—I play baseball, I love board games and thrillers, I dig dudes, I will stand by my friends come hell or high water, and if you make bank and you don’t give a ton of it away, you’re a dick and not the good kind.

I’m talking about the darker truths.

The things that lie deeper beneath the skin.

That’s why I’m open about some things and closed about others. Some pieces of yourself you wear on your body, and others you bury so goddamn far inside you that you’re not sure anyone will ever see them.

“But the arrow is my favorite,” I say, glancing down at the one she’s doing.

She smiles as she works, her gaze never straying from my chest. “I’m flattered, but it’s not even done.”

“Almost though, and I already know it’ll be the one I like best,” I say.

“Why’s that?”

This is easy to share, part of the open book of me. Because nothing is hidden with baseball; everything is on the field.

“I promised myself this ink back when I was six.”

I’m stoked to be getting this milestone marker. I got the news from my agent the other day that the San Francisco Cougars were calling me up from Triple-A and sending me to spring training with the chance of making the majors.

“I haven’t met a lot of clients who planned to be tattooed when they were six,” Echo says.

“The first time I hit a homer in Little League when I was seven, I told my whole family I was going to get a tat when I had an opportunity to land a slot in the majors,” I say, shifting my gaze to Reese.

My best friend lifts her phone, angles it toward me, and snaps a picture. “And look at you now.”

Echo smiles, bright and wide. “Nice! When do you start?”

“Next week. Pitchers and catchers report first, and I’m a catcher. I’m heading to Phoenix. First time at spring training.”

“Then this arrow is even more perfect. Goals, focus, forward momentum. What’s your name so I can watch you become famous?”

Reese answers like a ballpark announcer, warbling the lineup. “And now, batting fourth, and hailing from the great state of California, with a .327 batting average in Triple-A, is Grant ‘Knows He’s Hot Shit’ Blackwood.”

I crack up. “Tell us what you really think, Reese.”

Reese shrugs. “Actually, I think you’re hot shit too. So, I suppose it works.”

Echo laughs as she finishes, putting down the needle on her work stand. “I will look out for that and maybe tell my brother to watch.” She gives me the instructions for tattoo aftercare, then sets her hand on my arm. “River lives in the Phoenix area if you’re looking for a friend during spring training. He runs a bar—The Lazy Hammock in Scottsdale. Don’t worry—it’s not a baseball bar.”

She whips out her phone and shows me a picture of a guy standing at the sign for a trailhead. He has a full sleeve of ink, a trim beard, and kind eyes. He’s white, like her, but his skin is more tanned, closer to mine. Bet he enjoys the outdoors like I do.

“Cool shot,” I say.

She’s not showing me his picture for feedback on the framing of the pic. She wants to know if I want to meet him, and sure, he’s good-looking, objectively.

Would I feel a spark in person?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But I won’t know because that’s not what spring training is about.

I’m hunting for a diplomatic answer when Reese slides over, peering at the pic then chiming in with a laugh. “I swear, Grant. You can pick up cute men anywhere. You don’t even have to be in the same state.”

The tattoo artist simply shrugs and locks eyes with Reese. “Right? It’s just kind of how it goes with the hotties, right? All you want to do is set them up.”

“And they don’t need it,” Reese says, shaking her head. “Hot queer guys need no help finding other hot queer guys.”

I’d beg to differ, but I’m not going to let on in front of Echo.