Winning With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  “Don’t look so pleased,” I say sarcastically.

  He pats my thigh. “Sort of like how you look right now?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I ask, worried I’ll give too much away.

  Pops smiles. “It’s a good obvious.”

  We cruise the last few blocks in silence, maybe because some things are a good obvious. Like how natural it felt to text Declan this morning. How easy it was to talk to him last fall, and again on Christmas. How much I want to see him tonight.

  Maybe I want to see him because what’s truly obvious is how right my grandfather is. I haven’t let anyone else in. I haven’t wanted to, haven’t been ready.

  I needed to make room for myself first—figure out who I wanted to be.

  Now, five years later, I know who I am.

  I know what I want.

  An hour later, I spot Declan in the ballroom, and I’m not in love with the shortstop anymore.

  But I could be.

  I absolutely could be.

  23

  Declan

  I’m bringing a date to the awards tonight—someone nearly twice my age, half a foot shorter, and wearing the hell out of a blue dress on a cold San Francisco night.

  Arm in arm, my mother and I walk into the event hotel on Union Street.

  “I would say you’ll have to introduce me to everyone,” she says as we wait in line for the event photographer to snap our shots, “but this old gal knows the rosters of all the major sports.”

  “You might as well run a fantasy baseball league,” I tease.

  “Who says I don’t?”

  When it’s our turn for a pic on the red carpet, I greet the guy behind the camera.

  “San Francisco hasn’t been the same without you, Steele,” he quips. “Oh wait, it has. The team finally won a World Series.”

  My mom hoots. “Go Cougars!”

  “Really, Mom?” I ask, outraged, as the photographer cracks up.

  “Really, Declan,” she says, gleeful as a naughty kid.

  I usher her away from the photo wall. “Seriously, woman. I’ll have to leave you at home. You can’t root for the other team in public.”

  She covers her lips with her hand in an apologetic oops! But I’m not buying it.

  Shaking my head, I place a hand on her back to guide her into the ballroom. We make our way through the crowd, catching up with old friends like Crosby and Chance, reconnecting with newer ones like Holden Kingsley, who just joined the city’s other baseball team—the San Francisco Dragons.

  I say hello, too, to Nadia Harlowe, the young owner of the city’s football team. I met her a couple years ago in New York and we’ve been friendly ever since—so much so, that we make plans to share omelets tomorrow morning for a post-event debrief.

  But the whole time, my heart is skittering, and I’m all kinds of distracted, watching for a glimpse of Grant.

  Everyone here is sporting a tux, so I’m hunting through a sea of black, then hoping my eagerness isn’t too obvious.

  My mom and I are standing at a high table, chatting with Holden, when I spot him.

  Dark blond hair that looks like he just swept his fingers through it, strong shoulders, and a broad chest that I know sports a mountain tattoo, an arrow, and a nipple barbell.

  My senses toss me back in time to how it felt to touch his skin.

  Does he have more ink?

  Will I ever find out?

  “Yes, I heard Night Darling is in town this weekend,” my mom is telling Holden.

  “Love that band,” he says, and soon my mom is trading music recommendations with the new Dragon.

  That’s my cue to make myself scarce, while she’s engaged in conversation.

  “Be right back,” I say, then shoulder my way through the crowd.

  Almost immediately, I lose track of Grant. I search the crowd for him, my heart pounding with anticipation and frustration. This is useless, and I can’t abandon my mom for long. I’ll have to find him later.

  I return to my date, and she waves goodbye to Holden.

  As he walks away, a new but familiar voice speaks in my ear, just for me. “Hey, there.”

  When I turn, Grant’s eyes lock with mine. I swear they flicker with possibility.

  They glimmer with the same question dominating my thoughts.

  Do you want to get together while I’m here?

  I know my answer.

  Yes.

  Pressure builds in me like a geyser. I want to ask—aloud, so there’s no mistake—if he wants to get together too.

  But he’s with a man.

  One who can only be . . .

  “You must be Grant’s grandfather,” I say, extending a hand.

  “You must be you-know-who,” he deadpans.

  I swing my gaze to Grant’s, my eyebrows climbing. “I’m called you know who?”

  Grant licks his lips, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s either that or a certain someone.”

  “I’ll take either,” I say, then introduce myself properly to the man Grant admires so much. The man who raised him. “I’m Declan Steele.”

  “Nice to finally meet you,” his grandfather says.

  Grant rolls his eyes. “You’re blowing my cover, Pops.”

  Pops. He calls him Pops. It’s so fucking adorable. I set a hand on my mom’s arm, proud to show her off too. “This is my mom. Cyndi Marie Martin. That’s Cyndi with a Y first,” I add, since I’m used to hearing her spell it that way on the phone.

  “So nice to meet you, Cyndi with a Y first. I’m Trevor Campbell,” Grant’s grandfather says, shaking my mom’s hand.

  “Trevor, you’re local, aren’t you? I follow all the Cougars closely, and if memory serves, Grant is from Petaluma. Are you as well?” Conversation started, my mom takes Trevor’s arm and ushers him a few feet away. Thank you, Cupid.

  “Gateway to wine country, land of milk and honey,” Grant’s pops says before they’re out of earshot.

  Now, it’s just Grant and me at the table, plus a crowd of athletes, journalists, and fans spilling out behind us.

  A huge ballroom full of colleagues decked out in finery.

  This is no place for flirting or stolen touches.

  But talking? We’ve done that every time we’ve seen each other. We can pull that off here too.

  Grant hooks his thumb in the direction of my mom and his grandfather. “Did that feel planned or what?”

  I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”

  “Do you think they’ve been holding secret meetings? Scripting this moment?”

  I rub the back of my neck, smiling. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  He takes a beat, then rests his elbow on the table and lowers his voice to a just-for-me level. “So, your mom knows about me?”

  “She does. And, clearly, your grandfather knows about me,” I say quietly. I tip my forehead toward wherever they went, but I don’t break eye contact with Grant. Don’t want to.

  “Some things are hard to keep from him,” Grant says. “I guess I broke that ground rule too.”

  “Mmm. We broke all the ground rules . . . rookie,” I whisper.

  His lips part, and a soft, sexy sigh falls from them. I want to save that sound forever. “We did, Deck. We definitely did.”

  We could break more, I want to say.

  But now isn’t the time to steer us in that direction. “I’m glad you told him. I think,” I add with a laugh.

  Grant chuckles too. “I’m glad I told him. He’s easy to talk to.”

  “Seems like it.”

  “Your mom is for you? Easy to talk to?”

  I give a light shrug. “You know talking was never my strong suit. But I’ve been getting better at it.”

  “Have you now?” His lips curve in a grin, like I’ve said the best thing ever.

  I nod, drumming my fingers on the table. “About things that matter, yes. I mean, I can talk all day about nothing. But important things? I’m learning how to talk ab
out them.”

  “Good.” Then his voice dips even lower, a wisp of sound in the space between us. “I noticed you were chatty when you called after the World Series.”

  “I was. I could have talked to you all day,” I murmur.

  “We almost did. Then we almost did again on Christmas.”

  “That was a good call too.” My fingers itch to touch him. Hell, my whole body is humming. But I can’t be this close to him in public when I’m not sure I can hide what I want.

  I want time with him. Time alone.

  To talk.

  To touch.

  To explore.

  His expression shifts, his eyes darting to the press of bodies. All around is the soundtrack of chatter, glasses clinking, and tasteful background music.

  It won’t be long before someone commands our attention. That’s how it goes at these events. You never get more than a few minutes to catch up with anyone.

  It’s the span of an at-bat. When you see your pitch, you have to swing.

  I’m about to go for it—to ask what he’s up to tomorrow—when Grant clears his throat. He turns his back to the crowd, his body language signaling don’t talk to us.

  “Listen,” he starts roughly, and I tense.

  Listen is one of those roadblock words.

  A warning sign.

  Stop. Do not pass Go.

  Listen could slay me.

  But if I’ve learned anything in the last nine months of therapy, it’s that not only do I need to talk about shit, I also need to know when to shut up.

  24

  Declan

  Listening pays off.

  His next words are an invitation.

  “I have a thing tonight with one of my sponsors. And my grandpa’s in town, staying the night at my house,” he says, barely audible.

  Even next to him, I have to strain to hear. “Keep going,” I say. I definitely want to hear what’s next.

  “But are you around tomorrow?”

  My lips quirk in a grin. “I can be.”

  “Is that so?” He’s all flirty undertone again, and I dig it.

  “Yes. What do you have in mind?”

  His eyes lock with mine. He licks his lips, then mouths, “Meet me for that . . . not-drink?”

  The whole world slows to this second. The earth narrows to the two of us. This feels like the start of something entirely new.

  Something so different from the past.

  We’re different. I know I’ve been changing in all sorts of ways—putting myself out there more, facing hard truths, expanding my mind along with my heart.

  Grant isn’t the same either. He’s not that wide-eyed rookie covered in ketchup and laughter, the eager newbie looking up to his idols on the field. At twenty-seven, he’s one of the best players in the majors, a clutch performer, a businessman—and more than that, he’s an activist.

  A leader in all the ways he hoped to be.

  I don’t know that I deserve him. But I know this—I want to deserve him. I want to be worthy.

  I’m almost ready, I can hear myself saying to Carla in our most recent session.

  But I’m not letting this chance—if that’s what it is—pass me by. “I’ll be there. Text me a time and a place, okay?”

  “I will. Let’s say six.”

  I tap my temple. “It’s locked in.”

  He names a place too, tells me he’ll make a reservation. I want to pump a fist because I don’t even have to wait for the text.

  We’ve done it. We’ve made plans.

  I’ll see him alone in less than twenty-four hours.

  Grant parts his lips like he’s about to say something, but then he shakes his head, seeming to think the better of it.

  “Good seeing you, man,” he says in his regular voice, and claps me on the back.

  A bro clap on the back.

  But it doesn’t faze me. I know I’m not just one of the guys to him. No more than he is to me.

  Well into that night’s ceremony, Nadia takes to the stage to present what she told me is one of her favorite awards.

  “This award is perhaps the highest honor,” she tells the audience, a large, cream-colored envelope in her hand. “It goes to the man or woman who exemplifies giving back. And tonight, I am thrilled to announce that this year’s Best Sportsman award goes to . . .”

  She stops to slide a finger under the envelope flap then takes out a card. Beaming with delight, she reads, “Grant Blackwood, catcher for the San Francisco Cougars, who exemplifies sportsmanship with his volunteer efforts for local charities supporting underprivileged young athletes and LGBTQ athletes. Congratulations, Grant.”

  Not gonna lie. I clap the hardest and cheer the loudest as the catcher jogs to the stage.

  His acceptance speech is brief. “I’ve been lucky. I’ve had a good run. I play with a great team, with guys who have my back. And this?” He holds up the statue. “This is what motivates me every day. So, thank you. All of you.”

  Another round of cheers echoes in the ballroom.

  Pretty much everyone here is rooting for him.

  But I’m the only one who’s seeing him for a not-drink tomorrow, and I kind of feel like I’ve won something too.

  The next morning, I head to a café in Pacific Heights to meet Nadia for breakfast, lecturing myself as I push open the door.

  Don’t watch the clock the whole time.

  I’ve got eight hours to pass before I can see Grant—and maybe his fireplace too, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

  Except I do.

  I really do.

  I grab a table, and Nadia sweeps in a minute later. We hug, order, then catch up as we wait for omelets.

  She dives right into relationship talk. Gotta admire someone who gets right to the point. “So, any new men who rock your world?”

  If she only knew who rocks my world.

  I’m not making any assumptions about tonight, so I can’t say, yes, there’s this guy I’ve never stopped thinking about.

  But, in keeping with my efforts to be more open, I give her some of the details. “I’ve kind of been taking a break.”

  She jerks her chin back, surprised. “Is there a reason for the break?”

  “Just trying to make some changes in my life,” I say.

  “Good changes?”

  Great changes, I want to say. “Let’s just say if I were a superstitious guy, I’d be wearing lucky socks.” I grin and leave it at that.

  Arching a curious brow, she lifts her cinnamon latte, takes a drink, then sets it down. “Wasn’t there once someone special?”

  Normally, this is when I’d evade, side-step the question.

  But I’m learning not to do that anymore.

  “Yes. There was.” The answer is definite. Unqualified. That feels like another small win. “Someone very special. Maybe he will be again.”

  The bigger test comes eight hours later when I walk into a tapas bar in Hayes Valley.

  Grant Blackwood waits for me in a booth in the back.

  The nervous grin on his handsome face says so damn much—because his smile is nervous, but confident too.

  All I can think is he has every reason to be confident.

  But I’m also going to have to tell him about a promise I made to myself.

  25

  Grant

  Longest day ever.

  I didn’t even wake till nine-thirty. Normally, I love days with my grandpa when we kick around the city, go for a run, grab some grub.

  Today, I’m distracted as we jog, but I do my best, chatting about a new porch he plans to add to his house.

  “What? The porch on the brand-new place I got you isn’t good enough?” I tease.

  “No. It’s not. Can you please get me a ten-room mansion next time? Because that’s exactly what we need,” he says drily. Then more seriously, he says, “You know I love the house. I also love to stay busy.”

  I keep him busy as we head to the Ferry Building around noon and grab sush
i for lunch. But I can barely eat—I’m too wired about tonight.

  When we’re done, I walk him to the boat landing and buy him a ticket. He ruffles my hair. “Have fun tonight.”

  A flush crawls across my cheeks. “I’ll do my best,” I say, straight-faced.

  Then he heads onto the boat, and I walk across the city to burn off more energy and kill another couple of hours.

  Once I’m home, I catch up on some Lazy Hammock business on my computer, then I take a long, hot shower.

  And jerk off.

  Obviously.

  Declan could touch my knee tonight and I might come. I’m so goddamn aroused when I’m near him. I’ve got to get an O out of my system or I might embarrass myself.

  Newsflash—I picture him the whole damn time, my brain going wild, cycling through filthy image after filthier image.

  I let myself indulge in them for the first time in ages—all the dirty things I want to do to him, with him, for him.

  I come so hard I don’t stop panting for a minute. Slamming my hand against the shower wall, I breathe out hard, letting the water sluice over my body.

  Then, I clean up, wash off, and get out. I shave, since he likes my face smooth.

  So do I.

  I dress, pulling on jeans and a tight black polo that shows off the bands on my arm and is snug enough so that he can see the outline of my nipple piercing.

  After grabbing my keys, I bound down the steps to my attached garage. I don’t usually drive when I go out because parking in this city is the tenth circle of hell. But my gut tells me this is the right choice for tonight. I get in my Tesla and head to the tapas bar, and look, the parking gods smile on me and I snag a spot just around the block.

  Once inside, I give the hostess my name.

  She guides me to the curved booth I reserved in the back. It’s in a quiet corner, with low lights and a moody vibe.

  I’m early, and I could listen to a book, or mess around on my phone for the next ten minutes, but I can’t concentrate for shit, and I don’t want to be fucking around on a screen when Declan walks in.