Winning With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  “I wish I were there to go with you.”

  “Going with you sounds as nice as a cuddle-fest.”

  “It does.” I clear my throat and broach a topic I’ve been wanting to talk about for three months. “When I see you, do you want to try to figure out how to do this thing?”

  “You mean like long-term?”

  “I do mean long-term, Grant. I feel long-term for you. All kinds of long-term,” I say, my heart thrumming.

  He hums like I’ve made him so damn happy. “I do want to figure it out. I want to be with you,” he says. He is as serious as I am, and that’s all that matters to me.

  We’re on the same page.

  If only our circumstances would align a little more.

  The next morning, I go for a run in Central Park with Holden, who’s in town for our series with the Dragons. As we round the Reservoir, we catch up on things with his new coach, then life, then dating.

  “Are you still all nose to the grindstone, focused only on baseball?” I ask.

  “Pretty much. I haven’t seen anyone for the last two years.” Then, he adds like it’s a secret, “Well, except for this one woman.”

  “Then, there is someone?”

  “Sort of,” he says, as noncommittal as one can get.

  Maybe it’s the session yesterday with Carla. Maybe it’s the end of years of uncertainty. But fuck noncommittal.

  “Why ‘sort of’?” I demand. “You either know or you don’t know. What’s the story?”

  “She was out of the country for a while. It sounds crazy, because I didn’t even know her that well, but now I do, and I think she’s why I didn’t date for two years. Pretty sure in some ways, I was waiting for her to come back.”

  I shake my head. “Man, you’ve got a second chance with someone you waited two years for, and you’re only on the sort of path with her?”

  “It’s not that simple,” he protests.

  “Second chances never are, but if you’ve got one, don’t squander it. Do everything to make it happen,” I say, my tone way intense for a morning run.

  Or maybe it’s exactly as intense as it should be.

  Because Holden’s not the only one who needs to follow that advice.

  May

  35

  Grant

  Twenty-four hours.

  I’m seeing Declan in twenty-four hours. I haven’t seen him since February and this sex-camel lifestyle sucks.

  Though, boyfriend desert is more like it. I’m trudging through the sand, trying to reach the oasis of Declan. I miss all of my man. I want to curl up with him and kiss him. I want to fuck him and talk to him. Hell, I want to learn to cook with him.

  But, between baseball and charity work, friends and family, the days go by quickly. On Wednesday morning, I can’t sleep, knowing Declan is landing in this city tomorrow night. After a morning run and a long gym workout, I swing by The Lazy Hammock before it opens.

  “What does it take to get some service around here?” I say as I stride into the joint.

  River’s hunched over the bar, working on his laptop. “It takes my co-owner dishing the details on his love life,” my inked business partner says.

  As I get near, he swivels his laptop away from me and looks up. I arch a brow as I head to the counter in the empty establishment. “Dude, were you just watching porn at work? Is that why you hid your laptop?”

  Flicking his blond hair off his forehead, River rolls his brown eyes. “Why is that your default? Pot, kettle, perhaps?”

  Laughing, I grab a stool. “You can bust me on a lot of things, but it’s pretty safe to say I don’t watch porn while I’m catching a game.”

  “And I don’t watch it when I am balancing the books at our business enterprise. If you must know, I was finishing this beautiful spreadsheet, but I can show you a preview. But fair warning—it’s so sexy you might come in your pants.”

  River spins the laptop back around, clicks on the spreadsheet, and shows me all sorts of multiples and ROI and lots of yummy numbers stuff.

  “That does, indeed, make me need to change my shorts. You did good on this place,” I tell him proudly.

  “No. We did. We made this happen together.”

  “You get the credit, my man. Ten cities. The bar is killing it,” I say, then sigh as I glance around, a little wistful. This place means a lot to me. “I can’t wait for Declan to check it out again.”

  River’s eyes twinkle. “Now you’re talking—dish on your love life. I want to hear all about Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome.”

  My business partner is the only one who knows I’m back together with the shortstop. It’s been good to have River to talk to. He’s been in on it from the start, from that first night in Phoenix. He’s been supportive too, trusting my judgement. More important, I trust it too.

  “He arrives tomorrow. I’m about to claw my way out of my skin. I can’t wait.” That seems to be how I feel about a lot of things, though—I’m waiting, and I can’t wait for the next thing. “But he’ll have to leave in twenty-four hours.”

  “Then we’ll have to start a countdown till the off-season, hun. You two can spend every hour together, then.”

  “We probably will.”

  “And I hate you for that,” River says with a wink. “Meanwhile, I’ll be here at this bar, literally meeting every hot gay guy in a ten-mile radius and still not finding Mr. Right.”

  “Your Mr. Right is out there,” I say. “Maybe he’s even someone you’ve known for a long time.”

  He shoots me a what-are-you-talking-about look. “And who might that be?”

  I shrug, then smile. “Someone you’ve mentioned a few times.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “Spill the beans on my Mr. Right. Now. I demand it.”

  “Your friend Owen, from college.”

  River shakes his head, scoffing. “No, no, no. We are just friends. He can’t be my Mr. Right.”

  Whatever he has to tell himself. All I know is mine arrives tomorrow night.

  The Cougars afternoon game against the Miami Aces is a win, and I go home to shower and get ready for the event at the art gallery. Black slacks, a dark purple button-down, and I’m good to go.

  As I head downstairs to the garage, my phone bleats with a news notification from the Sports Network.

  I slide it open as I get in my car and freeze before I turn on the engine.

  * * *

  Is Declan Steele on the trading block? A source tells us the golden glove shortstop for the New York Comets might be trade bait for Seattle or Los Angeles.

  My heart springs wildly. Holy shit. If this is real . . .

  My fingertips tingle with excitement.

  Los Angeles is so much closer. Los Angeles is practically a bus ride away. Seattle is close too, only a two-hour flight.

  My bones buzz as I dial his number.

  But I go straight to voicemail, so I send him a text.

  * * *

  Grant: Is this for real? Are you seriously being traded out west?

  * * *

  I close the screen, open the garage, and pull out. Along the way, I blast Five Seconds of Summer, Adele, and Bruno Mars till I reach the gallery. The valet takes my car, and I check my phone for messages on the way in.

  No reply.

  But he has a game today in Los Angeles. I click over to the LA Bandits schedule. Yup, the game’s about to start, so his phone is tucked away in his locker.

  As I open the gallery door, I check the starting lineup for the game and stop in my tracks when I see Declan’s not on it. What the hell? Was he injured? Is he taking a day off?

  I text him again.

  * * *

  Grant: You okay? You’re not on the lineup. LMK, Deck.

  * * *

  But my phone is silent for the next minute, the next two . . .

  I take a big breath. Lineup probably didn’t update online for some reason. He’s on the field and I won’t hear from him for a few hours.

  No biggi
e. This is our life. We are both out of pocket a lot.

  I put my phone away in a feat of willpower and find Reese. We talk about the event, then for the next two hours, I catch up with some of the charity organizers and donors until the event winds down. As slow time-to-go music plays, I grab my phone from my pocket once again so I can check to see if my boyfriend has texted.

  But before I can open the messages, all the breath rushes out of my lungs.

  I don’t move.

  I don’t speak.

  I barely blink.

  A man just strolled into the art gallery, looking for someone.

  That someone is me. Because that man is mine.

  My phone goes back in my pocket, and I walk to the guy who’s not supposed to be here till tomorrow. Declan’s like a tractor beam, drawing me in. I drink in the trim beard, the dark eyes, the secret smile.

  I hope no one can hear my heart racing, but I don’t know how to stop it.

  And I don’t want to. When I reach him in the entryway, neither of us makes a move to hug or touch, but my whole being aches to connect with him.

  “Hey there,” he says.

  “Hey to you.”

  “Want to get out of here?”

  I nod and walk away without looking back.

  Outside, I hand the valet my ticket then turn to Declan, still trying to sort out his appearance. “What are you doing here a day early?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re in your car.”

  “You’re such a tease,” I whisper.

  “Trust me on this, rookie,” he says in a smoky voice that sends a shiver down my spine.

  The desire to throw my arms around him and smother him in kisses is staggering. Reese always talks about love languages, and I’m pretty sure mine is touch. My entire being is begging me to say hi to him with lips and hands and entwined arms.

  As we wait for the valet to return with my Tesla, Declan clasps his hands together, like he’s resisting me too. Yeah, he has the same love language. We’re both physical people. Our bodies are our livelihood.

  A minute later, we’re in my car, and I still feel like I’m in a dream. Like all this fantastic reality might vanish when I wake up.

  “Which way are we headed?” I ask. “My home? Please say my home. I’m dying to be alone with you.”

  Declan tips his head the other direction. “How about the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “You’re killing me,” I mutter. Checking the mirrors, I pull away from the gallery and drive along the water toward the bridge. Evening joggers run on the edge of Crissy Field, and a group of women plays a soccer game under the lights.

  I can’t stand it any longer. The need to touch him trumps everything, and I reach for his hand. “Spill,” I demand as our fingers thread together.

  Squeezing back, he runs his thumb across my knuckles. “I will, but we need to stop somewhere.”

  I groan in misery. “So, you make me get in my car before you’ll tell me why you’re here, and now that we’re in my car, you won’t tell me till we get out of my car. Dude, you are whiplash.”

  Declan laughs, the big and deep kind of laugh that comes from the soul. “I promise it’s good.”

  “You’re here. That’s good enough for me,” I say as the road curves and the traffic thins out along with the crowds. Darkness shrouds the car. We reach the foot of the winding hill leading up to the bridge.

  “Good. That’s what I like hearing.”

  A few seconds later, he nods, pointing to the side of the road. “You want to pull over here?”

  “Can we make out? Please say yes.”

  Declan laughs, brings our joined hands to his lips, and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “Sure.”

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  “Trust me. I’m very excited.” Declan does sound happy, but like he’s trying to contain it.

  I pull over, cut the engine. The bridge looms nearby, lights flickering. But we’re alone in the car. It’s all road and hills from here on out—no more jogging path.

  “What’s going on? You’ve got me all nervous and excited. What’s the deal with the Sports Network story? Why are you here early?” I ask, questions spilling out in a wild rush. “Were you traded to LA? To Seattle? Either would be amazing.”

  With a grin he can’t seem to rein in, Declan nods toward the bridge. “This is where I was when I found out I’d been drafted. I went out for a run, since I didn’t think I would go in the first round. But that’s what happened. I was here when I got the call I’d been picked by the Cougars,” he says, his voice sliding into a storyteller tone as he tells me about his younger years.

  “Right here?” I ask, picturing Declan at twenty, phone in hand as he ran. “Bet you were listening to Nirvana, Pearl Jam, or Guns N’ Roses.”

  “Pearl Jam. ‘Jeremy,’” he says, squeezing my hand harder.

  “That’s so you,” I say.

  “I was really happy to get that call.”

  “Of course you were. A dream come true,” I say, knowing the feeling, having had the same experience. “I was in Petaluma at my grandparents’ when I got the call.”

  “Fitting. For both of us,” he says, then draws a big breath, his brown eyes twinkling with secrets he’s about to share.

  “And now?” I ask because I’m damn ready for him to crack them open.

  “I’m happier now. So much happier. Want to know why?”

  “Um. Yeah,” I say drily, anticipation winding tighter under my skin. “I believe we established that when you showed up at the art gallery twenty-four hours early. I’m dying to know.”

  Declan takes a moment, then says, “I’m coming to San Francisco.”

  What?

  My smile evaporates.

  Did he quit? Oh hell.

  Or wait. Was he traded to my team?

  No, please say no.

  “Did you quit?” My pitch rises in alarm.

  “No—”

  “Oh, fuck,” I moan, dragging a hand down my face. “You better not be a Cougar again. Please tell me we’re not teammates. I don’t want any more drama. I just want you.”

  I sink into my seat, eyes closed, talking back to my overactive brain. It’s fine. We’ll manage. We can handle it. But all things considered, I’d rather he didn’t play for the same team.

  “Grant,” Declan says, reaching for my face, holding my cheeks. I open my eyes. “I was traded to your rivals. To the Dragons.” He bursts out into laughter—joyous, buoyant laughter. “I’m playing in the same town. For the other team. It’s fucking perfect.”

  His words tumble out so fast that I can barely process the enormous awesomeness of what he’s saying. I part my lips, but I just shudder out a breath, and he keeps going. “It’s perfect, isn’t it? Please tell me it’s perfect to you too. Please.”

  His desperation unlocks my own. I can’t let him think I’m anything but happier than I’ve ever been in my life.

  I lift my hand, cover his on my face, and look into his eyes. With my heart soaring, I tell him it’s perfect. But I don’t use those words. I use other ones.

  “I love you. I love you so much, Declan Steele. You’re the love of my life. I am so in love with you,” I say, my heart surging with joy, my skin tingling with so much happiness.

  Declan drops his lips to mine, whispering, “I’m so wildly in love with you.”

  Then he pulls back, meeting my gaze. His is etched with vulnerability. “I’ve been dying to tell you, ever since that night at your house. I want to say it every time I talk to you. I want to tell you all the time, Grant. I love you so damn much. I love everything about you. I want you and I love you and I don’t want to be without you.”

  “You won’t be. I promise.” I haul him in for a kiss. A deep, beautiful, soul-shattering kiss. A kiss that seals all these confessions. A kiss that says I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. I’ll only be yours.

  He kisses me back the exact same way—like we were meant to kiss by the Golden Gate Bridge under
the night sky, the ocean crashing along the shore, Declan and I finally in the same place at the same time.

  At last . . . at the right time.

  When we break the kiss, we’re both grinning, touching, laughing. “Is this real? Are you really here? When do you start? I can’t believe you’re the enemy,” I say, amazed, and overjoyed.

  This is the real cloud nine—right here with him.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, cracking up. Then he shrugs. “Sorry I ruined our day off.”

  “Yeah, I’m so sorry too,” I say, joining his laughter. “That’s the worst—that we don’t have a day off together. Instead, we have to live in the same city.”

  “I guess now you know why I’m here early.” Declan can’t wipe the damn grin off his face.

  Good. I want it there forever. I want to keep putting it there. “When did you find out?”

  “This afternoon,” he says. “Vaughn called. Asked if I wanted to play for the Dragons.”

  “What did you say?” I’m dying for every detail.

  “Yes, obviously.”

  I motion for him to keep going because that’s not going to cut it. “No shit, but walk me through it, Deck.”

  “I was in the back seat of a Lyft on my way to the Bandits ballpark for the last game of our series, when my phone rang. My agent called me when I was about a mile away and said ‘Do you want to be a Dragon?’ And, Grant, I didn’t even have to think. I said yes in a split second. All I could think was I could see you. That we could be together,” he says. “I got on a plane two hours later. I didn’t call because I wanted to tell you in person. I had to tell you in person.”

  My throat tightens with emotion. But it’s the good kind, the kind you encourage and embrace.

  I rope my fingers into Declan’s hair. “I told you the jury was still out on whether the World Series win was my favorite night ever, right?”

  “I remember you saying that.”