Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) by Lauren Blakely

He strides to the porch swing and gingerly sits on it. “Be careful when you sit,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “I can handle a swing, kid.”

“We’ll see,” I say, joining him.

“Trust me. I’ll be running again soon.”

“Your doctor hasn’t cleared you for that. Maybe in a few months we can get you to a 5K.”

“I’ll be doing a 5K next weekend,” he says, leaning into the salty old man vibe. But it’s probably true. His PT is going great, and he’s been improving.

He tips his forehead to the phone in my hand. “So, was that you-know-who?”

I arch a curious brow. “How could you tell?”

My grandfather points to my face. “This look you get.”

I roll my eyes, all over the top. “That look?”

He shakes his head, laughing. “No, smart aleck. Your faraway, dreamy look.”

I scoff. “Please. I don’t have a faraway, dreamy look,” I say, but it’s a futile denial. I know it. He knows it.

“You can’t fool me.”

The thing is, I’m glad I can’t put anything over on him. I don’t want to fool him.

I let out a long breath, scrub my hands along my jeans, my heart tripping along double time as I think about seeing my ex. “Declan wants to talk when I go to New York next week for the awards.”

Grandpa nods a few times, maybe processing that I’ve named him for the first time—the guy I fell for in spring training. “And do you want to talk?”

“I think if he wants to talk, I want to listen.”

He pats my knee. “It’s good to listen to people. That’s important. So, you said yes?”

“Yes. It’s going to be crazy, though. I’ll be seeing a lot of people when I’m in New York. I’m meeting with my agent, and then with some of the founders of the LGBTQ Youth Sports Alliance. But I can make time.”

Whoa, that came out way more business-like than I expected. But maybe I need to think of Declan that way for self-protection.

My grandfather barks out a laugh as he sketches air quotes. “Ah, so Declan is just another meeting.”

As he calls me on it, I burst into laughter too. “Yeah. Just like the others,” I say drily.

“Just like the others,” he repeats, adding a wink. When we stop laughing, he asks, “What are you meeting with the Alliance about?”

“Doing more work for them. It was crazy when I was nominated for Rookie of the Year—so many queer teen athletes tweeting and re-tweeting, sharing and liking. Saying they’re all rooting for me, but sharing their stories too. That’s the best part. My feed lit up with all these teenagers just . . . talking.”

“How do you feel about that?”

I square my shoulders. “Pressure, like I always have. But I also feel proud. Like this is bigger than me. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do. So maybe that’s why you mentioned that meeting in the same breath as the guy. It’s all important. The guy and the work you’re doing.”

“Yeah. All of it is.”

He nods a few times, taking a deep breath. “You know, I’ve never told you this, but early on with your grandmother, I wasn’t so sure I was ready for anything serious. I freaked out a little when we got close, and I pulled away from her for a spell.”

“I had no idea,” I say.

“That was more than forty-five years ago. I needed space to figure things out. To get my act together. I was young and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. Took me some time before I decided I wanted to open a hardware store, have something that was mine to run.” He ran the shop for ages, selling it only a few years ago when he retired.

“How long were you apart?”

“A year or so.”

“Why didn’t you ever mention this?”

“I suppose there was no need. We found our happy ending. But I’m telling you now.”

“What changed that brought you back to her?”

“Eventually, I realized I’d regret not giving us a chance.”

“I’m glad you gave it a chance,” I say.

“Me too, kid. For all the reasons,” he says. “So just keep an open mind.”

“I will,” I say, but the memory of the day I got that text from Declan rears up, lashing claws at me, scratching my chest. I flash back to my hotel room in Phoenix, to how I felt when I threw the phone, to how much I hurt when Declan ghosted me.

It was such a gut punch, and I swear I can feel the residual pain the more I dwell on it.

My grandpa and I hang out on the porch for a while longer, the swing creaking in the warm November night air as we meander down various conversational paths, chatting about his PT, about my grandma’s upcoming Scrabble competition with Reese’s grandmother, then baseball again.

Always back to the game.

This time, though, he shoots me a curious look. “So, Declan Steele, huh?”

I just smile and shrug. “Yeah, he’s kind of . . .”

“Amazing?” He supplies with a knowing grin. “I believe that’s what you said back in spring training.”

I swallow past a knot of emotions. That is indeed what I said to my grandfather one of the times I called him back then, when I told him I was both messing up in baseball, and I was messed up over a guy too.