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

“Did you come here a year ago to be ready for a relationship, or did you come here to learn better skills—ones that can help you in any relationship?”

“The latter?”

“Is it a question?” she asks with a light laugh.

“The latter,” I say decisively.

“I’d say so too. So, Declan, do you think you’ve put those skills into practice?”

I cycle back over the last year—the way I’ve been open with my mom, letting her deeper into my life, telling her about Grant; the way I talk to Emma; the way I shared with Nadia; and most of all, how I am with Grant.

But also, maybe even most importantly, how I’ve handled my dad. Turns out not giving him a ride unlocked something in me.

Erecting that boundary gave me a new kind of freedom—to live life on my terms. It gave me the freedom to talk to Grant during spring training—and after spring training, and for the entire month of April. Also, for all of May so far.

“Yes. I talk to Grant almost every day,” I say, then amend that. “Every day. We talk every day. As you know.”

Carla nods. “As I know.”

“Should I feel guilty about that? Am I breaking the promise I made to myself? To you?”

“Do you feel guilty about talking to him?”

It’s a fair question. “I thought I would. I worried I would be going back on my word. But I don’t feel guilty at all. I feel calm.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Maybe I was more ready than I thought?”

She nods a few times, like she’s considering my answer and hasn’t been waiting for me to arrive on my own. “Or maybe you had to become ready sooner,” she says. “Life doesn’t always come at you in neat packages and timelines. Life and love happen on their own schedule.”

I reach for the green pillow on the couch, absently running a hand down it then bouncing my knee, fidgeting. “Are you saying I sped things up with Grant?”

She leans forward. “I’m saying what you did in February was what you wanted to do. Right?”

“Yes.” By February she means the weekend of the awards, when I reconnected with Grant officially, and that was exactly what I wanted to do.

“And since then, you’ve been doing what you want, haven’t you? Talking to him. Staying in touch. Being . . . boyfriends?”

A breath stutters from my lips. Is that what we are? Grant and I haven’t defined us at all. But with a few simple questions from Carla, here we are. Completely defined. Completely obvious.

“He’s my boyfriend,” I confirm, and my God, it feels incredible to say that out loud.

My therapist smirks, then laughs a little bit, seeming pleased. “Pretty hard to call him anything else.”

I smile too, relaxing back into the brown couch. “It’s impossible to call him anything else.”

She swings her foot back and forth. “How does it feel to call him that?”

I half want to ask her the same question. How did it feel when she met the woman who became her wife?

Maybe I’m not as messed up as I thought. Maybe I’ve had enough of a foundation in other ways—my own beliefs about who I give my business to, the lessons I learned from it, the love shared by my mother and then my stepfather. I have great friendships, a sport I love. Maybe I simply needed to get out of the way of my own happiness.

Carla has been my guide in getting this far. My Sherpa.

“It feels great,” I say, relieved. “The last few months have been . . .” I think about these recent times with Grant. I haven’t seen him, in person, but I’ve learned everything I needed. “I thought I needed to stick to a plan. To have everything in order. But maybe what I really needed was to know we could be together like this and not lose ourselves,” I tell Carla. “That I could trust myself with his heart because the last thing I want is to hurt him. Maybe I needed to know, too, he could handle baseball and me.”

“That is a lot to handle,” she deadpans.

“It is. But look at him. He’s killing it. He’s amazing on the field, and he’s amazing with me.” I scrub a hand across my jaw. “I’m so damn lucky.”

She smiles, even bigger this time, more pleased. “Seems you’re having a relationship. Maybe even a healthy one?”

I catch myself looking down to hide my smile. But why should I conceal it?

I meet her eyes. “I think so.”

“So, let me turn your questions around. Do you think you’re ready? Do you think you’ve been getting away with murder? Do you think you’re going to backslide?”

For the first time in a year of work, I answer with certainty. “I’m ready. I’m not getting away with murder. And I won’t let myself slide into old habits.”





That night, I head to the game in the Bronx and go on a tear on the diamond as we play the San Francisco Dragons, slamming a three-run homer over the left-field fence that sews up a win for my team.

When I go home to my apartment on Park Avenue, I call Grant. “Know what’s coming up soon?”

“Our day off?”

I smile. “Yep.”

“Can’t wait. I have this charity thing for the Alliance the night before. Reese is doing social media for it, and she found this trendy art gallery in the Marina with a terrific view of the bay. Though, if you were in town, I’d probably skip the silent auction and cuddle up with you.” He clears his throat. “And by cuddle, I mean fuck and cuddle.”