Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

The question of where and when plays in my mind over the next two months, never far from my thoughts.

“Italy or Greece?”

The question comes from Tucker as he and Marissa debate the destination of their upcoming holiday trip.

Neither works in my case, so I keep my focus on the big screen at Tucker’s place, where a bunch of us are gathered to watch the playoffs.

Tucker’s more focused on planning his trip, though. Brady leans closer to Tucker’s laptop screen, checking out the vacay options. Marissa swats a chuckling Brady, an amusing sight since Marissa is a tiny pipsqueak and Brady is a dead ringer for Barry Bonds. But I don’t see if he tries for retribution because Grant has come to the plate in game three of the divisionals.

I return my focus to the screen.

My friends, on the other hand, aren’t as transfixed. Guess not making the playoffs will do that to you.

“You already turned down my homeland,” Tucker points out.

“You didn’t want to go to Cuba either,” Marissa says, laughing.

“And now I want to go to Tuscany. And you should say yes to me, baby. Tuscany has these perfect rolling hills,” Tucker points out.

“Greece has the Greek islands and we can lounge by the sea all day,” Marissa counters, then swivels the laptop around to show her boyfriend the screen. “How can you resist this?”

Tucker shoves the computer at me. “Tiebreaker, Steele. Can you resist this?”

“Looks nice,” I mutter, unable to look away from the TV as Grant swings and misses. A few seconds later, he finds a gap and gets on base with a single, and I pump an oh yeah fist.

“Somebody still roots for his ex,” Brady says playfully.

I jerk my head up. Did I give myself away? How did Brady even notice with the Italy/Greece debate raging?

“Yeah, what gives?” asks Tucker. “You rooting for your old team now? You traitor.”

It’s good-natured ribbing, and I can breathe again.

Ex-teammates.

That’s all he meant. Nothing more.

“Well, we’re not in it, so I can’t root for the Comets,” I point out.

“Thanks for the reminder.” Tucker clears his throat, a little awkwardly. “Marissa and I have a question for you guys.”

“Sure. My answer is you should do both Italy and Greece,” I say with a smile, focusing more on their dilemma and less on cheering for my ex . . . teammate.

“New question, dude. Keep up.” Tucker points to himself and Marissa, then draws a deep breath. “Do you guys want to join us?”

I shoot him an are you speaking Martian look. “Are you asking us for a foursome? Because you’re not my type, Reyes.”

“Dude, nice burn,” Brady says, offering me a big palm for smacking, which I accept.

“Seriously,” says Tucker. “Like a couples’ trip. Brady, do you and Greer want to go with us? And Steele, you and . . .” His brow knits over how to finish that thought. “Well, if you’re involved with someone. I don’t even know if that’s your thing, though.”

“Being involved with someone? Trips with straight couples? Or couples’ trips in general?” I ask—then I smile to put the guy out of his misery because it’s freaking adorable that he asked me to go on a couples’ trip.

I mean, there’s no fucking way I’d go, but I like that Tucker asked.

Who knows what most straight men would do, but I’m pretty sure couples’ trips are not my thing.

Tucker breathes a long sigh of relief. “The couples’ trip, man.”

“We’ve been wanting to ask you guys,” Marissa chimes in, speaking even faster than usual. “I know not everyone loves couples’ trips. But Tucker and I do. We would love if you guys want to come along. I know Brady has a girlfriend. But we don’t know if you’re with someone, Declan.”

Tucker claps my shoulder. “Your dad mentioned a boyfriend at spring training, but I haven’t heard a peep since then. And I didn’t know if you just liked to keep your romantic life, well, to yourself.”

I wince at those memories, the same ones I want far behind me. “Nah, I meant it when I said I wasn’t involved. I’m still not.”

Though, I hope that’ll change soon.

“Playing the field. I hear ya. Must be fun,” Tucker says.

Marissa hisses at him. “Hello, I’m here.”

“I meant for other guys, sweet baby cakes.” He tugs her onto his lap and kisses her noisily.

As the three of them debate their couples’ trip, I picture the holidays I want to take, the private life I want to have.

But I can’t reach out to Grant right now. He’s in playoff contention.

If the Cougars advance, I’ll have to wait even longer.

A week later, I’m alone in my place on Park Avenue when the Cougars lose a nail-biter of a championship series. As my former teammates walk off the field, heads down, my heart is heavy for all of them, especially Grant.

I’ve never made it to the World Series. I was hoping Grant might. Looks like it isn’t the year for either of us.

As I leave my place to go for a walk in the cold late-October air, my thoughts return to the how.

I know this much—I need to see him in person. I need to look him in the eye when I say the hard things.

Maybe I’ll plan a trip to San Francisco to see my mom and Tyler, catch some time with him then. I have a commercial shoot next week with a watchmaker here in New York, but I could go to San Francisco after that.

When I return home, I google flights and look at my schedule. But the next evening, I’m digging my chopsticks into a carton of pepper steak and watching the Sports Network when an opportunity appears, gift-wrapped, on the screen.

Grant Blackwood is one of five finalists in the running for the prestigious Rookie of the Year Award to be presented next week here in New York.

I freeze with my chopsticks mid-air, grinning at the unfolding possibilities. Grant, here, next week.

Setting down the take-out carton, I call Emma and ask her to meet me the next day for help.

Nothing I’ve had before with any guy—not Nathan, not Kyle, not anyone—comes close to what I want with Grant.

And I can’t mess this up a second time.

An art devotee, Emma tells me to meet her at the Met before we grab a cup of coffee in the museum café. After a hug in the entryway, she takes me to a wing of Dutch art, then gestures to five paintings hanging on the wall. “Which Vermeer is Grant?”

I shoot her a you can’t be serious look. “They’re all of women,” I point out. “I’m not comparing him to a work of art featuring a woman.”

She grabs my arm and tugs me down the hall. “We called him a Rembrandt once. Maybe he’s like one of those.”

As she guides me through the museum, I try to follow her thinking. “Why are you asking me which famous painting he is?”

“You’ll see,” she says a little wickedly, like she has something up her sleeve.

“Also,” I state for the record, “you called him a work of art. I called him a Bugatti. Can we go look at sports cars?”

“And you continue to make my point,” she says playfully.

I hold out my arms, confused. “And yet I have no idea what your point is.”

We reach a Rembrandt self-portrait, and I stare at it. It’s dark and dull. “He’s old and craggy, and he looks nothing like an athlete.”

“Then you do get my point,” she says.

“I honestly don’t.”

Her expression turns serious. “You’re asking me for help with romance. That’s like me asking you which painting Grant looks like. There are better people than me to help with your relationship goals, and I arranged for them to meet you in the café.”

“Emma.” I hate surprises, and she knows it. And I’ve got zero interest in venturing down this path. “I don’t want to involve the world in my dating-or-not-dating woes.”

“Declan,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. “You need to talk to my brother, not me.”

Ohhhhhh. Fitz is the surprise. I don’t know what I expected, except I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst. “But you’re the only one who understands all my stuff . . .” She’s the one person I’ve shared the real shit with.

“Yes, and I know, too, that you don’t open up that easily to people,” she says in the understatement of the century. “But I’m as alone as you are. I don’t know the first thing about how to fall in love or win back the man of my dreams. And I also don’t know how all of that differs for two men.” She sets a hand on my arm. “You need advice from two men who are very happy together.”

When we reach the café, Fitz has his arm stretched across the back of his chair while he laughs at something Dean said. I sit with the guys, and we shoot the breeze on sports and work while we order coffee. But before long, Fitz cuts through the small talk. “All right, what’s the story? You want to get back together with your guy, and you need to figure out how to do it?”

This feels like too many moments I’ve tried to escape, ones where people think they know me. But Emma’s right. She’s smart and sensitive, but she isn’t navigating the same waters I am.

I swallow the knot of awkward in my throat. My voice sounds weird to my ears, but I say the uncomfortable words anyway. “He’s coming to New York next week, and I don’t know how the hell to pull this off. I don’t know the first thing about . . .”

When I falter, Dean jumps in. “Love? Relationships? Putting your heart on the line?”

“I don’t even know how to ask him if he’ll give me the time of day,” I say, feeling terribly exposed.

Fitz doesn’t seem fazed by my cluelessness. “Don’t overthink it,” he says. “Just call him and tell him you want to talk to him when he’s here. It’s that simple.”

But is it? “What if he says no?” I ask in a strained tone, scratching the back of my neck.

“Then you’re in the same spot you’re in now. But if he doesn’t . . .” Dean offers a hopeful smile.

“And you’ll regret it if you don’t try,” Fitz says, then drapes his arm around his husband. “Look. I very nearly lost this guy back in London because I was chicken-shit like you. It’s hard to crack open your heart and let someone see it. I didn’t know what to say, or how to do it. But I couldn’t risk losing him, so I figured it out on the fly.” Fitz looks at Dean like he’s the answer to all his prayers, then turns back to me. “I told him how I felt.”

But telling Grant how I feel isn’t going to be enough. Grant will want to know why I iced him. He deserves to know not only the details about my father, but also what it cost me when I was younger.

How I almost lost the things that mattered most.

But as Fitz takes Dean’s hand, I’m sure they’re what I should aspire to—honesty, communication, and putting it all on the line.

Couple goals, not a couples’ trip.

Screw being chicken-shit.

Later that night, when I’m home alone, I pace through my living room, staring at the East River, the lights from the skyscrapers twinkling over the water as I dial Grant.

“Hey,” he says, answering on the third ring.

Someone shouts “Split!” in the background. Who is he with? What is he doing?

“Did I call you at a bad time?”

“It’s fine. I’m at my grandparents’. We were playing Bananagrams.”

I smile at the image of him with his family in California. But I can’t linger on it. I have to say why I called, so I lay it on the line. “Can I see you when you’re in New York next week?”

He pauses, then I hear footsteps and the noise receding as if he’s walking away. A door shuts. A car passes close by. He must have stepped outside.

“What do you mean, ‘see me in New York’?” He sounds wary. “What are you asking for, Declan?”

Yup. Knew this wouldn’t be easy. “I want to talk to you, Grant. Alone. You and me.”

Another beat. “Are you asking me on a date? Or to fuck? Or for coffee? Or pool with the guys?”

I pace along the window. I can’t sit still even as I blindly swing at pitches, hoping to connect. “I’m asking for you. Just you. Just to talk. I want to explain what happened in the spring. All the things I didn’t explain the night I called you, like why I sent that text. Can we just get dinner or a drink or something?”

Hell, I sound ridiculously desperate.

But that’s how I feel.

“You don’t drink.”

“We can get a not-drink,” I say, pushing out a slight laugh.

“A not-drink,” he repeats, seeming amused by that word.

My God, can he just put me out of my misery? “After the awards—I’ll be at the event. But we can meet up someplace afterward if that works for you.”

More footsteps echo, like he’s walking even farther away from the house. “Listen, Deck,” he says, using that shortened name that makes my heart want to fling itself at him. “I want to say yes. I really do. But I do not want to wake up to a text from you cancelling at the last minute.”

It’s like he knocked me on the jaw, but I deserve it. “That’s fair. But I promise you I won’t.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” I say, hoping my tone makes it clear how much I mean it.

He sighs. “Okay. I guess I’ll save your number again.”

“You don’t have it saved already?”

“I deleted it,” he says, matter-of-factly.

That makes sense except for one detail. “But you’ve picked up each time I’ve called.”

He laughs lightly. “What can I say? Resisting you was never my strong suit.”

Not gonna lie—that makes me smile. “Good. I’ll see you next week. I’ll text you a location.”

“Someplace private,” he adds. “If we’re seen together afterward, just you and me, you know how it’ll go. There’ll be rumors and gossip. It’ll be distracting. Nobody will talk anymore about how we play baseball.”

With the year he’s been having and the attention he’s been getting, both on the field and off it with his causes and activism, he’s spot-on about that.

There is one place private, though.

I swing for the fences. “I swear I’m not thinking about the bedroom. I’m just thinking about privacy. But do you want to come over here? To my place?”

He’s silent for several long seconds that last forever. In the span of his silence, I fear a no coming my way. That he’ll shoot me down entirely. But instead, he says, “Yes. That’s probably for the best.”

The second the call ends, I text him my address and a time. He writes back that he’ll be here.

Then I prepare to wait the seven interminable days until Grant returns to New York City.

And, I hope, to me.