Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

As soon as I end the call with Declan, the screen door creaks open and my grandpa ambles out.

“You eavesdropping, old man?”

He shrugs but gives a devilish smile. “Was there something good to overhear? I hadn’t noticed.”

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.

That was the day before Declan left.

At the time, he was amazing.

Is he still?

I don’t know.

That day feels like a million years ago.

And like yesterday at the same damn time.

At the event at the Luxe Hotel, I catch a glimpse of Declan in the crowd. Some things do stay the same—like the way my skin heats when I see him. Because damn, does he wear the hell out of a suit.

It’s midnight blue and fits him like a dream.

But I blink away those thoughts as Haven joins me in the reception area with a handsome photographer by her side. Empirically handsome, that is, with his California surfer looks—shaggy dark blond hair and hazel eyes that made men and women alike swoon when he was on the field.

And off, I imagine.

He’s Asher St. James, the former American soccer star and one of the best-known out players, who’s now the it photographer.

“Smile for the camera, Mr. Hotshot,” he says, snapping a shot of Haven and me.

“We should grab one of the two of you for the Alliance since you’re both doing such great work for it,” Haven points out. “Want me to take one?”

Asher flashes one of those megawatt smiles in her direction. “As if I’d let anyone touch this baby,” he says, stroking his camera possessively. “But don’t worry, Grant. I can take fantastic selfies. You’ll look as gorgeous as you always do.”

I laugh. “Thanks. I’m sure you will as well,” I say, returning the compliment. Asher is one of those guys who doles out flattery like party favors. He snaps a selfie of the two of us, then says he’ll text it to me later.

I give him my number, put my phone away, and head into the spacious hall where the awards take place.

As I make my way toward the second row, I spot Declan seated in the middle by the aisle. Just a quick glance at the cut of his shoulders and the swoop of his hair makes my breath catch.

Just like it did last time I saw him.

Will it always be like this?

For the rest of my damn life?

As if he senses me, his head turns. His eyes sail up to meet mine. His lips curve into that sexy grin.

And he mouths Hey, there as I walk past him.

Yeah, it might be like this for the rest of my life, and I don’t know how to deal with the overdose of emotions—desire, want, hurt, longing, regret—I feel when I’m near him.

But I don’t have time to deal with that now.

And an hour later, I win Rookie of the Year.

It’s more thrilling than I expected, but the best part is the way the news spreads online when the event ends.

My social media feed goes wild with young athletes thanking me for being out and congratulating me on being the first openly gay baseball player to win the award.

It’s humbling and amazing.

It’s more than I ever expected to happen—both the award and the way others are reaching out to me. I don’t know any of them, of course. But I also feel like I know them all. I know their struggles and their joys too.

As I walk up Park Avenue, phone in hand, I reply to as many as I can, thanking them for their support.

I’m even more grateful that I’m meeting Declan at his apartment rather than at a bar or restaurant. There’s no way I could have a private conversation with him in public right now.

There’s no way I want to either.

When I arrive at his building, those nerves dock in me again.

I stare up at the sky, drawing a deep, fueling breath before I walk into the unknown, hoping like hell I can make it out alive.

Without getting burned.

Without getting hurt or losing everything I’ve built for the last seven months.

“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Steele,” I say to the doorman. “I’m—”

The goateed man in the maroon uniform waves me through. “Come in. He’s waiting for you. He’s on the eleventh floor.”

Pride flickers in me, knowing I am on some sort of list Declan gave the building.

Maybe he even gave it to them a week ago, then counted down the hours till now. That’s exactly what it’s been like for me.

I’ve been waiting for him.

Once I reach his floor, I take off my jacket and sling it over my arm as I look around the hallway, take it all in. A sleek and modern building with gray walls lined with modern art prints. He walks this hall every day. Sees these frames every night.

This is where he’s been since he left spring training.

I glance at the walls, then the carpets. Have other men walked down this hall to his place? Has he been with anyone? How would I even ask him? Hey, Deck, how’s New York been treating you? Gotten any dick lately?

I clench my jaw. My chest thrashes with jealousy. All at once, images pummel me—his life, his nights, his dates.

I stop, inhale deeply, try to talk back to the storm of emotions raging in me.

I don’t know what his life’s been like. I don’t know a thing about what he’s been up to since he split with me. All I have to go on are two phone calls and a few minutes in the bathroom at a pool hall when he told me he studied English lit in college.

That means I’ll need to stay in control of the conversation. Keep it light and easy.

I can do that, even though my skin tingles the closer I get to his place. My pulse beats a little faster.

My body is a dog on a leash, tugging me along.

The dog wants what’s on the other side of the door.

Must stay cool.

When I reach the corner apartment, I lift my hand to knock, but Declan’s already opening the door, and he’s waiting—jacket off. Tie loosened. Eyes only for me.

Like he was in Arizona.

The difference, though, is he’s not only looking at me with hunger, but with hope too. And I’ve no idea what the hell I’m going to do with it.

Or how I’m ever going to stay cool with him.