Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

I have no time to breathe during the next few days.

After I finish a morning of meetings with the Alliance about the work I’ll be doing for the organization, Haven takes me on a whirlwind tour around the city. For the rest of the week, it’s coffee with an athletic gear company near Columbus Circle, lunch in Midtown with a shoe company, then a dinner with another shoemaker and a breakfast the next day with a cell phone company.

They’re all courting me, and it’s kind of crazy.

When we leave the fanciest breakfast joint I’ve ever seen—the forks looked like they were made of gold—Haven and I wander through the West Village for a post-mortem.

“What did you think? Did you ever expect you’d have the pick of the litter?” she asks as we pass cafés, T-shirt shops, nail salons, and furniture stores, all with rainbow flags in the windows.

“No. Never.” My head is still swimming with my post-award life, and my heart still sinking from leaving Declan. But I try to focus on business—that was the point of saying no to him. “Who do you think I should partner with?”

We trade ideas as we walk along Christopher Street, but my mind derails completely when the Stonewall National Monument comes into view. My breath catches, and the hair on the back of my neck tingles as I stare at the park across from Stonewall Inn.

I had no idea we were near it.

I stop and stare, and Haven does too. The history major in me records details, places it in a timeline and contemplates what it says about how the world changes when groups of people push for change.

The man in me, though? I’m just grateful to be living now.

My agent squeezes my arm. “You want a picture in front of it?”

It’s a good question, but the answer comes easily. “Nah, some pictures are better without people in them.” I snag my phone from my pocket and snap a shot, then take a look. Yeah, it’s better like this—just the monument and what it means.

Haven is quiet, letting me have space for my thoughts, perhaps, but once we pass the park, we return to business.

And I suppose business and life, sports and activism, are all the same, now.

That night, I post the picture of the Stonewall Monument on my social media.

The next morning, I’m alone in New York for the first time, with time to kill until my flight leaves tonight. But my feet know where they want to go—right back to Park Avenue.

I stand across the street from Declan’s building, counting to eleven. I reach his floor, then slide my gaze to the left, hunting for the corner apartment with the view of the East River.

There it is.

At least, I think so.

From down here, I can’t tell much. I can’t even be sure it’s his. But I decide it is, and I stay there like a creeper, or maybe just a sad sack.

My hand slides into my pocket. My thumb rubs absently over my phone’s screen. My heart throws itself against my rib cage.

Taking out the cell, I tap in my passcode.

I go to my contacts.

When I see Declan’s name, my fingertips tingle, aching to call, talk, text. One more glance up, I decide, and if I see him, if I spot a silhouette in the window, I’ll . . .

I close my eyes, my shoulders sagging. I have to let him go.

I log into my airline app and change my flight to the next one out of JFK. Need to get out of here, stat, before I change my mind.

Two hours later, I’m in the air, flying away from New York City—and Declan. The flight attendant swings by, asking if I want a drink, and I blink in recognition. It’s Dylan, the same guy who was on my flight to Arizona for spring training several months ago.

“Hey! I know you,” he says.

“Yeah, from the flight to spring training,” I say with a smile. “Good to see you, Dylan.”

He laughs. “No! From this.” He grabs his phone and shows me a picture from the awards. “It’s my boyfriend’s Insta. I started seeing him last month. He’s an amateur cyclist and he loves you.”

“That’s awesome,” I say, humbled. “Tell him I hope he crushes it in his next century.”

“I will.”

Six hours later, I’m back in California, and I head straight for my grandparents’ home. It’s always been my safe harbor when I need to escape.

I spend the next month helping them out around the place, going for light jogs with my grandfather. When the winter break rolls around, Reese comes home from college, and we watch movies, play video games and go to the gym.

She becomes my new morning workout partner. It’s a relief to know she’s not temporary. I don’t have to worry about her leaving my life.

Before the next spring training, I get another tattoo. And when the season starts, I play even better than last year.

I see Declan once—for our series in San Francisco.

Please don’t give me the cold shoulder for turning you down.

When he comes to the plate in the second inning, his expression is impossible to read.

I call a fastball for the first pitch, and he homers off it.

At least it wasn’t a slider.

He rounds the bases, and when his cleat touches home plate, he gives a quick nod then a tiny smile.

That’s all.

But maybe it’s enough to say he’s not holding a grudge?

The next night, our old spring training crew goes out for pool—Crosby, Chance, Miguel, Sullivan, Declan, and me.

It’s déjà vu, only the shortstop and I aren’t meeting up later in a hotel room.

A pang of longing cuts deep; I miss the way it was. But I focus on the way it is, initiating an important bar debate as we play.

Namely, would you date Taylor Swift, or someone like her? Because what if she, or he, wrote a breakup song about you?

Chance shakes his head fifty times. “No way.”

“You’re really telling me you wouldn’t date Taylor Swift just because you think she’d write a breakup song about you?” Crosby asks him.

“I’m really saying that,” he says for the tenth time since Crosby refuses to accept his answer.

Crosby raises his hand. “Not me. I’d absolutely take the chance. I’d love to be the subject of a pop song. Bring it on. I will be her Layla. No questions asked.”

“Wait,” Sullivan chimes in. “In this scenario, do we get royalties on the song she writes about me being a dick? In that case, I’d take that chance.”

Miguel rolls his eyes. “You think Tay-Tay splits royalties with anyone?”

I raise a finger. “Fair point. Besides, Miguel, you’re about to get married.”

The soon-to-be groom flashes a proud grin. “And all you assholes are invited to my wedding.”

“That was so heartfelt. Can I please be your best man too, with that kind of offer?” Declan asks.

“If you’re lucky.”

A little later, when I head to the restroom, I half expect Declan to follow me.

He doesn’t.

I wish he had, and I’m glad he didn’t.

Because I know what would have happened—what my body still wants to happen.

When I leave the john, Declan is alone at the pool table. The other guys are at the bar. My skin heats as I walk to him, stand near him. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“Good. Everything’s good.” He sounds like he means it, and not like he hates me for turning him down in New York.

“How’s your family?” I ask.

Declan gives me a wry smile. “I went to Tokyo for Christmas.”

I grin. “Oh yeah?”

“I invited myself and took my mom and Tyler.”

“How was it?”

“Great. Thanks for the suggestion. I’m glad I went.”

“Me too,” I say, then I draw a soldiering breath and ask a tougher question. “How’s your dad doing? Is he hanging in there?”

He sighs, long and sad. “He went to rehab, got back together with his third wife, then went to Vegas with some friends.”

My heart sinks. “And?”

“Lost a few thousand at the slots. Lost his sobriety. Lost his wife again,” he says heavily.

“Sorry, man. How are you doing with all that?”

He jerks his gaze to meet mine, as if no one else has ever asked him that before. Maybe no one has. Maybe he hasn’t ever told anyone the details. “Managing,” he says. “I’m managing.”

“Good to hear.”

Crosby’s voice cuts in as the rest of the guys return to the pool table. “Another round?”

We play a few more games, and I go home alone.

Later in the fall, when I’m out with River at the competition, as he calls it, he makes a declaration. “I want to move back to San Francisco. Officially. I miss my family a lot. Dad, and Mom, and Echo. All my cousins. And my college friends—like Owen. He’s in the city, and he’s just one of a ton of friends I have here.”

“Owen? The one you vowed never to sleep with?” I ask with a lift of a brow. River’s mentioned his friend plenty of times, as well as the friends don’t bang friends pact they struck in college.

“Don’t say that so doubtfully,” he chides.

“Pretty sure there’s no other way to say it.”

“Anyway, I found a location for the bar, and I’m lining up the loans. I have a great manager to run the Phoenix bar, so I’m going to do it.”

“A most excellent gay bar in every city,” I say, tipping my beer bottle against his.

“You know I’m using that as the slogan,” he says.

“I already told you it was yours.” I go to take a drink, but before the beer touches my lips, I set it down. An idea has sprung into my head, fully formed. “You want a business partner? Someone to help with the financing?”

“Um . . . sure? Who do you have in mind? Adam Lambert? Because yes, yes, yes.”

I laugh. “Or me.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

He jerks his gaze back. “You want to go into business together?”

I sweep my arm out to indicate the bar behind us, teeming with men. “Dude, I love gay bars. They make the sex lives of queer men ten thousand times easier than Grindr. No one on Grindr ever looks like their pic. So, yes, I would love to go into business with you.”

He arches a wry brow. “You want to go into business together to support everyone’s sex life?”

“I am sex positive. Why? Is that such a bad reason?”

“Hell no!” He grins and sticks out his hand. “Hun, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Six months later, Miguel gets married in the Presidio with a view of the Pacific Ocean, and I see Declan at the wedding. He looks so fucking good in a suit, and I half wish I could dance with him.

Maybe more than half.

Instead, we talk about baseball and wish our friend well.

The next week, River opens The Lazy Hammock in SoMa with me as a backer. It’s fantastic, but I don’t pick up any men there. The Lazy Hammock will always remind me of just one guy.

A guy I’m determined to fall out of love with.

It’s been nearly two years since I met Declan, and every day I’m closer to that goal.

The next season, my batting average goes up a point. We make it to the playoffs, but not the World Series.

I sign a new contract and get another tattoo. Rodriguez retires, and we throw him a party, wishing him well.

I do a series of videos for the Alliance, which kicks off a spate of volunteer speaking opportunities with queer teen athletes at various groups around the country. I ask Crosby and Chance if they want to help out now and then through some of the Alliance’s Be A Better Ally projects and, happily, they do.

The guys and I become closer friends. Our bar debates ramp up, and Chance and I rib Crosby for his terrible taste in women—the man has a thing for very bad girls who want to take advantage of him. Chance and Crosby mock me for my swagger. They start teasing that when I order DoorDash, I’m really getting a blow job from a hookup. I just laugh, and let them think that, because it amuses me. And because they don’t need to know.

From our friendship off the field, our volunteer work together, and most of all, how we play, the three of us become the three musketeers. The media starts referring to us as the Cougars Trio, calling us the heart of the team. It’s heady and humbling.

I spend time with my grandparents and run a few 5Ks with my pops. His knee is like new, he says.

“How’s everything with you?” he asks me one Sunday morning when I don’t have a game.

“Everything is great,” I tell him.

And mostly, that’s true.

At night, though, my mind sometimes wanders wistfully to Arizona, and then on to New York.

In the spring of my fourth season, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I speak at an event at a San Francisco group of high schools, along with student athletes from across football, wrestling, lacrosse, field hockey, and volleyball disciplines. After the talk, I take them to the ballpark for a softball game.

A gal named Topaz tells me I’m her inspiration. “I’ve been following you since I was twelve. But I do like the Dragons better,” she says.

“I’ll convert you,” I promise.

“That’s the only kind of conversion I would consider.”

“I hear ya, girl,” I say, and we knock fists.

Later, I meet a wrestler named Nico, who tells me, “Wrestling is better, but I guess if I have to play softball with a pro, you’ll do.”

“Appreciate that.”

They post pics all over their social media accounts, and I do too. My sneaker sponsor shares some of the shots, and it’s awesome, the support the company gives.

The next night, Reese is in town for a long weekend before she returns to campus for college graduation.

Her closest friends from school join us for a night out at a club in the Mission district. Under the pulsing lights and techno music, the four of us dance like we did in college, back when I was finishing and they were starting. But soon, Tia peels away to bump hips with a tattooed Latino guy, and Layla finds a fair-skinned brunette to grind against.

It’s just Reese and me dancing when a cute dude lasers in on me from the bar. He’s dark-haired, all Ronen Rubinstein goodness, and he can’t take his eyes off me.

Reese darts her eyes in his direction. “Just go talk to him.”

“Nah, I’m with you, girl,” I say.

“It makes me happy to see you out there, meeting people.”

“I’ll talk to him, then, to make you happy,” I joke.

“Or maybe it’ll make you happy. I know you’re enjoying your single status,” she says with a wink.

I get why she’d have that impression—it’s the vibe I give off. But it’s not my after-hours truth. It’s not even close.

When Reese scurries to the ladies’ room, the hottie from the bar makes his way over and asks if I want to dance. For a song, we move together, legs touching at times, hands running down arms at others. But once the beat fades, I say thanks, and turn to the bar.

“Wait. Want to go somewhere?” he asks, a glint in his pretty eyes.

“No thanks.”

Without a second thought—or any regrets—I head to the bar to wait for Reese. She grins knowingly when she finds me. “I saw you dancing with the hottie.”

“He was all right.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And will you go home with him?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Nope.”

She parks her hands on her hips. “Is it because you’re not over him?”

Sucker punch.

From my best friend too.

Rolling my eyes, I shrug, but inside I’m thinking busted. “Let’s dance.”

I grab her arm, but she refuses to budge. “Not until you tell me the truth.”

I huff. “I believe I just did.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I’m not waiting for him, if that’s what you’re asking. That would be stupid. It’s over. We didn’t make a pact to meet in five years at the top of the Empire State Building. We didn’t promise to find our way back to each other. We broke up,” I say, voice tight, muscles tense.

“I know, Grant,” she says with a gentle squeeze. “It’s me. Your friend. Your bestie, okay? All I’m asking is if you miss him.”

Her blue eyes are so earnest, so caring. Just like her touch. “I miss the possibility of him,” I admit.

Her expression goes soft, and she throws both arms around me. “Maybe someday?”

“Maybe,” I say, my throat tightening, that dangerous emotion known as hope rising in me as I hug her back.

But when we return to the dance floor, I’m still determined to finish what I started when I took that flight out of New York after winning Rookie of the Year.

I’m ruthlessly determined to stop thinking about Declan Steele.

In the middle of the next season, Chance’s wife, Natasha, leaves him, and we all keep an eye out for him as he goes through his divorce—Crosby, Sullivan, Miguel, and me. We take him out after games when we can. Now that my sister has opened a hipster bar in Hayes Valley, we have a place to go that feels like home. Sierra slings trendy cocktails at the Spotted Zebra, rocking a pink streak in her hair now. But she still wears Dragons earrings to taunt us.

Sometimes I think Chance likes to go there to talk to her as much as drink. Well, she is chatty, like a good bartender, and he seems to need it.

Later that year, the Cougars do make it to the World Series.

It’s more than a dream come true. More fantastic than every boyhood wish, beyond any cliché.

It’s utterly exhilarating, and it’s the most thrilling moment of my life when game six rolls around and I catch all nine innings and every pitch.

I’m behind the plate when Chance Ashford throws a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball and the Miami Ace batter swings through it—

And misses.

I am fireworks.

I am a parade.

I wrap my glove around the ball so tight, shout to the heavens, then run out to the mound, tackling my teammate. The rest of the guys join us, as we win the World Series.

It feels like the greatest night of my life, and then, somehow, it’s even better when Declan calls me the next day, congratulating me. We spend an hour talking on the phone about the series, recounting every pitch, every inning. I relive each moment as I share it with him. He listens to me tell the story, and it feels right.

Just right.

I don’t know what to make of that, especially when something like a butterfly has the audacity to land on my chest.

It reappears, bigger and faster, over Christmas when I call to wish him a happy holiday. Then, on a Thursday morning in February, it shows up again, accompanying a text from Declan Steele.