Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

Then

The first few months after Grant leaves New York are the hardest.

I’ve never really known what that’s like—getting over someone. Everyone else has been a clean break.

This is the opposite of a clean break. It’s a messy ending, one that keeps spilling over into my life, but at least there is baseball at the end of a cold winter.

The sport has gotten me through hard times before and it does it again as I learn how to hit a slider well, improve my fielding more, and drive up my consistency at the plate even higher.

I spend time with Emma, Fitz and Dean, Tucker and Marissa, and Brady and Greer. Over the next few years, the latter two couples get married a month apart and I go to their weddings.

Tucker ties the knot first, and I attend his wedding stag. I go to Brady’s February wedding alone.

And life goes on like that.

I develop new interests. I find new bands to listen to, I play paintball with Fitz, I scour stores and libraries for new books to try out. Dean and I become closer, and the brainiac in him keeps pumping recommendations at me—non-fiction stories of scandals and racy tales of business upheavals.

I eat them all up.

Those books are my gateway drug, and I go down the rabbit hole into memoirs, starting with comedians for laughs, then moving to harder-hitting tales. Stories of men and women bucking their upbringing, battling addiction, and most of all, struggling to understand what it means to love an addict.

And how loving an addict has made it hard, for some, to love themselves.

I bristle a bit as I read, since sometimes it feels like these stories are mirrors, and I’m not sure I want to see the reflection.

But I don’t stop. I keep reading. I keep learning.

I see my dad a few times. He asks to come to a game in San Francisco when I play the Cougars, but that feels like the worst idea in the world. I convince him to come to Los Angeles instead, buying him first-class tickets, several nights at a swank hotel, and all the Hollywood star tours he and his girlfriend could want, since he’s found a new lady now. Her name is Jackie.

At the ballpark in Los Angeles, he’s up to his usual shenanigans. Meeting the guys on the field, doling out hitting tips, talking up the game.

“You should do batting practice with us tomorrow, Jon,” Tucker suggests before our Bandits game. “It’ll be fun.”

I don’t think Tucker and I have the same definition of that word.

But my dad’s brown eyes implore me.

Coach says it’s okay and my dad throws batting practice the next day. He looks happier than he ever has before.

Trouble is, a few weeks later, he and Jackie hit a casino in Northern California. He slides right back into his old ways, his twin addictions ruling him. When he runs into financial trouble, I don’t balk. I just write the check.

It’s easier.

But it’s also all I know how to do.

When the holidays march closer, I make plans with my mom and Tyler to go to Tokyo again. It’s become a tradition, one we’ve done for the last three Christmases since Grant won Rookie of the Year. I’ve been getting to know my stepbrother, his wife, and their young daughter. Mom, Tyler, and I decide to stick around in January and travel across Japan, visiting Kyoto, Osaka, and Hiroshima.

Before I go, though, I have my agency’s holiday party to attend.

Grant and I are both repped by Premiere, and I wonder if he will be there.

I wonder, and I walk a little faster.

On a chilly December night in New York, I head into a chichi restaurant in Chelsea, where the firm has rented a private room. My heart kicks like a horse when I spot Grant chatting with Fitz at the makeshift bar.

Fitz waves me over. “Look what the cat dragged in,” my hockey bud says to me, then he claps me on the back. “Bring it in for a hug, mofo.”

I’ve seen him recently, so it’s not like we need to hug it out.

Which means I know what he’s doing. Fitz is trying to get me to hug it out with Grant. I say hi to the catcher next, with a bro hug that turns into a melt-my-fucking-body embrace even though we’re barely touching.

But we don’t have to be wrapped up in each other for my heart to pound.

Hugging the man you once loved is a unique kind of torture. One hit of that barbershop scent and I’m taking a trip way back in time.

To some of my favorite days.

All of them belong to him.

I pull apart so I’m not sporting wood or cartoon-heart eyes for the whole party.

“Good to see you,” I say, my voice a little rough.

“You too.”

A split second later, Fitz’s eyes find Haven, since she reps him too. “Need to go talk to the boss lady. See y’all later.” Then he stage-whispers to us both, “In case you were wondering, I have no boundaries with the two of you.”

He takes off with a wink.

As he weaves his way to Haven, I let my eyes linger on Grant for a little longer. He’s dressed casually in a maroon V-neck sweater that hugs his pecs and worships those powerful arms.

He wears jeans that make his thighs look delicious. Nobody has ever looked as good in jeans as Grant Blackwood. Nobody has ever looked as good out of jeans either.

“You look incredible,” I say, since I kind of can’t help myself around him. “I guess that means I have no boundaries with compliments.”

“Same to you. So maybe I don’t have them either,” he says, his blue eyes taking a quick stroll of my frame, roaming over my jeans and dark blue button-down shirt.

Unbutton it tonight, rookie.

I sweep that thought away.

“What are your holiday plans?” he asks, snapping me back to the here and now.

“Going to Tokyo again. It’s become a thing. You?”

“The usual. Hanging out with the family. Seeing my grandparents.”

“What about Reese?”

“She’s in South America right now. She had a job opportunity there.”

We talk about family and friends more, then he tells me about River, and how they went into business together.

A sliver of jealousy wedges under my skin. “River? From The Lazy Hammock? Our River?”

He snorts. “Yes, our River.”

Like it’s making an unexpected encore, the dragon of jealousy roars in my chest, clambers up to center stage. “Is he your River now?” I ask, the question tasting like spoiled milk in my mouth, curdling my stomach. The prospect of Grant having a boyfriend is horrifying.

I’d rather drink antifreeze.

And yet it’s entirely possible.

And that makes it even more horrifying.

Grant arches a brow. Smirks too. “Dude, we’re friends. Just friends. Like you and Fitz.”

That’s good.

That’s so fucking good.

Dragging a hand down my face, I let out the biggest breath in the universe. “Good,” I say, as relief floods me.

His lips twitch. “You still jealous?”

I shrug, owning it. “Yes,” I say. Emphatically.

An eyebrow lifts. That flirty look returns to his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Yes. And maybe I always will be. Boundaries, right? Or maybe not,” I say.

He nods, flashing me his winning smile, the one that snared me in his net way back when. The one that still works some kind of wicked magic.

I need to shift gears or the torch I carry for this man will be visible from space.

“I’ve been following the work you’re doing with the Alliance,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks, man. That’s good to hear.”

“Sometimes I think about getting more involved. Mostly, I think I’m just good at donating money,” I say, shrugging a little sheepishly.

“Hey, nothing wrong with that. Giving money away is always a good thing,” Grant says.

“But you? You’re the face of it all. I admire that,” I say, and pride surges in me. Pride for what he’s done. How he stuck to his plans. Grant had a vision, and he rose up, walking the walk and talking the talk.

“You got to do what you got to do, right?”

“Truer words,” I say, then scratch my jaw. “But maybe I’ll get more involved with volunteer work.”

A grin lights his handsome face. “Do it.”

The click of wingtips breaks the moment. Vaughn arrives, clasps a hand on my shoulder. “Hey Grant,” my agent asks, “can I steal this man away? I’ve got someone from Legends here.”

That’s the watchmaker who’s one of my top sponsors, so Vaughn tugs me away.

I don’t look back.

If I do, I’ll say something like come spend the night, and the next one, and the rest of the month too.

The next week, I fly to Tokyo, meeting my mom and Tyler in Roppongi, where Aaron lives with his family. One day after a stop at a tea house, my mom shoos Tyler away, saying she wants time alone with me.

As we grab a table in a sushi joint in the heart of trendy Shibuya, she hitches a ride on a time machine. “Remember when I was in New York when you first joined the Comets?”

“When you decided you weren’t sure if you were going to root for me? I tried to erase it from my memory, but no such luck,” I say drily, plucking an edamame from the bowl and popping it in my mouth.

But Mom is serious today. “You mentioned someone. A guy you broke up with. You said you thought you handled it badly.”

Yup. Serious mode. “Good memory.”

“That made me wonder, Declan.”

“About what?” I ask, grabbing another edamame.

“About you and other people. You just turned thirty, and you always seem so in control of your relationships. Like you have it all on this perfectly planned level. And I was curious—whatever happened with that guy? The breakup you regretted?”

I don’t think.

For once in my life, I’m not carefully controlled.

I’m relieved for the opening I didn’t even know I needed. I take it, kicking the door open. “He plays for the Cougars,” I say, and holy shit. I never thought I’d say that out loud to anyone beyond Emma, Fitz, or Dean, by extension. But it feels good to voice it to someone else too. Someone I trust completely.

To family.

“Grant Blackwood?” she asks, easily connecting the dots.

“Yep.”

“Wow. I never would have suspected anything based on the fact that you’ve never said a thing. But I guess it didn’t work out?”

“No, it didn’t.”

She drums her fingers on the table. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What’s that?”

She pops an edamame in her mouth and chews, then talks. “I’ve been speaking to my shrink.”

“You’re still seeing someone?”

She rolls her eyes. “Sweetheart, I will always be a work-in-progress.”

“Fair enough. What were you talking to her about?”

“About how different my life is now compared to when you were in middle school. When things were falling apart with your father.”

I smile sympathetically. “You’re much better, Mom. You’re happy now.”

“I am. But that led me to think about you. Are you happy now? I never meet anyone you’re with. I never hear about boyfriends. It just makes me wonder.”

“About what?”

“Walls,” she says, pinning me with an intense mom gaze. “If you have too many. Or if you have too few. Honestly, I don’t know, Declan. I try to live without regret, but if I have one, it’s that when you were in high school, I was so focused on what I needed to heal that I didn’t really ask you what you needed to heal.”

Her lip quivers, and I reach for her hand, set mine on top of it. “Don’t second-guess yourself. You did what you had to do. I was behind you every step of the way.”

“But you were just a teenager. You were a kid trying to figure out who you were.”

“Every kid is trying to do that,” I say, protesting as the waiter brings the sushi. “Arigato.”

“Arigato,” Mom says to him, then zips her attention back to me. “Not every kid is raised by an addict and by someone who loves an addict. And not every kid who was raised by an addict and someone who loved an addict is coming to terms with his or her orientation,” she adds pointedly.

My stomach twists as we revisit the past—my least favorite place to travel to. “What are you saying, Mom?”

“I’m saying that you were so tough, so strong. You were all about baseball. Play harder. Play better. Practice more. At the time, I believed that meant you were doing fine. But now, I wonder if it meant that you weren’t.”

My throat tightens. My muscles tense. “And what if I wasn’t doing fine?”

Her eyes glisten. “I think you should consider talking to someone.”

“Like a twelve-step program?”

“Al-Anon could be good. Or maybe a therapist. Would you consider it? I think it would be good for you.” She pauses, and it feels important. “I heard that your dad still keeps turning to you when he has problems,” she says, laying the fact plainly on the table.

I wince. “Who told you?”

“He did, sweetie. He called me recently asking for money. When I said no, he said he’d just ask you and you’d give it to him. He said that’s what you’d been doing.”

I slump back in my chair, dragging my hands through my hair. Busted. “Sometimes it’s just easier.”

“I understand. And that’s why I want you to think about seeing someone. Talking through why it seems easier. What it means.”

I take a deep breath. “I will.”

Deep down, I know she’s right.

When I return to New York at the end of January, I do the hardest thing ever. Harder than breaking it off with Grant. Tougher than coming out. More difficult than giving my dad money.

I turn to Google, find a therapist, and ask for help.

The thing I’ve never done.

This is my virgin territory, and I’m more terrified of what I’ll discover than I am of being hit by a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball.

But after a few trial appointments that don’t work out, I find someone who does work. We start in May, and the timing lines up with the baseball calendar. Slowly, but surely, we start working through some of the shit I’ve been burying for years.

When Grant wins the World Series in the fall, all I want to do is celebrate with him. He’s three thousand miles away so I can’t. But I can call him.

He answers with a hoarse voice the morning after. “Hey!”

“I guess someone had a good night,” I say, as I pace through my apartment, watching Park Avenue midday traffic cruise by below.

“The best,” he says, and his delight is infectious.

“Congratulations. I’m really happy for you. And proud of you, man.” I can’t wipe the grin off my face.

“Thank you. I still can’t believe it. It feels like a dream.”

“I can only imagine. Must be cloud nine,” I say, stopping to lean against the window, the cold of the glass pressing on my shoulder. “What was that like? When you caught the final pitch?”

He laughs lightly, sighs happily. “It was like . . . remember when you were seven or eight? And you went to the ballpark? And you played with a friend or maybe even alone? And you pretended you were the announcer?”

I slip back in time, warbling into a pretend mic. “And now, Declan Steele takes the plate with two outs in the bottom of the ninth in game seven of a nail-biter of a World Series.”

“And you could hear the roar of the crowd and the crack of the bat when you were a kid?” Grant says, as enthused as I am over the memories. “And then you imagined connecting with the ball, watching it soar over the fences. You ran the bases, arms high in the air, and you jumped up and down when you reached home plate?”

My throat catches from the pure joy of the memory—and from the pure joy of the shared memory. “It was make-believe, but you were sure it was happening,” I say, a little far away as the warm, sepia tones of childhood dreams waft around me.

“It did. It felt real,” he says, then lets out a deep, contented sigh. “It was like that, Declan. It was like every single dream coming true. And then, somehow, it was even better.”

“I’m so happy for you,” I say, then I laugh, a little embarrassed. “I said that already.”

He laughs too. “It’s okay. I feel a little loopy still. And I only had one glass of champagne last night. But I’m pretty sure I’m still wearing a couple bottles.” A sniffing noise carries across the phone. “Yup. I got doused in it.”

An image of a post-victory locker room flashes before my eyes. Cheers, champagne, high-fives, hoots, and hollers. I want that someday. But right now, I’m glad Grant was able to experience the highest high.

I head to my couch, sit down, and make a request. “How about you take me back to game one and walk me through every epic moment?”

He laughs, a kid’s glee in his voice. “Really? You want me to recount the World Series?”

“This surprises you? That I want every glorious detail of your greatest accomplishment? Your favorite night ever?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. “The jury’s still out on whether it’s my favorite night ever. But sure, I’ll tell you everything. So, when we ran onto the field in game one . . .”

I settle in as Grant Blackwood tells me a story of victory, and I hang on every fantastic word.

When the call winds down, he clears his throat. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

“Going to Tokyo again. To see the family,” I say.

“By yourself?” It comes out staccato.

My brow knits. “With my mom and Tyler. Why?”

“So, with family,” he emphasizes, more confident this time.

A confused laugh bursts from me. “Yes, with family to see family. Why’d you say by yourself?”

He breathes out hard. “You’re not seeing anyone?”

Ah. That’s why he asked. I smile. “I’m not seeing anyone. I’m not taking anyone. It’s just a family trip,” I say, then seize my chance. “And you? Are you seeing anyone?”

“No. No plans to either.” He sounds happy about that. Maybe as happy as I am to hear it.

We say goodbye, and the time on the phone with him makes me feel . . . free. More than I’ve felt with anyone, even myself, in the last several years.

On Christmas morning, I wake to a text.

Grant:It’s eight in California on Christmas Eve, which means it’s ten on Christmas morning where you are more than halfway around the world. Which means Santa already visited you. I hope you got the new train set you wanted.

I laugh in my hotel bed and write back.

Declan:I got Lego Star Wars.

Grant:Sweet! Did you ever build a Millennium Falcon out of Legos when you were a kid?

Declan:Honestly, I was more an Indiana Jones fan. So, I built an ark.

Grant:Han Solo man here, so I was all about the ship.

Declan:You want to go down the list of great Harrison Ford flicks on Christmas morning?

Grant:I’m up for that anytime! But . . . I have a random question for you.

Declan: Hit me.

Grant:Can I call you?

Declan:Of course.

“Merry Christmas,” I say when I answer on the first ring.

“Merry Christmas to you.”

“So, what’s your random question? Enquiring minds want to know.”

The faint sounds of a car whisking by land on my ears. “I’m walking down the street in my grandparents’ neighborhood right now. But earlier, when I was eating Christmas Eve dinner with my sister and my grandparents, Sierra started making up a silly version of The Night Before Christmas, and that made me think of something you once said.”

I furrow my brow, trying to draw a Christmas connection to Grant and me. “What was that?”

“Poetry. You said you studied poetry as your minor. That’s unusual. What’s that all about?”

This is as good a chance as any to practice some of the stuff I’ve been working on with Carla. Honesty. Openness. Vulnerability. “I told you about what happened when I was thirteen. At the championship series,” I say, sitting up in bed, staring out the window at the Shibuya district below, the crowds zigzagging through the crosswalk.

“Yes. You did. With your dad.”

“That stuff kept happening every so often in high school. When he was around. When he came to my games. I got really tired of the other kids and parents looking at him, and looking at me, and looking away. Eventually, I was so worn thin I did something really stupid.”

“What did you do?”

I’ve only ever told Carla, Emma, and my mom about my big fuck-up at the end of high school. But it’s not simply a high school story. It’s a story of change, and it’s time to tell Grant. “I was eligible for a student athlete award at the end of my senior year. If I excelled on the field, I’d win the award and some additional scholarship money. But the thing is, if I won, I’d have to give a speech,” I say, shuddering as I remember the anxiety palpating in me over public speaking. Playing ball quietly on a team was one thing. Being singled out was entirely another. “I didn’t like public speaking, so I started playing like shit. Deliberately.”

“Oh wow, man. You must have really hated public speaking if you’d do that,” he says, sympathy in his tone, and understanding too.

“Bingo. That’s how much I didn’t want to give a speech. For a month, maybe more, I played like crap. I’d already been accepted into college, but still I tanked my play. I lost out on the award and the extra money. I figured it was the end of the year—maybe no one would care. But my mom, shrewd woman that she is, cared. She noticed. She sat me down. Asked me if I had done it on purpose. She was so judgement-free that it unlocked all my bottled-up fears about my public speaking. I served it all up, how I hated being the center of attention because I hated all those eyes on me.”

“What did she do?”

“She talked it out. Said it was a common fear, one she’d experienced too. And she told me how poetry helped her.”

“That’s fascinating. How does poetry help?” Grant sounds rapt, and that emboldens me to keep going.

“She said that reciting Maya Angelou in the mirror before she had to give a presentation at work gave her the boost she needed. Still I Rise was her talisman, and she said saying someone else’s words first centered her and gave her the confidence to speak her words in front of an audience. So, I signed up for a poetry class in college. Emma was in it, and she helped me study poems, recite them, understand them. And doing that eventually gave me the confidence to not be such a chicken-shit.”

“You’re hardly a chicken-shit. You’re great with the press, Deck. I’ve seen your interviews. Is it all because of poetry?”

I smile, nodding. “Yes. I owe a lot to T.S. Eliot, Yeats, Frost. I have my favorites, though, like The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. It centers me, helps me focus. I used to recite lines in my head before I would talk to the press, and eventually, talking to them became second nature.”

“That is seriously cool. You’re so natural when you give interviews—you’re a great advocate for baseball and for playing your heart out.”

I square my shoulders with pride. “Thanks. I wanted to be like Jeter. A leader on the field, and the guy the media can turn to.”

Grant is quiet for a beat, and then takes a deep breath. “When I went to college, I was determined to tell my own story about who I am.”

“Because of your stepfather?” One night during spring training five years ago, Grant had shared that his mom’s new husband outed him in an assembly in front of the entire high school.

“Yes,” he says now, so assured and determined. “I never wanted to feel that way again—so exposed, everyone assuming they knew this one piece of me. It was intense and, well, uncomfortable is an understatement.”

“I bet,” I say, my heart aching for that kid. For any kid who had to endure that.

“Anyway, I kind of shut down for a bit after that. I didn’t want to leave the house, or play ball, or even go for a run. All the things I loved.”

“That’s a hard thing to deal with. What did you do?”

“My grandparents took me out to dinner. To my favorite sushi place, since I love sushi,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Good to know,” he says, a little flirty, and I dig that sound. “So, over spicy tuna rolls, my grandmother told me, ‘You can either let this get you down, or you can be someone who speaks up for yourself and for others. Tell your own story.’ That was my light bulb moment. I saw how I needed to own my identity in every way. To out myself constantly. Slap it up on social media. Say it when I meet people. To be active, be proud, be out, so others could be too.”

I’m honored that he’s sharing the rest of the story with me. Letting me glimpse why he is who he is. “The whole Frank thing inspired you, then? Made you who you are?” I ask, pressing the phone closer to my ear.

“In a way. It lit a fuse in me, sure. And so did my grandparents. They said, ‘You’d make a great activist. Maybe this is your moment.’”

A smile takes over my face. “You took something hurtful and turned it around.”

“But, Declan, if you think about it, we both did that. We both took these situations we didn’t ask for and used them for good.”

“To become the men we are today,” I say, buzzed that Grant Blackwood and I are finding new common ground on Christmas morning. It’s like an extra gift in my stocking, especially since I want this conversation to be the start of a much deeper one we have soon.

With that in mind, I ask if he’ll be at an upcoming awards event in San Francisco in February.

“I will,” he says, a note of hope in his voice.

“Me too.”

In the background on his end of the line, a woman calls his name, laughing.

“I’ll be inside in a minute, Sierra. I’m just on the phone.”

I hear her ask, “Who are you talking to?”

Grant pauses, maybe wondering who I could be to him. All the titles I could have.

“Someone,” he finally replies, and I don’t mind that. I do, after all, want to be someone to Grant.

I, too, like that he returns to the topic of the event. “So, you’ll be here in February, Declan?”

“I will. Will I see you there?” I ask, a note of hope in my voice this time.

“Yes, you will.”

It’s not a plan per se. But it’s damn close.

When I land in San Francisco in February, my first instinct is to message Grant.

It’s a good instinct.

When he writes back, I’m pretty damn sure I’m going to be changing my flight and staying an extra day.

And, more to the point, an extra night.