Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely
Grant
I’m naked in bed, under the covers, chilling and listening to a thriller when the text arrives.
It’s aThursday morning in February, and I pause the book as soon as the message pops up.
Declan: Holy fuck. I just landed. It’s fuck-all cold in San Francisco.
Smiling, I stretch out on the bed and type:
Grant:Don’t you know what Mark Twain said? The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.
Declan:It’s not summer. It’s February, and it’s colder than New York.
Grant:Not here in my house. I have a fireplace in my bedroom.
Declan:Showoff.
I snap a photo of the fireplace—it’s electric, but still. The end of my bed is visible in the shot, and I don’t crop it out. I add one word and send it to him.
Grant:Toasty.
Declan:That’s not the word I’d use for the shot of your bedroom.
Maybe I should stop. But after the World Series, and after talking at Christmas, this text exchange feels natural. It feels like what Declan and I should be doing today.
Grant:What word would you use, then?
Declan:HOT.
Grant:True. Maybe I should take off the covers.
Declan:Don’t let me stop you.
Grant:Oh, I wasn’t. I definitely wasn’t.
Declan: Is there a picture coming my way?
Grant: Damn, I send you one pic, and you’re angling for another?
Declan:You’ve always been good at sending me selfies that made me want more.
Grant:True. One of my many skills. Here you go.
I send him a pic of me in bed. It’s from the waist down, but the covers are on, showing only the shape of my legs under the white duvet.
Declan:*groans* Such a tease.
Grant:But are you warmer now?
Declan:Yes. I definitely am. Much warmer. Also, will I still see you tonight at the awards?
I stare at Declan’s note for a few seconds. I kinda like that he’s not assuming he’ll run into me. That he’s not simply saying catch ya later.
Grant:Yes. You still will.
Declan:Good. I look forward to it.
I lock my phone and stretch out, my hands behind my head, and think about tonight.
When I look at the clock, a new countdown begins.
That afternoon, I get ready for The Sports Network award gala, which means it’s tux time.
I fiddle with my bow tie, slide on my jacket, then turn to my plus one. “Need help, Pops?”
Rolling his eyes, my grandpa chuckles. “I knew how to tie a bow tie before you were born.”
“I should hope so,” I say, deadpan.
A few minutes later, he’s dapper AF, and I tell him as much.
“Dapper AF. It’s everything I ever wanted,” he says.
We leave my place and head to the limo waiting outside. The driver opens the door for my pops, and I slide in next, thanking the chauffeur as I do.
Once I’m inside, my grandpa turns to me. “So, tonight’s guest list . . .” He trails off like he’s leading the witness.
“Yes?”
He wiggles a silver brow. “I heard it might include a certain someone.”
I roll my eyes.
He laughs. “It’s no use. I see your dreamy, faraway look.”
“I don’t have a dreamy, faraway look,” I insist.
Pops turns serious when I expect more banter. “Actually, that’s true.”
I tilt my head, wondering what’s up. “Did you just agree with me?”
“I did. You used to get that look. Now? Not so much,” he says with a sigh. “I think maybe you’ve gotten good at keeping people out, son.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve noticed some changes in the last five years. You used to trust easily, let people in easily. You don’t do that as much.”
“You’re already in, Pops,” I say, flashing a smile. “No worries.”
“That’s what I mean. You’ve got such a great happy face,” he says as the limo rolls along Fillmore.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. But sometimes I think it’s a mask. I know you made some tough choices way back when, but you’ve done great things—for yourself, for the sport, for others. Maybe it’s time to start letting people in again.” He shrugs, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Or maybe one person.”
I lean my head back against the leather, close my eyes, sigh. “A certain person texted me this morning.”
“Is that so?” He sounds delighted.
When I open my eyes, the man who’s practically my father is grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“Don’t look so pleased,” I say sarcastically.
He pats my thigh. “Sort of like how you look right now?”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, worried I’ll give too much away.
Pops smiles. “It’s a good obvious.”
We cruise the last few blocks in silence, maybe because some things are a good obvious. Like how natural it felt to text Declan this morning. How easy it was to talk to him last fall, and again on Christmas. How much I want to see him tonight.
Maybe I want to see him because what’s truly obvious is how right my grandfather is. I haven’t let anyone else in. I haven’t wanted to, haven’t been ready.
I needed to make room for myself first—figure out who I wanted to be.
Now, five years later, I know who I am.
I know what I want.
An hour later, I spot Declan in the ballroom, and I’m not in love with the shortstop anymore.
But I could be.
I absolutely could be.
