Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

He’s not supposed to be here.

He’s not supposed to come near my field.

I’ve asked him not to.

Begged him not to.

We had a deal.

No surprises.

That was the one thing I asked for, the one thing he promised.

So much for that. I’m twenty, ten, five feet away from the man who’s about to drop my private life, and Grant’s too, dead center in my professional one with his question about whether I miss my boyfriend.

A question he asked in front of a group of my new teammates. The first baseman and the designated hitter.

That’s a motherfucking problem.

“Dad,” I say thickly, hunting for the next words. Words like Stop, be quiet, and why the hell are you here?

But I’m lost.

Utterly lost.

My head swims in foreign languages, swirls with words I don’t know, a tongue I can’t access because this man blindsided me today. He’s the last person I expected to see at a game.

Kyle appearing out of thin air would have shocked me less.

Hell, I wish Kyle were here. I’d gladly take a pop-up from any ex-lover over a surprise visit from my father. The man teetering on the edge of a blunder that could upend my guy’s entire fucking future.

“But you’ll see him again soon,” he adds.

Fear crashes over me in waves. He hasn’t used a name yet.

But he might.

He absolutely might.

Especially since tequila has loosened his tongue. I swear I can see the fumes from the liquor curling off him.

And I have to shut him up.

“Good to see you, Dad.” I yank him into a big bear hug, pretending I’ve missed him so damn much. Then I whisper near his ear, just for him, “No boyfriend talk now. Please.”

I’m desperate and not above begging.

I’ll do anything to shut him up, whatever it takes.

“Of course,” he says softly, then when we pull apart, he lifts his finger to his lips like we’re in cahoots.

I want to crawl away and turn off all the lights until he’s gone.

Instead, I plaster on a well-practiced sham of a smile. “How are you?” I manage to ask the man who raised me, who left us, who flitted back in whenever he felt like it.

He lifts a ball between us. “I got some autographs! Check this out. It’s a ball from Tucker Reyes. Comet’s home-run king,” he booms. My new teammate is nearby, and my dad turns to clap a hand on the first baseman’s shoulder. “And a helluva player.”

“Aww, thanks, Mister Steele.” Tucker beams, his toothy grin full of pride. I’ve seen the same from countless other ballplayers who feel blessed by my father’s praise. It’s so ironic, that adoration. My dad, former minor league star, legendary hitting champ in Triple-A, and outgoing, likable, friendly guy.

How could anyone have any issue with him? How could his son possibly have a single bone to pick?

Tucker shifts his focus to me, still smiling. “Welcome to the best team in baseball, Declan. Stoked to have you and your killer bat in New York, where you belong, man,” Tucker says, giving me a good to see you again handshake. “Also, your dad should be our hitting coach. He’s been giving me tips, and I am going to destroy the Barn Owls’ pitchers today thanks to him.”

“Yeah? Hitting tips?” I choke out the words. If my dad is dispensing hitting tips, that means he’s trying to ingratiate himself. That means he might try to stick around.

No way can I let that happen.

My dad nods proudly, scrubbing a hand over his beard then through his thick head of faintly wavy dark hair. He looks like me but weathered by the years and by the bottle.

I wish I didn’t look like him at all.

“I told Tuck he was dropping his shoulders,” my dad adds, all gregarious.

Tucker grins. “And then I lined up my back shoulder and bashed the hell out of every single ball during practice.”

I swallow, reaching deep down for words. “How . . . long?” I need to get a handle on this situation.

Dad looks at his watch, gives a casual shrug. “I got here thirty minutes ago.”

My father can do a ton of damage in thirty minutes. Hell, he can do a ton of damage in thirty seconds.

Has he said more about me?

Has he mentioned Grant’s name?

A chill sweeps through me, but before I can assess my next move, Brady James cuts in. “Your dad is like the baseball Yoda. He told me to open my hips, and boom. Longball, just like you want your DH to do.”

No. Just no. Just no.

Why the hell is my dad the acting batting coach for these guys?

Why the fuck is he here?

Tucker grins excitedly, pointing at me. “Jon, do Declan. Analyze your son’s swing.”

I groan quietly. My brand-new teammate is already on a first-name basis with my father. The carnival ride has flipped, and I’m dangling from the rollercoaster car, shaking precariously upside down in the loop-de-loop.

With a can-do grin, my dad gestures to a bat on the ground. “Give it a swing, son. I’ll tell you what you need to do.”

I shake my head.

“Come on.”

I shake again.

Tucker grabs the bat, shoves it at me. “We’ve all done it. Just take one cut and your pops will tell you how to improve.”

Don’t they get it?

Don’t they see who he is?

He’s not some chill pops. He’s not a cool dude who’s just like us.

He’s the drunk dad, ready to hurl tall tales at his family.

But they can’t see that because he’s wearing his I’m-just-one-of-the-guys mask.

I lift the bat and I swing at an imaginary ball, hoping it’ll keep my dad from uttering the word boyfriend again. Can’t let him come even that close to breathing Grant’s name out loud.

My dad studies me, then declares, “You need to open the front hip a little more, and you’ll smack that ball over the stands, son,” he says.

“Thanks.”

It comes out dry as chalk. I lick my lips, trying to get rid of the taste.

I need a strategy to get him out of here. Picturing the road to the complex from the airport, I wonder if there is some entertainment along the way. A pool hall? Some mini golf? It’s fucking Florida. There must be mini golf.

Think, Declan. Think.

But I come up empty, and it’s like I’m thirteen again, trying to ignore the problems right in front of me.

Ignore, deny, avoid.

I grasp for The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, the first poem that gave me the guts to speak up.

But there’s no time to recite it in my head because my dad slaps me on the back, his voice booming once again. “Did he tell you? I gave his boyfriend batting tips.”

No, my head bellows.

I want to tackle him, to slam my hand over his mouth and seethe, “You said you wouldn’t.”

“You did?” Tucker asks, a lift in his brow.

“Does your boyfriend play ball?” Brady inquires.

My stomach plummets to the middle of the earth.

I shake my head, roll my eyes, do my best silly dad look.

“Dad, I’m not seeing anyone,” I say, draping an arm across his shoulders and squeezing tight. “But let’s catch up off the field.”

I pat him on the back then use my considerable strength to drag him away from his new crew. He shoots me an indignant look. “What? I was having a good time. I helped your new team. They love me.”

“Yup. I know,” I bite out.

I lead him off the field, through the dugout, and down the corridor, grinding my teeth the whole way, ready to pulverize my own damn mouth. I pull him into a quiet corner of the corridor in the facility. “Dad, I’m begging you. Do not mention my personal life in front of my teammates—not ever again,” I say, desperation painting over every single square inch of my tone.

“But everyone knows you’re gay. That’s not a secret. Look, I said I was sorry for telling you to stay in the closet when you were younger. But won’t you let me make up for it by embracing it now? Love is love.”

As if this is about love is love.

I try to breathe deeply as he twists my world like it’s a dishrag in his hands. “This has nothing to do with being gay. I’m out. I’m all the way out. That’s not the point. This has everything to do with me wanting some privacy, like I asked you for on the field.”

He smiles a big dopey grin. “You love that guy, don’t you? I can tell. Love is good, son,” he says, choking up. “You’re always trying to stay away from it, but you’re just like me. You can’t resist it.”

A headache rumbles behind my eyes, thumping mercilessly. “We’re not involved,” I say, already emotionally exhausted from my father. “I’m not with anyone.”

He wags a finger at me, gives a sly smile. “But I bet you want to be. Just go for it. I’m behind you every step of the way.”

I catch a whiff of the tequila when he talks, and I clench my fists, every muscle tight like a snare. “How much have you had to drink today?”

He scoffs. “Nothing.”

I narrow my eyes. “Dad, I can smell it. How much have you had?”

He lifts his thumb and forefinger. “Fine. Maybe one drink.”

I breathe out hard. “Or maybe a little bit more?”

He shrugs. Then he opens his finger and thumb wider. Wider still. Then even farther. He chuckles. “Okay, more than one.”

I can’t believe I’m about to do this. But I need some motherfucking space. “There’s a casino down the road. I passed it on the way in from the airport. Can you go play the slots? We’ll meet later. I promise. I’ll see you for dinner. That work for you?”

His eyes brim with sadness. “You don’t want me to watch you play? As soon as I heard you were traded, I came all the way across the country. I wanted to support you. I wanted to be here for you. I caught a plane.”

What the hell?

“You came across the country to . . . support me?” That doesn’t even make any sense. But I don’t have the time to try to unpack his carton of bullshit.

I do what I couldn’t do as a kid—I pretend. I’ve had years of acting practice by now, and I grab his arm and beseech him. “I do want you here, Dad. I promise. I swear I do.” I sigh heavily, like this saddens me, this truth I’m about to unwrap for him. “The thing is . . . I want to impress my new team and coach, and if you’re here, all I’m going to think about is impressing you. So, can you just help me out? I can focus better if I’m not trying to impress the man . . .” It pains me to say this. It pains me so damn much. “The man I look up to.”

“Aw,” he says, a soft smile curving his lips. He pats my cheek. “You’re so sweet. I get it.”

My stomach curdles as I tell him to wait then race to the locker room to fish some bills out of my wallet. Back in the hall, I press a couple hundred dollars into my dad’s palm. I know I’m feeding another of his addictions, but I don’t know what else to do.

I walk him out of the complex and add for good measure, “And, like I said, I’m single all the way. Baseball only.”

It feels like the worst—and most necessary—lie I’ve ever told.