Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

I’m bringing a date to the awards tonight—someone nearly twice my age, half a foot shorter, and wearing the hell out of a blue dress on a cold San Francisco night.

Arm in arm, my mother and I walk into the event hotel on Union Street.

“I would say you’ll have to introduce me to everyone,” she says as we wait in line for the event photographer to snap our shots, “but this old gal knows the rosters of all the major sports.”

“You might as well run a fantasy baseball league,” I tease.

“Who says I don’t?”

When it’s our turn for a pic on the red carpet, I greet the guy behind the camera.

“San Francisco hasn’t been the same without you, Steele,” he quips. “Oh wait, it has. The team finally won a World Series.”

My mom hoots. “Go Cougars!”

“Really, Mom?” I ask, outraged, as the photographer cracks up.

“Really, Declan,” she says, gleeful as a naughty kid.

I usher her away from the photo wall. “Seriously, woman. I’ll have to leave you at home. You can’t root for the other team in public.”

She covers her lips with her hand in an apologetic oops! But I’m not buying it.

Shaking my head, I place a hand on her back to guide her into the ballroom. We make our way through the crowd, catching up with old friends like Crosby and Chance, reconnecting with newer ones like Holden Kingsley, who just joined the city’s other baseball team—the San Francisco Dragons.

I say hello, too, to Nadia Harlowe, the young owner of the city’s football team. I met her a couple years ago in New York and we’ve been friendly ever since—so much so, that we make plans to share omelets tomorrow morning for a post-event debrief.

But the whole time, my heart is skittering, and I’m all kinds of distracted, watching for a glimpse of Grant.

Everyone here is sporting a tux, so I’m hunting through a sea of black, then hoping my eagerness isn’t too obvious.

My mom and I are standing at a high table, chatting with Holden, when I spot him.

Dark blond hair that looks like he just swept his fingers through it, strong shoulders, and a broad chest that I know sports a mountain tattoo, an arrow, and a nipple barbell.

My senses toss me back in time to how it felt to touch his skin.

Does he have more ink?

Will I ever find out?

“Yes, I heard Night Darling is in town this weekend,” my mom is telling Holden.

“Love that band,” he says, and soon my mom is trading music recommendations with the new Dragon.

That’s my cue to make myself scarce, while she’s engaged in conversation.

“Be right back,” I say, then shoulder my way through the crowd.

Almost immediately, I lose track of Grant. I search the crowd for him, my heart pounding with anticipation and frustration. This is useless, and I can’t abandon my mom for long. I’ll have to find him later.

I return to my date, and she waves goodbye to Holden.

As he walks away, a new but familiar voice speaks in my ear, just for me. “Hey, there.”

When I turn, Grant’s eyes lock with mine. I swear they flicker with possibility.

They glimmer with the same question dominating my thoughts.

Do you want to get together while I’m here?

I know my answer.

Yes.

Pressure builds in me like a geyser. I want to ask—aloud, so there’s no mistake—if he wants to get together too.

But he’s with a man.

One who can only be . . .

“You must be Grant’s grandfather,” I say, extending a hand.

“You must be you-know-who,” he deadpans.

I swing my gaze to Grant’s, my eyebrows climbing. “I’m called you know who?”

Grant licks his lips, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s either that or a certain someone.”

“I’ll take either,” I say, then introduce myself properly to the man Grant admires so much. The man who raised him. “I’m Declan Steele.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” his grandfather says.

Grant rolls his eyes. “You’re blowing my cover, Pops.”

Pops. He calls him Pops. It’s so fucking adorable. I set a hand on my mom’s arm, proud to show her off too. “This is my mom. Cyndi Marie Martin. That’s Cyndi with a Y first,” I add, since I’m used to hearing her spell it that way on the phone.

“So nice to meet you, Cyndi with a Y first. I’m Trevor Campbell,” Grant’s grandfather says, shaking my mom’s hand.

“Trevor, you’re local, aren’t you? I follow all the Cougars closely, and if memory serves, Grant is from Petaluma. Are you as well?” Conversation started, my mom takes Trevor’s arm and ushers him a few feet away. Thank you, Cupid.

“Gateway to wine country, land of milk and honey,” Grant’s pops says before they’re out of earshot.

Now, it’s just Grant and me at the table, plus a crowd of athletes, journalists, and fans spilling out behind us.

A huge ballroom full of colleagues decked out in finery.

This is no place for flirting or stolen touches.

But talking? We’ve done that every time we’ve seen each other. We can pull that off here too.

Grant hooks his thumb in the direction of my mom and his grandfather. “Did that feel planned or what?”

I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”

“Do you think they’ve been holding secret meetings? Scripting this moment?”

I rub the back of my neck, smiling. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

He takes a beat, then rests his elbow on the table and lowers his voice to a just-for-me level. “So, your mom knows about me?”

“She does. And, clearly, your grandfather knows about me,” I say quietly. I tip my forehead toward wherever they went, but I don’t break eye contact with Grant. Don’t want to.

“Some things are hard to keep from him,” Grant says. “I guess I broke that ground rule too.”

“Mmm. We broke all the ground rules . . . rookie,” I whisper.

His lips part, and a soft, sexy sigh falls from them. I want to save that sound forever. “We did, Deck. We definitely did.”

We could break more, I want to say.

But now isn’t the time to steer us in that direction. “I’m glad you told him. I think,” I add with a laugh.

Grant chuckles too. “I’m glad I told him. He’s easy to talk to.”

“Seems like it.”

“Your mom is for you? Easy to talk to?”

I give a light shrug. “You know talking was never my strong suit. But I’ve been getting better at it.”

“Have you now?” His lips curve in a grin, like I’ve said the best thing ever.

I nod, drumming my fingers on the table. “About things that matter, yes. I mean, I can talk all day about nothing. But important things? I’m learning how to talk about them.”

“Good.” Then his voice dips even lower, a wisp of sound in the space between us. “I noticed you were chatty when you called after the World Series.”

“I was. I could have talked to you all day,” I murmur.

“We almost did. Then we almost did again on Christmas.”

“That was a good call too.” My fingers itch to touch him. Hell, my whole body is humming. But I can’t be this close to him in public when I’m not sure I can hide what I want.

I want time with him. Time alone.

To talk.

To touch.

To explore.

His expression shifts, his eyes darting to the press of bodies. All around is the soundtrack of chatter, glasses clinking, and tasteful background music.

It won’t be long before someone commands our attention. That’s how it goes at these events. You never get more than a few minutes to catch up with anyone.

It’s the span of an at-bat. When you see your pitch, you have to swing.

I’m about to go for it—to ask what he’s up to tomorrow—when Grant clears his throat. He turns his back to the crowd, his body language signaling don’t talk to us.

“Listen,” he starts roughly, and I tense.

Listen is one of those roadblock words.

A warning sign.

Stop. Do not pass Go.

Listencould slay me.

But if I’ve learned anything in the last nine months of therapy, it’s that not only do I need to talk about shit, I also need to know when to shut up.