Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

Once I put my dad in a Lyft headed for the casino, I rush back to the field, grabbing my glove on the way. On the diamond, I am all business. In the first inning I field the unholy hell out of a ground ball that comes scorching my way, throwing it to first base, getting the opponent out.

This is all I have to do.

This.

The game—throwing, hitting, fielding.

I’ve done this since the shit started, since my dad hit the bottle.

I’ve gotten good at it too—throwing myself into baseball, ignoring everything else.

But the thing is, you can’t hide from your problems for very long. You can only tuck things away into the corner for a little while, and it’s always a shorter span than you think.

When the game ends, I look up to the stands and—

Are you kidding me?

He came back.

He’s heading down the steps from the seats, sauntering to the field, chatting with the guys on the first-base line.

With my heart lodged in my throat, I walk over.

“Hey Steele,” says Tucker, “I just googled your dad. He hit .327 in the minors. That is dope. Can he be our hitting instructor?”

Is he serious? It was just a throwaway idea he’d had earlier, or so I’d thought.

Again, I fake being fine, flash an I-am-not-dying-inside smile. “I’ll talk to him at dinner. Dad, want to get some grub?”

His eyes light up like I’ve gifted him the moon. “Let’s go,” he says, then tosses me a wink. “And you’ll give me all the details on what you’ve been up to.”

My chest burns. He doesn’t even have to say the word boyfriend, and he’s right back at it, rocking my boat.

Tucker elbows me. “Yeah, who’s the mystery guy?”

I shake my head and force out a laugh. “No one. Dad’s just busting my chops.”

Yeah, romance and me—that’s fucking hilarious.

So damn entertaining.

“Someone you left behind in San Francisco?” Tucker asks with a frown. “Let me tell you, I miss my girlfriend. Marissa’s back home in Manhattan.”

“You’ll get to see her soon,” I say, hoping to deflect attention.

“I can’t wait. And hey, bring your guy to a game,” Tucker calls as I ferry my dad out of there. “We’ll all get a bite to eat after. Marissa, you, me, and your dude.”

I don’t even shower. I just change and get the hell away from my teammates and their offers to double-date.

At a nearby restaurant, my father dives into his chicken pasta like he’s never eaten before. “This is so good,” he moans around the food.

“Glad you’re enjoying it,” I say as I slice a piece of steak.

“So much. Now, can we settle something once and for all?”

I finish chewing and set down my fork. “Sure.”

“You.” He waggles a utensil my way along with a pointed look, and then proceeds to play amateur shrink and play it badly. “You shut people out. You’re afraid to love. Since your mom and I split, you worry the same could happen to you.”

“No. That’s not my concern.”

He tilts his head, shoots me a sympathetic look. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Doubt lines his eyes. “I care about you. I want you to be happy. You looked so damn happy in that picture from the other night.” He means the shot of Grant and me flanking a fan, a social media post he texted me about the next day.

Dragging a hand down my face, I groan. “Dad, I was happy because I was at a hockey game. It’s that simple. You’ve got to stop spinning things into what they’re not,” I insist.

He scoffs. “Come on. Grant Blackwood. He’s a good-looking guy.” He taps his sternum. “Look, I’m straight, but I can tell. You’d be foolish not to like him.”

Hearing him breathe Grant’s name chills my bones.

I’m back in time to every occasion he came home drunk, all the times he wouldn’t let go of a topic. Was your mom messing around with her co-worker? Is that why she’s so happy? Did you see anything fishy? Tell me, please tell me. Just please fucking tell me.

No, Dad. There’s nothing going on. Just stop.

There was nothing going on.

“Stop. Just stop,” I beg. “Just tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you need.” My voice trembles, this close to snapping. I cannot let him breathe Grant’s name anymore. I cannot let this shit rain down on the man I love. If word gets out that we had a spring training fling, I don’t know what it’ll do to Grant’s gameplay.

I don’t give a flying fuck that people know I date men. I don’t care if someone prints in a gossip rag that I went out with a TV star, a blues singer, an Internet exec.

Coming out is the best thing I ever did, but it doesn’t make me Teflon. It isn’t a sword that’ll save me or save Grant.

Being out doesn’t make it okay that I fucked a teammate. That’s a line you don’t cross, no matter your orientation, no matter whether you live in or out of the closet.

I crossed it, and now the consequences are knocking on my door—and Grant’s.

A rumor would look bad for me, but it’d be ten degrees of horrible for the rookie who’s not even on the roster yet. I have to stop it.

And I know how.

“Do you need money?” I ask. I know what shuts him up, but my gut churns at what I’m about to do—enable him.

My father winces like he’s embarrassed. But he’s not. This isn’t the first time he’s asked me for dough. I doubt it’ll be the last time I give it to him.

“Kara kicked me out,” he says, his voice wobbly. “Because I went drinking with Cousin Barry a couple of weeks ago. But it was just once. One night. It was because we got some bad news about our tow truck business.”

I brace myself. “What’s the news?”

“I owe some money, and Barry and I are going to lose the shop if I don’t pay up. If I can just get it back up and running, I’ll return to AA. I swear.” Now he’s the one begging. Our roles—they change on a dime.

I lick my lips, swallow roughly. “How much do you need?”

He gives me a figure. Five figures. A very high five figures.

I don’t blink. “I’ll help you out,” I tell him, hating myself, but doing it anyway.

His haggard face lights up. “You will?”

I nod. “I will.”

Relief floods his features. “I love you.”

I’m quiet for a few long seconds, then I find the will to speak. “I love you too,” I manage to say, unsure if it’s true. “Do you have any place to stay tonight?”

“Motel down the street.”

“Let me get you a nice hotel. I’ll stay with you.”

On its surface, the offer seems generous.

Kind.

Like a good son.

A grateful smile lights up his face. I’m grateful too—that I can be his probation officer tonight. That I’ve got an ankle cuff for him now. A muzzle too, one that’ll buy me enough time and distance that he can’t hurt Grant or me.

He has no evidence of the affair, so all I have to do is keep denying it, and eventually, Dad will drop it.

We finish eating, and he doesn’t mention Grant, or a boyfriend again.

At the hotel, I check him into a room, and after he showers, he collapses on the bed, chats about Barry and their plans, talks about the steps he needs to work on in AA, and the amends he wants to keep making, including for how he handled my coming out.

Soon enough, he talks himself into sleep.

Alone with my thoughts, I text Brady, tell him I’m crashing with family, then I stare at my phone for thirty minutes.

My fingers tap out a message that feels like a guillotine.

I am putting my own head under the blade and letting it fall.

Can I do this?

With my dad snoring away, I stare endlessly at the screen, at the message.

I don’t send it, though.

I’m not sure I can.

My head pounds mercilessly, a bone-deep hammering. My leg bounces a mile a minute.

I could call Emma. Could talk to my mom. Maybe my stepdad. Could ask someone for advice. But then I’d have to explain. Admit I’ve been giving my dad money from time to time. Admit I fell for a guy on my team. Admit I don’t have my shit together.

Once I crack open this can of worms, it’ll spread inside me like a disease. I won’t have the strength to do what I need to do.

I need to fix the problem I created.

But there’s one thing to do first.

I click away from my messages and check the spring training scores, and I smile.

For the first time in a few days, Grant got a hit. A single that amounted to nothing, but still, that’s a helluva lot better than hitless. Plus, no errors. No passed balls.

As I mull that over, his name blasts across my notifications.

I sit bolt upright, nearly dropping the phone like it can see inside me. Like it knows my secrets and what I’m about to do.

With nervous fingers, I click open the text.

Grant: I followed your advice. Shifted my back knee. Thanks, man. Hope your first game was good.

That’s all.

A simple update.

A gorgeous, beautiful, heart-pounding update.

One that makes me ache and want.

One that tugs on every corner of my heart.

This news is what I hoped for.

And it’s also an obvious sign.

My guy is playing better than he did when I was there. When I was sneaking into his room every night, feeding my desires, getting in his head with my bottomless need for him.

Scrubbing my palm across the back of my neck, I replay the games that fell during the time we messed around. The Scoundrels, the Sharks, the Bandits . . . His worst games occurred when he was seeing me.

He made mistakes on the field during the day when I was seducing him, teaching him, touching him at night.

When I was a gluttonous lover, asking for more, then asking for yet another bite.

Ah, hell. I am a greedy, selfish bastard.

But I was with him last night too.

I close my eyes, my head falling back against the couch as I recall our time at The Lazy Hammock.

“But nothing during the season, right? We’ve got to focus on baseball during the season,” Grant had said.

The man underlined his needs. Highlighted them in neon ink. Made it clear what he could and couldn’t handle—no talking, no texting.

And I still pushed.

I still prodded.

I said give me more.

“Do we really have to go cold turkey? What if we talked? What if we FaceTimed? What if we Skyped?” I’d asked him.

More, gimme more.

I’m just like my father, asking for more than I’ve earned. More than I deserve.

I knew Grant wouldn’t turn me down. That I’d get everything I wanted, no matter the cost to him.

There is no room for love and baseball as a rookie.

Only baseball.

I am a distraction.

My heart caves in on itself, aching with what I’m about to do. Grant won’t, so I’ll have to.

Returning to my messages, I check the time. It’s after midnight on the east coast, a few hours earlier in Arizona. I type out the rest of the text to Grant. If I get on the phone with him, I’ll cave. If I call him, I’ll tell him everything.

Because he’s the one I want to call for advice.

He’s the one I want to ask for help.

He’s the one.

But I can’t lay my burdens at his feet where they’ll trip him up.

I have to be strong.

Make a clean break.

It’s all I can do. It’s all I’m good at, anyway.

I finish the message.

Declan:This is killing me, Grant. You have to know. But making plans was a mistake. We can’t do this. Any of this, including November. Miami is a bad idea.

I schedule my phone to send it in thirty minutes, then I get to work cleaning up the broken glass of my life.

I don’t trust my father. I don’t trust him to stay away from me, from my teammates, from baseball. I need him far, far away. As he sleeps, I make plans. I call Barry, my dad’s cousin in Oakland, and ask if he’ll take him in as they focus on the shop.

Barry says he will, and I buy a plane ticket as we talk. He’ll pick my dad up tomorrow at the Oakland airport.

Thirty minutes later, I set my phone to do not disturb except for my six-thirty alarm.

The next morning when I turn on my phone there are no messages.

No missed calls.

But then, the do-not-disturb option on my phone never shows missed calls. I shake my head now, disgusted at myself for hoping for a missed call.

If I’m making a clean break, Grant probably is too.

But hell, does it ever hurt, this silence.

I suppose I ought to be grateful for it. If Grant had called, he might have tried to talk me out of breaking things off. If I heard his voice, I’d give in. Go back.

In a heartbeat.

I can’t. I just can’t. I’m no good for him, and I have to think about him now. Not me.

Besides, what kind of coward wants his boyfriend to talk him out of breaking up?

I don’t deserve him.

I focus on the here and now.

Before I go to the ballpark, I check out of the hotel, take my dad to the airport, and walk him to security. Before he goes through the turnstile, I transfer him money. More than five figures.

It feels like hush money.

Probably because it is.