Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely
Grant
This is the kind of text I like getting from him.
Declan:Just ran into Crosby and Holden when I was leaving the coffee shop around the block. Pretty sure they won’t put two and two together about why I stayed an extra night in San Francisco and ran into them a block from where you live. Straight guys can be so clueless. It’s fucking adorable.
Grant:Ha! I know! I’ll throw them off the scent even more. It’ll be a blast.
Declan:Can’t wait to hear about it.
I leave a few minutes later, bounding down the steps in my workout clothes just as Holden and Crosby are heading up to my front door.
Crosby shoots me a curious look, gesturing to my hair. Hmmm. I have a feeling it’s still sticking up in all sorts of directions thanks to Declan’s fingers mowing their way through it.
“You’ve been DoorDashing on a Saturday afternoon?” Crosby asks.
I smirk, rolling my eyes as I flip him the bird. “Yeah, I had a burger and a blow job. Let’s go hit the gym.”
As we work out, the three of us get lost in our own worlds. I’m not a mind reader, so I can’t speak for Holden and Crosby, but I know where my mind is.
I text Declan as I kill it on the treadmill, sweat sliding down my skin.
Grant:Told them I DoorDashed. Had a burger and a blow job.
Declan:How was the burger?
Grant:Fanfuckingtastic. Was it a good one for you too?
Declan:The best. By the way, thanks for the hat. Smells like your shampoo. Which means I’m hard.
Grant:So, pretty much how it always is with you when it comes to me?
Declan:Yup.
Grant:I’d ask for a dick pic, but you’re at an airport. You can send me one tonight.
Grant:Wait. Pretend I didn’t ask that.
Grant:I’m ignoring you for three months.
Grant:I’m ignoring you so fucking hard.
Declan:Watch it, rookie. You’re not ignoring me. No way. Also, you act like you can stop me from sending you a pic. But I will. I definitely will.
Grant:Score!
Declan:Hey . . .
Grant:Hey to you . . .
Declan:Thank you—for giving me another chance.
I smile as I hit four miles at a ten percent incline, running hard and fast. This feels amazing, like anything is possible.
Grant:Remember last night when you said therapy was like spilling your guts and hoping people still want to hang out with you?
Declan:I do.
Grant:I want to hang out with you more than ever.
Declan keeps his promise to send me a selfie that night. I make excellent use of it.
Since I’m generous that way, I send him one too.
He also makes use of it.
A few days later, I land in Arizona, step off the plane, and snap a shot of Camelback Mountain to post on my social media feeds. Four greatest words in the English language to a baseball fan:Pitchers and Catchers Report.
Declan Steele is the first person to like my post.
The next day, I go for a run around the golf course, stopping to take a picture of two herons. I don’t post that on social. I send it to him.
Grant:It’s Apollo and . . . wait . . . let’s give him a new name since that story has the “November Rain” problem too.
Seconds later, he replies.
Declan:Apollo and T.S. Eliot?
Grant:Done. I’ve renamed them.
Declan:I always suspected you were a revisionist heron historian.
Grant:Speaking of Eliot, I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. You told me it was your favorite.
Declan:And do you hate it like “November Rain”? It’s got some mixed messages in it too, I admit.
Grant:I don’t hate“November Rain.” I like the song, but not the sentiment. I like Prufrock. But I DID think this line could use some improvement. Do I dare to eat a peach?
Declan:I’ll bite. What would you change it to?
Grant:Do I dare to suck a cock?
Declan:Has anyone ever told you that you have the dirty mind of a twelve-year-old?
Grant:Dear God, I hope no twelve-year-old has my mind. It’s an X-rated carnival in my head sometimes.
Declan:What sort of games and rides are open at the Grant Blackwood Wonderland?
Grant:The Steel Rod Rub-Off Intimidator. The Down-and-Dirty-Rim-Job Merry-Go-Round. The Suck-Me-Off-In-the-Sky Ferris Wheel. The Great Double-Banger. The Flip-Fuck Fiesta. The Hot, Hidden Hand Job Tilt-A-Whirl. Oh, and the Sixty-Nine Simultaneous Jizzer.
Declan:You. Win. The. Text. Messages. Forever.
Grant:Thank you very much. Step right up and get your tickets. Don’t be shy.
Declan:I’ll take an all-access pass, please. Every ride. All day long.
Grant:I had a feeling you’d be buying a party pack.
Declan:I’m going to ride all your rides.
Grant:First choice?
Declan:That’s cruel. How can I pick? But if I have to, I’ve got a reel playing in my head of you and me sixty-nining.
Grant:It’s like we share a dirty brain sometimes.
Declan:Why not? We share plenty of other organs.
Grant:By the way, do you see how I’m running solo? I’d suggest you do the same. As in, you better not find a new workout partner when you go to Tampa.
He sends me back a gif of Robert Downey Jr. rolling his eyes.
Grant:I definitely deserved that.
Declan:You did.
I return to my audio book as I run, a smile sneaking across my face at the realization that not once have I wanted to throw my phone at the wall. I definitely don’t want to chuck it a few mornings later when I wake up to a hilariously adorable text from my favorite Comet.
Declan:Question. What does one wear clubbing?
Laughing, I write back.
Grant:Dude, are you planning your outfit for a date three months—no, more than three months from now?
Declan:Evidently.
Grant:I love it! You keep that up and you’ll be upgraded to the Platinum Gay Card in no time.
That earns me another eye-rolling gif. I reply with my best fashion tip.
Grant:Honestly, I want to grind against you no matter what you’ve got on. But jeans and a tight shirt that show off your smoking hot bod are enough for me. Why are you asking?
Declan:Just figuring I’ll need to work through my dancing issues in therapy too. Might as well get started now.
I crack up, loving this new self-deprecating side of him. Most of all, I love that he’s showing it to me.
Grant:For the record, I can’t wait to go dancing with you. And if dancing isn’t your thing, I’ll lead. All you’ll have to do is just move with me. I’ll make it nice and easy.
Declan:It’s not my thing, but I do want to go with you. I can tell it’ll make you happy.
Grant:It will make me so happy to dance with you.
Declan:That is all I need to know. I’m there.
A few days later, the position players arrive for training. Once the whole team is here, we convince the rookies that Crosby can do the triple lift. Sullivan, Miguel, Chance, and I cover them in ketchup and baby powder, and for the first time in six years I don’t feel a pang in my heart during this ritual.
Our manager appears, parks his hands on his hips, and laughs his ass off. “All right, gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, get your asses to work. Rookies, hit the showers.”
The rookies rush to the locker room while the troublemakers among us head to the dugout to put our condiment weapons away.
“Remember when that was us?” Sullivan asks.
“How could I forget?” I certainly can’t, but I can enjoy that memory now that it’s good again.
Better than good.
That’s life with Declan in it.
My life was good before. Hell, my life was great.
Now, it’s even better.
That night, Declan calls for no reason. “Just wanted to hear your voice,” he says.
“That’s the best reason to call.”
I tell him about the triple lift, and he laughs. “Maybe I’ll get that going here too. Tucker and Brady would get a kick out of it,” he says. “You’d think by now the word would get out and spoil the prank.”
“Or maybe the rookies keep quiet so they can keep up the tradition when they’re the veterans.”
Declan chuckles again, faint and fond. “I can still picture the way you were smiling that day,” he says.
“You might have had something to do with my mood.”
“Let’s keep that up.”
“Works for me.”
When I hit my first home run of spring training, my guy texts me a surprise that night.
Declan:Let’s play a game. Every time you get a hit, I’ll send you your favorite kind of selfie. You in?
Grant:All in.
Declan:Great, here you go.
The image loads as I walk from the shower into the living area of my hotel suite. The shot is so damn sexy I have to grab hold of the wall so I don’t fall over. It’s Declan unsnapping his jeans, pushing down his boxer briefs, and sliding his hand down his hard length.
I flop down on the couch and FaceTime him, stat.
“Yes, I am going to hit a homer tomorrow,” I say when I see his face.
“Happy to inspire you to go long,” he says.
Then we get inspired together, talking dirty, acting dirtier, till we come together.
It’s a beautiful sight. The way we lose control for each other is a dream come true.
Especially when we come down from our FaceTime high and Declan shoots me that easy grin. “Want to know what I miss the most?”
“Tell me.”
“Kissing you,” he says, kind of dreamy.
“I can’t wait for your lips,” I tell him, feeling stupid in lust and stupid in love at the same time.
It becomes a thing. The better I play, the more the reward.
I’ve always been highly motivated when it comes to baseball. But Declan’s method of positive reinforcement sends that to a whole new level. I have the best spring training ever, and it carries over into Opening Day. I go two-for-four at the plate, and we get our official World Series rings in a pre-game ceremony.
Across the country, Declan knocks in two runs, and the Comets win as well. That night, I call and ask about his game. But he’s more interested in the ring ceremony, so I give him all the details.
“Send me a pic of your ring.”
I do as he asks, and a few seconds later, he hums. “I want one of those,” he says, abject longing in his voice.
“You’ll get one. I know it,” I assure him.
“I don’t know—I’ve been playing for ten years and haven’t even made it to a World Series. Who knows how long I’ll play?”
I sit up straighter in bed. “You’re not thinking of retiring, are you?” I don’t want Declan to hang up his cleats early. He has so much game left in him.
“No way. You’ll have to pull me off the diamond kicking and screaming.” He laughs lightly, but wistfully. “All I’m saying is you never know what’s going to happen. Every year feels like it could be my last.”
“I get what you mean, but I don’t believe it. You’re only thirty-one. You’re going to be playing for a long time. I can feel it.”
“Long enough for you to come to one of my games and root for me?” His voice pitches upward hopefully.
I latch onto that note. “Is that something you want? Me in the stands?”
“Yeah. I do want that.” A happy sigh rumbles over the phone. “I have this fantasy of seeing you in the stands, of us locking eyes. Of calling my shot and hitting a homer for you.”
I laugh, truly tickled by that image. “And when you cross home plate, you’ll jog over to me. I’ll lean over and give you a big smacker. Is that your fantasy too?”
He groans, long and low. “I want that. Badly.” After a moment, he shifts his tone. “Seriously, though, I would love it if you were at one of my games. You don’t even have to kiss me. Just knowing you’re there would rock my world.”
“You know what’s amazing? When someone tells you what he wants. When you know you can give it to him.”
“You’d do that?”
“Yes. I would. I want to rock your world, Declan Steele.”
“You definitely do.”
“And I am sure someday you’ll have a ring.”
And I’ll be at that game, cheering you on.
But, that wish, I hold close to the vest. There’s too much to jinx in it.
“Maybe. But even if I don’t, I’m pretty happy right now,” he says.
“So am I.”
Except for that little matter of a long-distance relationship. We haven’t talked about that—what it looks like long-term, how we’ll make it work beyond May.
On one hand, it seems like we’re navigating the relationship part just fine. But I’m not convinced either one of us knows a thing about how to handle the distance.
