Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

One thing I learn about Grant Blackwood in April: he likes to give gifts. It’s not entirely surprising, but it is absolutely endearing.

The first gift arrives in digital form late one night after a game.

I’m on the subway heading home, tempted to open it. I’ve learned, though, that multimedia texts and emails from Grant are best viewed behind closed doors.

I wait . . . mostly patiently.

Once I’m inside my apartment, I click open the text, and I’m both turned on and amused as I click on a picture of Grant’s ass photoshopped into a Topps baseball card.

A chuckle bursts from me as I read the stats. Instead of batting average, height, and weight, he’s listed:

Firm enough to flick a quarter off it.

Round, tight, and delish.

Your favorite place.

He does include position, though. But rather than catcher, he writes: Versatile AF. Can play all positions and loves all positions.

It’s the best gift ever.

I write back.

Declan:Does this mean you want a dick card?

Grant:Dick card, dick pic, dick drawing. S’all good.

I FaceTime him, so he gets a dick video that turns into a long, late-night phone call where we get ready for bed together.

“Hey,” I say, flashing back to Grant’s first season of pro ball and a convo in the bathroom of a pool hall. “Did you ever learn to cook?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “Nope. I am the king of DoorDash. You’ve barely seen my amazing DoorDash skills. I know the takeout menu of every restaurant in the entire San Francisco metropolitan area.”

“Impressive,” I say as I flop down on my bed. “Do you want to learn to cook?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I’m open to it, but I also love going out to eat. I’m kind of a social person.”

“I’ve noticed. And it’d be fun to go out to dinner with you.”

“Don’t forget breakfast and lunch.”

“I won’t. We’ll do all three.”

On that promising note, we talk for a little longer and say goodnight once we’re both under the covers.

I turn off the light, picture Grant doing the same on his side of the country, and wish we had a date for breakfast tomorrow.

There’s a package waiting for me a few days later, in the mail room of my apartment. The shipping label says Rafe Rodman, but I didn’t order anything. Upstairs, in private, I open the box. Arching a brow, I pull out a pair of black briefs. The underwear isn’t the source of my skepticism—it’s that they are covered with cartoon unicorns.

Declan:Why do you get to wear the snug, solid-color Rafe Rodmans that make me want to fuck you all night long, but I get to wear unicorns?

Grant:Is there some reason you think unicorns on your ass and cock will deter me from wanting to fuck you?

Declan:Fair point.

Grant:Also, you have a unicorn cock. So there.

Declan:Maybe I’ll wear these when I see you next month.

Grant:Is that supposed to be a threat? Because it sounds more like I’m winning.

The third gift arrives the next morning—a DoorDash delivery from my favorite bakery, consisting of a half-dozen everything bagels with organic peanut butter. A note in the bag reads: In case you’re wondering what was on my mind last night in the shower, I hope this makes EVERYTHING clear. -G

I’m grinning as I toast a bagel and tap out a reply.

Declan:In case you’re wondering, I love everything about you . . . every single thing.

But I don’t send that. I want to tell him in person that every day I fall more in love with him, and that I don’t ever plan to fall out.

Instead, I backspace and type something else that’s true.

Declan:In case you’re wondering, I can’t wait to see you. Can’t wait to do everything to you. With you. For you. I just can’t wait.

That feels clear enough. I hit send.

Emma stops by later that day on her way to the Met, where she’s been working. I waggle the bag of bakery treats. “As hard as I try, I can’t eat six bagels in one day. Well, it’s five, now, since I had one already.”

“And you know there is nothing worse than day-old bagels.” She shudders dramatically. “Luckily, I’m here to save the day. Toast one for me?”

“It’s important to have standards,” I say, then drop the bagel into the toaster.

“I want the works,” she says, and I snicker to myself because she’s not getting the full works for an everything bagel.

“Inside joke?” Emma asks.

“Yes, it is.”

She flashes an I knew it grin. “So, you guys have inside jokes, now, and send each other gifts?”

“We do,” I answer.

When the bagel is ready, she bites into it and rolls her eyes in gastronomic delight. Once she swallows, she fixes me with a no-nonsense stare. “Declan Steele, when a man like Grant Blackwood sends you bagels this good, shares insider jokes, and ships you gifts, you have to find a way to be with him.”

Those feel like words to live by.

One thing I’ve learned at therapy: shrinks will wait for you to find the answer.

Mine has an Oprah vibe, both in her looks and her demeanor. She’s patient, wise, and inviting.

When I walk into Carla’s homey, earth-toned office on West Seventy-Second Street on a Wednesday afternoon in May, I’m armed with questions.

I sink onto her couch and fire away. “Do you think I’m ready? Do you think I’ve been getting away with murder the last few months? Do you think I’ll slide into old habits?”

She smiles softly—sagely too—as she crosses her legs. “Would you like me to answer all three at once, or should we start at the top?”

“Fine. We can take it one at a time,” I say with a faux huff.

“Okay. Question one. Are you ready?” She leans forward, tilts her head, studies me. “Are you, Declan?”

I breathe deeply, looking inside for the answer. It feels just out of reach. “That’s what I want to know.”

“Did you come here a year ago to be ready for a relationship, or did you come here to learn better skills—ones that can help you in any relationship?”

“The latter?”

“Is it a question?” she asks with a light laugh.

“The latter,” I say decisively.

“I’d say so too. So, Declan, do you think you’ve put those skills into practice?”

I cycle back over the last year—the way I’ve been open with my mom, letting her deeper into my life, telling her about Grant; the way I talk to Emma; the way I shared with Nadia; and most of all, how I am with Grant.

But also, maybe even most importantly, how I’ve handled my dad. Turns out not giving him a ride unlocked something in me.

Erecting that boundary gave me a new kind of freedom—to live life on my terms. It gave me the freedom to talk to Grant during spring training—and after spring training, and for the entire month of April. Also, for all of May so far.

“Yes. I talk to Grant almost every day,” I say, then amend that. “Every day. We talk every day. As you know.”

Carla nods. “As I know.”

“Should I feel guilty about that? Am I breaking the promise I made to myself? To you?”

“Do you feel guilty about talking to him?”

It’s a fair question. “I thought I would. I worried I would be going back on my word. But I don’t feel guilty at all. I feel calm.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Maybe I was more ready than I thought?”

She nods a few times, like she’s considering my answer and hasn’t been waiting for me to arrive on my own. “Or maybe you had to become ready sooner,” she says. “Life doesn’t always come at you in neat packages and timelines. Life and love happen on their own schedule.”

I reach for the green pillow on the couch, absently running a hand down it then bouncing my knee, fidgeting. “Are you saying I sped things up with Grant?”

She leans forward. “I’m saying what you did in February was what you wanted to do. Right?”

“Yes.” By February she means the weekend of the awards, when I reconnected with Grant officially, and that was exactly what I wanted to do.

“And since then, you’ve been doing what you want, haven’t you? Talking to him. Staying in touch. Being . . . boyfriends?”

A breath stutters from my lips. Is that what we are? Grant and I haven’t defined us at all. But with a few simple questions from Carla, here we are. Completely defined. Completely obvious.

“He’s my boyfriend,” I confirm, and my God, it feels incredible to say that out loud.

My therapist smirks, then laughs a little bit, seeming pleased. “Pretty hard to call him anything else.”

I smile too, relaxing back into the brown couch. “It’s impossible to call him anything else.”

She swings her foot back and forth. “How does it feel to call him that?”

I half want to ask her the same question. How did it feel when she met the woman who became her wife?

Maybe I’m not as messed up as I thought. Maybe I’ve had enough of a foundation in other ways—my own beliefs about who I give my business to, the lessons I learned from it, the love shared by my mother and then my stepfather. I have great friendships, a sport I love. Maybe I simply needed to get out of the way of my own happiness.

Carla has been my guide in getting this far. My Sherpa.

“It feels great,” I say, relieved. “The last few months have been . . .” I think about these recent times with Grant. I haven’t seen him, in person, but I’ve learned everything I needed. “I thought I needed to stick to a plan. To have everything in order. But maybe what I really needed was to know we could be together like this and not lose ourselves,” I tell Carla. “That I could trust myself with his heart because the last thing I want is to hurt him. Maybe I needed to know, too, he could handle baseball and me.”

“That is a lot to handle,” she deadpans.

“It is. But look at him. He’s killing it. He’s amazing on the field, and he’s amazing with me.” I scrub a hand across my jaw. “I’m so damn lucky.”

She smiles, even bigger this time, more pleased. “Seems you’re having a relationship. Maybe even a healthy one?”

I catch myself looking down to hide my smile. But why should I conceal it?

I meet her eyes. “I think so.”

“So, let me turn your questions around. Do you think you’re ready? Do you think you’ve been getting away with murder? Do you think you’re going to backslide?”

For the first time in a year of work, I answer with certainty. “I’m ready. I’m not getting away with murder. And I won’t let myself slide into old habits.”

That night, I head to the game in the Bronx and go on a tear on the diamond as we play the San Francisco Dragons, slamming a three-run homer over the left-field fence that sews up a win for my team.

When I go home to my apartment on Park Avenue, I call Grant. “Know what’s coming up soon?”

“Our day off?”

I smile. “Yep.”

“Can’t wait. I have this charity thing for the Alliance the night before. Reese is doing social media for it, and she found this trendy art gallery in the Marina with a terrific view of the bay. Though, if you were in town, I’d probably skip the silent auction and cuddle up with you.” He clears his throat. “And by cuddle, I mean fuck and cuddle.”

“I know exactly what you mean, and I can’t wait for both the fuck-fest and the cuddle-fest. But the event sounds cool too—the type of thing I’d want to attend with you someday. Go together, hold your hand, kiss you on the cheek.” Those are my couple goals, and I want to reach them.

“We would be so cute. They’d love us,” Grant says.

I laugh. “Poster men for the Alliance, eh?”

“Well . . . if the shoe fits. Too bad you’re only in town one night. The silent auction kicks off a weekend-long carnival the Alliance is doing for teens and local high schoolers.” He tells me more about the carnival and his role, and it sounds like a blast.

“I wish I were there to go with you.”

“Going with you sounds as nice as a cuddle-fest.”

“It does.” I clear my throat and broach a topic I’ve been wanting to talk about for three months. “When I see you, do you want to try to figure out how to do this thing?”

“You mean like long-term?”

“I do mean long-term, Grant. I feel long-term for you. All kinds of long-term,” I say, my heart thrumming.

He hums like I’ve made him so damn happy. “I do want to figure it out. I want to be with you,” he says. He is as serious as I am, and that’s all that matters to me.

We’re on the same page.

If only our circumstances would align a little more.

The next morning, I go for a run in Central Park with Holden, who’s in town for our series with the Dragons. As we round the Reservoir, we catch up on things with his new coach, then life, then dating.

“Are you still all nose to the grindstone, focused only on baseball?” I ask.

“Pretty much. I haven’t seen anyone for the last two years.” Then, he adds like it’s a secret, “Well, except for this one woman.”

“Then, there is someone?”

“Sort of,” he says, as noncommittal as one can get.

Maybe it’s the session yesterday with Carla. Maybe it’s the end of years of uncertainty. But fuck noncommittal.

“Why ‘sort of’?” I demand. “You either know or you don’t know. What’s the story?”

“She was out of the country for a while. It sounds crazy, because I didn’t even know her that well, but now I do, and I think she’s why I didn’t date for two years. Pretty sure in some ways, I was waiting for her to come back.”

I shake my head. “Man, you’ve got a second chance with someone you waited two years for, and you’re only on the sort of path with her?”

“It’s not that simple,” he protests.

“Second chances never are, but if you’ve got one, don’t squander it. Do everything to make it happen,” I say, my tone way intense for a morning run.

Or maybe it’s exactly as intense as it should be.

Because Holden’s not the only one who needs to follow that advice.