Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

The thing about being a pro athlete is you need to eat. That gives me the chance to show off my expert food-ordering skills once again.

When I hit send on the DoorDash order with Crosby’s mom’s organic café in the city, a reply lands in a minute.

Great game today! Order will be there in ten minutes. - Oscar

Laughing, I show it to Declan.

He arches a brow as he pulls his jeans back up. We’re in my bedroom, putting on clothes since the food is on its way.

“Who’s Oscar?”

“My regular,” I admit sheepishly.

“You have a regular DoorDash person? Why not get a concierge at this point? Maybe you need a PA just for your food orders,” he teases as he snaps his jeans and pulls on his polo.

Rolling my eyes, I put on shorts and a T-shirt. “Anyway, he knows me.”

Awareness flickers in Declan’s eyes. “Ah, so I shouldn’t answer the door with you.”

I flinch, hating that we’re hiding.

I close the distance. “That’s not it. I just want to tell our friends first. I don’t want them to see on Twitter or some sports gossip site that you were spotted at my house,” I say, reaching for his hand. “And I don’t want the teens I volunteer with through the Alliance to find out from anyone other than me—than us, you know?”

Declan smiles softly, presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m not worried. Not about that. Not one bit.” When he pulls back, he runs a thumb over my jaw. “But when and how do you want to do this?”

The corner of my lips quirk in a grin. “Well, I had an idea . . .”

I tell him, laying out my plan. One that will kick in tomorrow night.

“I love it. I’m all in,” Declan says.

“Good. Now I have a little gift for you.”

“I do love your gifts,” he says.

We head to the kitchen, and I open the fridge, hunting for something I made for him. While I poke around the shelves, I give him a butt waggle—I’m thoughtful like that.

He whistles his approval. “Yes, I like the view a whole lot.”

I freeze. His words—I like the view—echo, filling my mind with ideas. I could get used to the view of him too. Right here in my house. Just like this.

In seconds, I build the Jenga Tower of what that might look like. Him and me in my home.

Is it too soon, though?

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure,” I say absently, trying to focus on the task at hand, rather than create a wobbly tower for a future too damn soon.

“You kind of zoned out for a minute.”

I blink, collecting my thoughts. “I was just thinking of a fastball I called for the other day, wondering if it was the best one,” I lie, then reach for the pitcher of iced tea.

Straightening, I turn, set the pitcher on the corner, and gesture with a flourish. “Ta-da.”

“What have we here?”

“I made you iced tea,” I say proudly.

“Whoa.”

“I know, I know. Prepare to be amazed.”

He hums, lifts a questioning brow. “Is it any good?”

I park my hands on my hips. “It’s tea. How hard can it be to make it good?”

“Let’s find out,” he says, then spins around, scanning my cupboards. “Where do you keep the glasses?”

I point to the cabinet with the cups. As Declan strides over to grab a glass, the ideas stack higher. But are they a Jenga tower? Will they come toppling down?

He offers me a glass. “Want some?”

“Yes.” I try to stay in the here and now.

He pours two glasses, and I sit next to him on a stool at the counter, grabbing my phone. “I’m going to invite peeps tomorrow. To the game,” I say as he slides me a glass.

“Sounds good. Are you telling them over text that you have a killer crush on the town’s hottest new athlete?” he asks as he lifts his glass.

I shoot him a don’t-tempt-me look. “If that’s what you want me to say, I will.”

Declan laughs, shakes his head, takes a drink. His eyes flash with approval as he swallows. When he sets down the glass, he wraps an arm around me, tugs me close. He drops his nose into my hair, inhales me, presses a kiss to the top of my head. Goose bumps cover me and I close my eyes and set down my phone without opening my texts. “This is the best worst iced tea I’ve ever had,” he whispers.

I jerk away. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It tastes like sludge,” he says, but his tone says it tastes like heaven.

“Why do you say it like that? Like you like my sludge?”

“Because it’s so cute that you made it for me. It’s the sweetest thing in a long list of sweet boyfriend things you’ve done. Even if your iced tea tastes terrible.”

“But I bought fancy tea bags. New Republic or something,” I say, gesturing to the pitcher of . . . well, sludge.

“It’s not the brand. I think maybe you used twenty when you needed five.”

I crinkle my nose. “There’s a recipe for iced tea?”

Declan cracks up, tossing his head back. “Yes. It’s a thing you eat or drink like anything else. It has a recipe.” He heaves a sigh. “We really do need cooking classes, don’t we?”

“Iced tea classes too,” I grumble.

“But I love the thought,” he says.

“I told you—I’m good at ordering, not making,” I say, then grab my phone again and brandish it. “I’m excellent at socializing. Let me get these texts out.”

I fire off a group text to Crosby, Holden, Chance, Sierra, Sullivan, and Miguel, inviting them to the Dragons game tomorrow against the Chicago Sharks.

Grant:Did you hear the news? Former Coug Declan Steele is back in town, playing shortstop for the other team. Tix are on me. First pitch is at seven. In or out?

I fire off a note to River, inviting him, then I send a separate note to Reese.

Grant:Soooooo . . . Declan’s here. At my house. We’re together. As in together together. We have been since February. It’s amazing. We’re crazy in love, and I didn’t tell you because . . . we’ve been trying to figure out how to make everything work. But since he’s going to be in town it’s going to work better than I ever imagined. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. I’ll tell you everything next time I see you, but for now, do you want to go to the Dragons game tomorrow with a bunch of us? You and me can root for our boyfriends. What a crazy thought. Our boyfriends play on the same team.

After I hit send, she replies at the speed of light.

Reese: SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!!!!!!!!!!! I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU, AND YOU’RE IN TROUBLE FOR NOT TELLING ME.

I show the Reese exchange to Declan.

He smiles like he can’t stop, then the doorbell rings. Bounding over to it, I say hi to Oscar, thank him, and bring the food to the kitchen. We eat and make a plan for telling the rest of our friends, then we go to bed, crashing together upstairs in my bedroom.

Knowing he’s not leaving tomorrow is the best thing ever.

In the morning, I wake to his arms around me, and his erection pressed against my back.

He’s still the only man who’s ever spent the night.

Pretty sure he’s the only one who ever will.

When he stirs, I take advantage of our morning wood, turning around, pressing my body against his, and soon, very soon, he’s on his back, I’m grinding against him, and we’re enjoying the best way ever to wake up.

A morning rub-off.

After we clean up, we’re back in bed, curled together, talking, laughing, planning our day.

I could get used to this view.

The view of him.

Him and me.

The idea of us isn’t a Jenga tower at all. It’s Lego-block solid and steady.

That means it’s time to ask him a question.