Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely
Declan
“Tell me. Tell me now.” Grant pushes his finger against my sternum, demanding it.
I clear my throat, trying to collect myself, trying to breathe past the balloon of awesome occupying my chest. “I want to be stuck with you. I’ll take your twelve million. And I’ll give you twelve million more. Asking for a trade was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.
“You’re a moonshot, Grant. You’re a grand slam. Of course I’d do everything I could to be with you.” I pull him closer. “This is my everything. And the fact that you’re asking me to live with you is all I could ever want. So, I say yes.”
Grant goes soft and melty, his eyes shining with happiness. “You’re my walk-off home run.”
That’s all I need to hear.
I smother him in kisses. Because I can. Because I want to. And because I want him to feel all the certainty, all the love that he’s given to me. He wraps his arms around me, hauls me in close, and lets me kiss his forehead.
I’m learning that’s something he seems to crave. Gentle, tender touches. A kiss on the cheek. A sniff of the hair. An arm around his shoulders.
I love that I can give him what he needs. He’s given me so much. His love is never qualified; it never has a price tag. He loves hard and big, and he supports me in ways I didn’t know I needed but now can never go without.
As I hold him close, all I can think is these are couple goals.
Five years later, I have them. I have him. I have everything.
That evening, I have a job to do, and a boyfriend who’s going to be in the stands rooting for me.
The only issue is he’s going to need to hold his applause till after the game. “Now, don’t go all crazy wearing a Steele jersey, okay?” I instruct as I head down the stairs.
“As if I’d do that,” he scoffs.
“Maybe I can get you some Rafe Rodmans with my number on them. Custom-made.”
“I’d wear the hell out of them,” Grant says. He tosses me the keys to his Tesla from the entryway table. He insisted I take his car tonight, so I kiss him goodbye and leave for work.
Even though I’ve been playing for ten years, switching to a new team—my third team—dredges up those old high school nerves. Will they like me? Will I fit in? Will I do a good job?
I can only control one of those things, so I focus on that. On playing the game.
I punch up my playlist. My 90s rockers help me get in the zone, so I turn to Eddie Vedder, Kurt Cobain, and Axl Rose as I drive familiar roads through the city that was once my home and now is again, in a new and better way.
The music centers me, wipes away the lingering worries as I pull into the players’ lot and the stadium and park my boyfriend’s car.
That makes me smile.
I’m driving Grant Blackwood’s car to work.
I head into the ballpark through the players’ entrance, where the team’s general manager waits for me with a big, welcoming grin. We chat along the way to the locker room, and she tells me the Dragons have number eighteen already stitched on my jersey.
“Hopefully, you’ll feel at home here right away,” she says.
“I already do,” I tell her.
I go into the locker room, say hi to the team’s PR guy, a cool dude named Owen. We spoke on the phone yesterday as he was prepping the news about my trade. “Anything you need, any time of day, just let me know,” Owen says.
"I will,” I tell him.
Then he introduces me to my new coach—a former minor leaguer named Edward Thompson—and after that I say hi to my new teammates.
Holden stretches his arms out wide. “Lucky us! Who would have thought? A couple weeks ago you were doling out wisdom, and now you’re my double-play partner,” he booms, the first to greet me, with a clap on the back.
“Life works in mysterious ways,” I remark, then I say hi to Gunnar, the team’s third baseman, to Dante, the starting pitcher, and to the rest of the guys.
“Let’s do this,” Holden says. He seems poised to become a team leader. I’ll have to tell Grant later that I’ve got a good feeling about his best friend’s guy.
We head to the field, stretch, and take batting practice. A reporter calls me over, so I give a comment to the media about the trade, then we make our way to the dugout before the start of the game.
As I go, I walk along the first baseline, my gaze straying to the second row.
I stop in my tracks.
Grant told me he was lining up everyone, but I am surprised by the strength of the emotions hitting me all at once.
My man sits on the first baseline, along with my mom, Tyler, River, Reese, Chance, Sierra, Crosby, Sullivan, and Miguel. So many friendly faces. So many people from different parts of my life. My mother, who guided me when I needed her most, and her husband, who’s the best man she’s ever known. My baseball friends, who were my crew once upon a time, and who I hope will be again.
Grant’s sister is here too, and I recognize her from the picture Grant showed me once upon a time. There’s my boyfriend’s best friend, Reese—his rock, and I’m damn glad he’s had her by his side for his whole life. Then, there’s River, the outgoing bar owner who was the first person to witness the intensity of my feelings for Grant Blackwood.
Most of all, there’s Grant.
The man I love wholeheartedly.
He tries to rein in a smile for me, but it’s futile. He grins big and wide. Crosby gives a loud hoot, Chance joining in too. Sullivan and Miguel do some kind of dance. Mom shouts at the top of her lungs, “Go Dragons!”
Maybe I’ll make a Dragons fan out of her after all.
As I regard all of them, my heart squeezes, then grows a little bigger as it tries to climb up my throat. The scene is overwhelming. A bit foreign. But it’s also energizing—not a single one of them is going to stumble drunk onto the field. None of them will cross lines. And, God forbid, if someone else shows up, I’ll know how to handle it now.
I’ve learned how to deal with the shit life throws at you.
Learned how to handle the hard stuff without losing the good stuff.
Like that guy who made all of this happen—Grant is the good stuff.
So are all these people. So is this game.
I wave to the crew then head to the dugout to wait for the announcer to call the starting lineup. First the visiting team. Now, the home team.
“And now, batting third, in his first game as a San Francisco Dragon, is the team’s brand-new shortstop. Hailing from the city by the bay, number eighteen, Declan Steele.”
I trot out to the field, glove in hand, and wave to the crowds. They all cheer. When I look to the first baseline, I find Grant, and our eyes lock.
The end of our secret love affair passes between us. The hidden tryst is over tonight.
The next part of our life together is beginning.
But first, I play ball.
I don’t want to disappoint anyone. Not my friends, or the new team, or my new hometown. I dig in at the plate in each at-bat, getting in the zone, putting on blinders so I’m One-Track Steele, impervious to distractions.
I nab a walk in my first plate appearance, pop out to center next, then hit a clutch single in the seventh inning, which gives the Dragons two RBIs. I pump a fist on my way to first, and I swear Grant cheers the loudest for me. When I reach the bag, the first-base coach pats me on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Dragons, Steele.”
I thank him, then toss a quick glance to the stands. My heart flutters when I spot Grant and he sends a wink in my direction. I try to suppress a grin, but it’s hard. So damn hard.
Since I want to impress my boyfriend.
Those are all new thoughts swarming my brain. But absolutely cool ones.
