Winning With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  * * *

  Grant: Of course Speedos are your favorite.

  * * *

  River: Yours too. Just admit it. You love watching swimming.

  * * *

  Grant: Honestly, I like hockey for the strategy.

  * * *

  River: Said no one ever. Anyhoo, keep me posted on how it goes seeing Mr. Tall, Dark and Totally History. Also, strike his ass out.

  * * *

  I grin as I read his last text, loving the sentiment, loving that he’s in my corner.

  * * *

  Grant: That’s up to the pitchers, but I’ll do my part.

  * * *

  River: I have no doubt you will. And I’ll see you soon. I’m heading back to SF later in the fall to visit family. We’ll have to check out the best gay bars in the city. I insist. It’s research. Wink, wink.

  * * *

  Grant: Right. It’s only for research.

  * * *

  River: Fine, fine. Research and hookups. I can totally multitask. What about you?

  * * *

  Grant: I’ll let you know when I’m ready.

  * * *

  I turn off the phone as the plane takes off, soaring into the sky.

  Will I be ready then? Who knows—I haven’t hooked up with anyone since spring training.

  Maybe that’s for the best. My stats certainly seem to think so. We’re well into September, and I’ve already hit more than thirty home runs. Plus, my batting average is more than .300. I have zero complaints.

  Once we reach our cruising altitude, Crosby unhooks his seatbelt, strolling down the aisle to my row. “Rookie,” he says, his voice gruff, like he’s the commander initiating an inquisition on a submarine. “How are your socks?”

  “My socks?”

  Crosby stares sharply at me. “Yes. Your socks.”

  “My socks are just fine.” I tug up the bottom of my jeans to show him my purple socks with zebra print. They’re a gift from my sister—purple is her favorite color, and zebras were her favorite animal growing up. Giving each other silly socks is a long-running joke between us. “Sierra gave me these for my birthday.”

  “Excellent choice. Do you wear the same pair when you’re on a streak? You’ve gotten hits in each of the last ten games. I want to know if you’re wearing the same socks.”

  I shake my head. “Dude, I put these on today. Because I believe in something known as, wait for it, hygiene. Laundry—try it sometime.”

  From the row in front of me, Chance chuckles under his breath.

  Crosby continues the sock query. “Are you sure? Because that is some kind of sorcery you have going on—getting hits in ten games in a row without a pair of lucky socks.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Seriously. No socks were made filthy in the pursuit of my current hitting streak. I change them after every game.”

  He hums doubtfully. “That’s just crazy.”

  Chance pops his head up over the seat back, staring at Crosby with his dark eyes. “No, that’s called being a grown-ass man.”

  Crosby’s eyes shoot death rays at Chance. “Don’t try to tell me you’ve never worn the same pair of socks when you’ve had a couple of saves in a row.”

  Chance shakes his head. “I’m not superstitious in the same way as you.”

  “It’s not even superstitious. I just like to pay homage to the gods of luck, and I do so with fox socks, monkey socks, chipmunk socks, even elephant socks,” Crosby says.

  “And he can tell you which socks he wore to which game,” Chance tells me. “This man has an encyclopedic memory for his socks. It’s pretty scary.”

  Crosby claps a hand on my shoulder. “I do indeed. And that’s why I need to know if you have a favorite animal, Grant. Because I might wear lucky socks in your honor.”

  I bring my hand to my heart. “Aw, that’s so sweet. But why would you do that?”

  Crosby stares at me sharply. “To celebrate the fact that you are on track to be the motherfucking Rookie of the Year, of course.”

  “I wouldn’t go there yet,” I say, even though I’m beaming inside at my teammate’s regard—and the suggestion I might win one of the sport’s most prestigious awards.

  “Yeah. Don’t jinx him,” Chance says.

  Sullivan pops up from next to the closing pitcher. “But G-man, you do have a hell of a shot at it.”

  I ignore the prediction; it would be bad form to lean into it. Instead, I return to Crosby’s question. “My favorite animal . . .” I scratch my head. “Are we five? Do we still have favorite animals?”

  The third baseman rolls his eyes. “We play a game for a living. We absolutely can have favorite animals.”

  Hmm.

  What’s mine?

  Unbidden and red-hot, a memory springs to mind—Declan prowling up the bed like a tiger, taking his sweet-ass time, ready to pounce on me. “Panther,” I say quickly, shoving the image into a locked drawer.

  Crosby smacks the back of the seat. “One pair of panther socks are coming right up in honor of you.” A second later, he furrows his brow. “What are you doing in the off-season?”

  The question jerks my heart out of the carefully controlled orbit where it’s been spinning for the last five and a half months.

  That’s how long it’s been since I made plans with Declan. Five and a half months since we talked about seeing each other in the off-season. Five and a half months since he asked me to meet him in Miami.

  And five and a half months since he called it off.

  Do I miss him?

  Not every second. Not every hour. But probably at some point each day.

  Do I imagine Miami?

  Every so often my mind wanders to what might have been—blue skies and sand, the ocean and sun-kissed skin. Days with no schedule and nights that don’t end.

  My heart lurches, scrambling toward the city in Florida, wanting to throw itself on the beach next to the shortstop.

  But I need to stop imagining what might have been. Declan is in the past, and every day, the memory hurts less.

  Besides, I have new plans.

  “My grandfather had knee surgery this summer, so I’ll be up in Petaluma, spending some time with him and my grandmother.”

  And when I’m not with them, maybe I’ll take River up on his offer to cruise the bars. Or maybe I’ll get on Grindr. It’s been a while. I’d really like to get laid again.

  That, I don’t need to share with the guys.

  “I’ll be around, though,” I add. “Got something in mind?”

  Chance peers over the headrest. “We do some volunteer work with local underprivileged kids—coach and play ball. Want to join us?”

  My smile spreads from the warm, welcomed feeling in the center of my chest all the way across my face. These guys have made me feel like a part of the team since I arrived at spring training—even more so once I made the roster. We’ve gone out, played pool, eaten our meals. But them asking me to participate in something that matters to them this way?

  Hell, yeah.

  “I’m all in,” I say. Maybe if we become closer friends, I can ask them to do something with the organizations that matter to me, like the San Francisco-based LGBTQ Youth Sports Alliance. I just started doing some volunteer work and advocacy, and since my Instagram profile has taken off this year, I boost their signal on my social media.

  But now’s not the time to bring it up with the guys. Not when I’m a rookie. Also, I don’t yet know how far they’d go as straight dudes to stand up for queer kids.

  I suspect Chance will say yes, though. At the start of the season, he told me his twin brother, TJ, is gay.

  “Cool. I’ll get you all the dates,” Crosby tells me, then points at Sullivan. “And you’re joining us too, Sully.”

  Sullivan smiles. “Count me in.”

  A voice rumbles from a row away. It’s Rodriguez, the backup catcher. “And don’t forget, while we’re talking about good causes, we have the foster kids coming to visit next
week. You’re all going to be there to show them around and take batting practice with them.”

  “Absolutely,” I say as the other guys chime in too.

  I’d been worried Rodriguez wouldn’t like me after I won the starting job over him. But after the roster was announced, he pulled me aside and wished me luck, said he’d be my backup for whatever I needed.

  Now, Crosby returns to his seat, but before he can settle in, he swivels around to say, “I forgot the most important thing about our trip to New York.”

  “Winning?” Chance quips in a duh, that’s obvious tone.

  “Okay, that. But this is a close second.” Cupping his hands into a megaphone, he declares loudly, “Declan Steele is having an excellent season.”

  My head goes hazy and conflicted at the mention of his name, just as it has every time he comes up in conversation. Images rise to the surface, and I smack them down like in a Whac-A-Mole game, only for them to return.

  That’s Declan for you. He’s my Whac-A-Mole.

  Crosby continues, “I don’t want to see his ass on base. I want our pitchers to strike him out in every single at-bat. I want to destroy him.”

  Chance whistles appreciatively. “Hell to the yes, but why so vicious? He’s a friend still, right? Or did he steal your socks?”

  “Yes, he’s a bud,” Crosby assures him. “But fuck friendship. This is baseball. Former teammate or not, we must annihilate him.”

  “We do that to everyone,” I say. Declan is no different than any other player we want to retire at the plate.

  He’s no one special.

  “That is true,” Crosby says. “But I want to gloat when we play pool with him tomorrow night. Because that’s what we’re going to do. You’re all joining me after the game. Also I have a bet with the motherfucker that he won’t get on base, and I want to win, so help me out.”

  As the guys join in on the bet, I’m not thinking about money. I’m not even thinking about how our pitchers can strike out Declan.

  I’m thinking that we’re all playing pool with my ex-lover tomorrow night.

  The first and only man I’ve ever slept with.

  The guy who still makes my skin flash hot.

  12

  Grant

  Baseball is mental.

  Once you have the skills, the game is instinct, reaction, practice.

  It’s in your mind.

  I vow to lean on that as the Cougars take on the Comets, my team against Declan’s.

  When he takes to the field in his pinstripe uniform, running to the shortstop position, he doesn’t look my way.

  I don’t look his.

  That works well for a while.

  Then the Comets’ pitcher sends a delicious curveball over the plate in my first at-bat. It’s the first inning, two outs on the board, and I slam a double into right field and pull up at second.

  The back of my neck prickles with awareness.

  My spring-training fling is twenty feet away. He turns his head, glances in my direction. Those dark eyes of his linger on me for longer than they should.

  Look all you want, shortstop. This could have been yours.

  And since the game is mental, I swipe him from my mind as the Cougars’ centerfielder comes to the plate.

  As Miguel hits a sharp line drive up the middle, I’m sure I’m going to be making my way home. But Declan dives for the ball, scooping it up mere inches from the ground in a killer display of reflexes and skills.

  That’s the inning.

  “Motherfucker,” I curse under my breath as I walk off the field.

  When Declan strides to the plate for his first at-bat in the bottom of the first, I tug down my mask, crouch, and stare only at my pitcher.

  Declan takes a few practice swings, and I try, I swear I try, not to look at him.

  Not to think of him.

  Out of the corner of my eye, though, I can’t help but notice his beard is thicker. He was scruffy before. Now, he’s got a helluva lot more than a five o’ clock shadow. But not grizzly-bear levels. More like just right levels.

  I shove that thought away. He’s just like any other opponent.

  But when Declan stands in front of the plate and adjusts his batting glove, his gaze drifts to mine once more.

  He shoots me the barest of grins, the corner of those lips curving up.

  “Hey there,” he says under his breath, just for me. I don’t even think the umpire can hear him.

  He says it with a hint of a smile and a trace of memory. It’s as if we’re back in the corridor of the spring training complex.

  As if we’re meeting for the first time.

  As if we would start over in just this way.

  Eyes would lock, the world would go still, and we’d know that this was just the beginning. We’d meet after the game, someplace in New York, and grab a bite to eat, something to drink. We’d flirt, talk, and tease.

  He’d invite me over.

  I’d say yes.

  We’d blot out the world all night long.

  Later, we’d tell the story of how we met one day at the plate during a Cougars–Comets game. I was catching, he was hitting, and the rest is history.

  In a span of three seconds, I’ve rewritten our love story.

  I’ve got to stop this shit.

  We don’t have a happy ending. We don’t have a new beginning.

  We are over.

  I draw a deep, fueling breath and center myself. Then I call for a fastball down the middle, and Declan flies out to center field.

  When the inning ends, Crosby catches up to me on the way to the dugout, and we knock fists. “Keep that up. I’ve got a bet to win.”

  “I’ve got your back,” I say.

  Declan goes hitless in his next at-bat, but a few innings later, his teammates load the bases. At the bottom of the seventh, it’s do-or-die for the Cougars when he comes to the plate.

  We’re ahead, but only by one. If Declan knocks in a run, the game is tied. If he hits a hard single, the runners on third and second can score. If we strike him out, though, we keep the lead.

  Sullivan, pitching in relief, paces the mound. Declan works the hell out of his at-bat, fouling off pitch after pitch, waiting for just the right one, until he gets to a full count.

  This is it.

  I lower my hand to call the payoff pitch, and a memory flashes bright and clear—the slider he went deep on last year, the talk of spring training, the play I watched that night in his hotel room.

  He can’t hit a slider for shit.

  I call for it, and Sullivan blinks, then stares, silently asking if I’m sure.

  I nod firmly.

  Sullivan fires it off.

  Please let me be right.

  Declan swings right through it, missing it sharply.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” We lock eyes and he shoots an oh no you didn’t look straight at me.

  I smirk. “Better luck next time,” I say, heading off the field.

  We go on to win the game.

  Later that night, he strides into the pool hall like he’s determined to ignore the fuck out of me too.

  But when his eyes find mine, they’re burning hot.

  13

  Declan

  I always make good on my bets.

  I take my ribbing like a man too. Crosby gives me a helluva hard time while we play pool, mocking me for my hitless night—as well he should.

  It’s the spring training crew, together again, but I’m the odd man out as the lone Comet amid five Cougars—Sullivan, Miguel, Crosby, Chance . . . and Grant.

  After an hour or so, Sullivan and Miguel say they’re going to hit a club, and those rookies take off.

  And then there were four, just two guys I call friends and my favorite rookie in the whole wide world.

  Five and a half months haven’t changed a thing for me.

  Time has done nothing to lessen my desire for Grant or dampen my feelings for him.

  I’m not entirely surprised
I still feel this way. The man hasn’t been far from my thoughts since I landed in New York more than five months ago. But I’m a visual guy, and seeing is believing.

  I do believe.

  Here I am, mere feet away, and all the feelings have come rushing back. All the longing, all the desire.

  All the falling.

  My heart beats so damn fast when he’s near.

  It’s so hard not to stare at him like he’s the only one. Even with Crosby and Chance around, I can feel a charge between us, reminding me of everything I like about Grant Blackwood. He’s funny, outgoing, gutsy . . .

  And he cares.

  He cares deeply for people.

  I need to get a minute alone with him. The whole evening, my antennae are up like I’m sensing the air or waiting for the perfect pitch. When Crosby and Chance wind themselves up in a debate about the episode of The Office playing on the bar’s TV screen, I see an opening. The guys start googling trivia facts and wander away from the table, and I’ve never been more grateful for Michael Scott.

  I waste no time. I turn to Grant, who’s on the other side of the pool table, rubbing chalk on the end of the cue. “What was up with that pitch?” I ask.

  He gives me a blank look. “Which one?”

  “You know which one. You called for a slider.”

  I don’t actually want to talk about the pitch. But you can’t just dive right back into I think about you all the time and all the things we could be. I can’t start this convo by telling him how good he looks, how fast my pulse is spiking, how often he invades my head. So, baseball it is.

  Grant scoffs. “No shit I did.”

  “But I thought we talked about that.” I laugh, trying to be casual.

  His hard eyes say this isn’t funny. “Don’t. Don’t fucking embarrass yourself by saying anything about that night. I called for it because I knew you wouldn’t hit it,” he says, crisp and sharp.