Winning With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  Practically hissing at me.

  Seems I misjudged this conversation.

  “Right,” I say, backpedaling into I don’t even know what.

  Fire burns in his voice as he holds up a stop-sign hand. “You didn’t have to tell me that for me to know it. I knew it because I studied you, like I study everyone else. I’m a fucking Major League catcher, and it’s my job to know what you can and can’t hit. Now excuse me,” he says, setting down his pool cue and stalking to the restroom.

  Well, fuck me.

  I didn’t ask him a real question, and already this conversation has gone horribly.

  But I refuse to accept my own failure when I can do things differently this time. I give him a minute to take a leak, then I follow him, heading into the restroom where he’s washing his hands.

  I shut the door, press my back against it, and leave my hand on the knob. We’re the only ones here. “That’s not what I was going to say, Grant,” I say quietly.

  He turns his gaze to me, still looking pissed, as he dries his hands with a paper towel. “What were you going to say then, Declan?”

  “I was going to say good job. You called a good game. I was impressed.”

  Twin spots of red spread across his cheeks. That hint of embarrassment is so damn adorable. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, dipping his head as he tosses the towel in the trash can. He takes a beat then looks up, and gone is the anger. “Didn’t mean to get pissy. I thought you meant something else.”

  “I didn’t mean anything bad.”

  Then, I just stare at him. I run my eyes up and down his frame, taking in how good he looks in that tight red T-shirt from his alma mater, those jeans that hug his legs spectacularly, that mess of dark blond hair. His clean-shaven jaw. His blue eyes that seem to see inside me. That always have.

  Yet he has no idea that I let him in more than I’ve ever let in anyone. That maybe, just maybe, I could let him in more.

  He doesn’t know that I miss him desperately. That I’m so much more than sorry. That I regret how badly I handled everything, from the text to that last phone call.

  Every day I replay what I could have done, should have done, starting with opening up.

  “I majored in English in college,” I blurt out in my first attempt to do just that.

  He cocks his head. “That so?”

  “I did. Most people don’t know. Chance and I had some stupid convo about it earlier this summer, and I didn’t even tell him. I just let him think I majored in art history. But I studied English lit.” I realize I’ve been a closed book, and I want Grant to know something about me that others don’t. “I minored in poetry.”

  A smile teases at his lips. “T.S. Eliot. You took poetry classes,” he says softly, remembering the night I gave him the barest of details. A night in bed in Arizona, the first night I stayed in his room.

  “And you studied history,” I say, recalling every second of our pillow talk. “But took classes in mythology.”

  “I did.” Grant tilts his head like he’s trying to understand me. And I want so badly to be understood. I just don’t know how.

  “I didn’t take a single art history class,” I admit.

  “Why don’t you tell people you majored in English?”

  “I don’t tell people a lot of things,” I say, my gaze locked on his blue eyes like they’re an anchor as I start to show a sliver of who I am.

  “I’ve noticed,” he says, but it’s no judgment, just an observation. “And ‘November Rain’ is your favorite song?”

  “Yes, but only recently. Before then it was anything by Pearl Jam.”

  “And now it’s a Guns N’ Roses tune?” I swear there’s hope in Grant’s voice, like he knows why I’m saying that tune rocks my world.

  I swallow past a dry patch in my throat. “Yes. Now it’s my favorite.” I can’t look away from him. I don’t want to as I come closer to saying how I feel. “Reminds me of someone.”

  He breathes out hard, his eyes glimmering with a faint hint of longing. “Songs will do that. Good tune,” he says, his voice going quieter too, and husky, like mine.

  “Definitely,” I say, and the fact that he’s not leaving emboldens me. Here in the bathroom of a pool hall in Murray Hill, I peel back another layer. “I bought this place on the Upper East Side. It looks over the river. There’s a sushi joint on the corner, and I order out a lot because I can’t cook.”

  “I can’t cook either,” he says. “Maybe someday I’ll learn.”

  “Same here. I want to learn too. But until then, there’s takeout. And the sushi place is owned by two ladies. They’re together. That’s important to me, to support it, and them.” I know this only scratches the surface, but it’s something.

  It has to count for something.

  His lips quirk up, a sign that maybe it does. “I hear ya, man.”

  It’s a reply to the last thing I said, but I also hope he means that he hears me. That he hears what I’m trying to say.

  Some things, though, aren’t hard to say at all. Some truths come easy. “You look incredible,” I say, low and smoky as my skin sizzles.

  He crosses his arms. As he stares at me, a hint of amusement plays across Grant’s blue eyes. One side of his kissable mouth lifts in a smirk. “Dude, are you coming on to me in the bathroom of a pool hall?”

  I smile and shrug, owning it. But when I speak, it’s without flirting, teasing or toying. “Seeing you fries my brain, Grant. It always has.”

  And now I want him.

  Want our bodies to collide.

  “I know the feeling,” Grant murmurs, licking the corner of his lips, his gaze never straying from mine.

  The air crackles, charged like the edge of a storm. I want to stop time, to live in these seconds before a lightning strike. I want to close the distance and hold his face, fuse my mouth to his, erase the mistake I made.

  I don’t. I need to regroup—not to act on impulse but to devise a real game plan for getting back to him.

  After a few more seconds, he tips his forehead to the door behind me. “I should go,” he says roughly. He takes a step closer, reaching for the handle, but I don’t move my hand from the doorknob.

  When his palm touches mine, it’s a chemical reaction.

  It’s electricity and fire, spontaneous combustion.

  I shudder. “Grant.” His name comes out full of unchecked heat.

  He turns his head toward me in slow motion, his jaw dangerously close to my lips. His breath hitches—a soft, barely audible pant of desire as his face nears mine.

  We could kiss.

  Right here. Right now.

  That clean, barbershop scent goes straight to my head. He’s inches away, and my mouth is watering.

  I tilt my face, my jaw brushing his.

  We both groan.

  “You are still just . . . my undoing,” I whisper as my body aches to return home to him.

  But the sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway wrenches us apart. A heavy hand pushes on the other side of the door, and the rope connecting Grant and me to this heated moment is severed.

  The door swings open, and Grant takes another step back. I move farther away. The man who walks in is a stranger and pays us no mind.

  Grant, though, casts me one last glance, his eyes saying I have to go, and then he’s out the door before it closes again.

  As he leaves, I know two things with absolute certainty.

  I fucked up badly, letting him go.

  And I want him back more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

  The flush of the urinal reminds me I need to do a better job.

  Real classy, Steele.

  A bathroom isn’t the place to ask him to be with me again.

  End of October

  14

  Declan

  The question of where and when plays in my mind over the next two months, never far from my thoughts.

  “Italy or Greece?”

  The question comes from Tucker
as he and Marissa debate the destination of their upcoming holiday trip.

  Neither works in my case, so I keep my focus on the big screen at Tucker’s place, where a bunch of us are gathered to watch the playoffs.

  Tucker’s more focused on planning his trip, though. Brady leans closer to Tucker’s laptop screen, checking out the vacay options. Marissa swats a chuckling Brady, an amusing sight since Marissa is a tiny pipsqueak and Brady is a dead ringer for Barry Bonds. But I don’t see if he tries for retribution because Grant has come to the plate in game three of the divisionals.

  I return my focus to the screen.

  My friends, on the other hand, aren’t as transfixed. Guess not making the playoffs will do that to you.

  “You already turned down my homeland,” Tucker points out.

  “You didn’t want to go to Cuba either,” Marissa says, laughing.

  “And now I want to go to Tuscany. And you should say yes to me, baby. Tuscany has these perfect rolling hills,” Tucker points out.

  “Greece has the Greek islands and we can lounge by the sea all day,” Marissa counters, then swivels the laptop around to show her boyfriend the screen. “How can you resist this?”

  Tucker shoves the computer at me. “Tiebreaker, Steele. Can you resist this?”

  “Looks nice,” I mutter, unable to look away from the TV as Grant swings and misses. A few seconds later, he finds a gap and gets on base with a single, and I pump an oh yeah fist.

  “Somebody still roots for his ex,” Brady says playfully.

  I jerk my head up. Did I give myself away? How did Brady even notice with the Italy/Greece debate raging?

  “Yeah, what gives?” asks Tucker. “You rooting for your old team now? You traitor.”

  It’s good-natured ribbing, and I can breathe again.

  Ex-teammates.

  That’s all he meant. Nothing more.

  “Well, we’re not in it, so I can’t root for the Comets,” I point out.

  “Thanks for the reminder.” Tucker clears his throat, a little awkwardly. “Marissa and I have a question for you guys.”

  “Sure. My answer is you should do both Italy and Greece,” I say with a smile, focusing more on their dilemma and less on cheering for my ex . . . teammate.

  “New question, dude. Keep up.” Tucker points to himself and Marissa, then draws a deep breath. “Do you guys want to join us?”

  I shoot him an are you speaking Martian look. “Are you asking us for a foursome? Because you’re not my type, Reyes.”

  “Dude, nice burn,” Brady says, offering me a big palm for smacking, which I accept.

  “Seriously,” says Tucker. “Like a couples’ trip. Brady, do you and Greer want to go with us? And Steele, you and . . .” His brow knits over how to finish that thought. “Well, if you’re involved with someone. I don’t even know if that’s your thing, though.”

  “Being involved with someone? Trips with straight couples? Or couples’ trips in general?” I ask—then I smile to put the guy out of his misery because it’s freaking adorable that he asked me to go on a couples’ trip.

  I mean, there’s no fucking way I’d go, but I like that Tucker asked.

  Who knows what most straight men would do, but I’m pretty sure couples’ trips are not my thing.

  Tucker breathes a long sigh of relief. “The couples’ trip, man.”

  “We’ve been wanting to ask you guys,” Marissa chimes in, speaking even faster than usual. “I know not everyone loves couples’ trips. But Tucker and I do. We would love if you guys want to come along. I know Brady has a girlfriend. But we don’t know if you’re with someone, Declan.”

  Tucker claps my shoulder. “Your dad mentioned a boyfriend at spring training, but I haven’t heard a peep since then. And I didn’t know if you just liked to keep your romantic life, well, to yourself.”

  I wince at those memories, the same ones I want far behind me. “Nah, I meant it when I said I wasn’t involved. I’m still not.”

  Though, I hope that’ll change soon.

  “Playing the field. I hear ya. Must be fun,” Tucker says.

  Marissa hisses at him. “Hello, I’m here.”

  “I meant for other guys, sweet baby cakes.” He tugs her onto his lap and kisses her noisily.

  As the three of them debate their couples’ trip, I picture the holidays I want to take, the private life I want to have.

  But I can’t reach out to Grant right now. He’s in playoff contention.

  If the Cougars advance, I’ll have to wait even longer.

  A week later, I’m alone in my place on Park Avenue when the Cougars lose a nail-biter of a championship series. As my former teammates walk off the field, heads down, my heart is heavy for all of them, especially Grant.

  I’ve never made it to the World Series. I was hoping Grant might. Looks like it isn’t the year for either of us.

  As I leave my place to go for a walk in the cold late-October air, my thoughts return to the how.

  I know this much—I need to see him in person. I need to look him in the eye when I say the hard things.

  Maybe I’ll plan a trip to San Francisco to see my mom and Tyler, catch some time with him then. I have a commercial shoot next week with a watchmaker here in New York, but I could go to San Francisco after that.

  When I return home, I google flights and look at my schedule. But the next evening, I’m digging my chopsticks into a carton of pepper steak and watching the Sports Network when an opportunity appears, gift-wrapped, on the screen.

  Grant Blackwood is one of five finalists in the running for the prestigious Rookie of the Year Award to be presented next week here in New York.

  I freeze with my chopsticks mid-air, grinning at the unfolding possibilities. Grant, here, next week.

  Setting down the take-out carton, I call Emma and ask her to meet me the next day for help.

  Nothing I’ve had before with any guy—not Nathan, not Kyle, not anyone—comes close to what I want with Grant.

  And I can’t mess this up a second time.

  An art devotee, Emma tells me to meet her at the Met before we grab a cup of coffee in the museum café. After a hug in the entryway, she takes me to a wing of Dutch art, then gestures to five paintings hanging on the wall. “Which Vermeer is Grant?”

  I shoot her a you can’t be serious look. “They’re all of women,” I point out. “I’m not comparing him to a work of art featuring a woman.”

  She grabs my arm and tugs me down the hall. “We called him a Rembrandt once. Maybe he’s like one of those.”

  As she guides me through the museum, I try to follow her thinking. “Why are you asking me which famous painting he is?”

  “You’ll see,” she says a little wickedly, like she has something up her sleeve.

  “Also,” I state for the record, “you called him a work of art. I called him a Bugatti. Can we go look at sports cars?”

  “And you continue to make my point,” she says playfully.

  I hold out my arms, confused. “And yet I have no idea what your point is.”

  We reach a Rembrandt self-portrait, and I stare at it. It’s dark and dull. “He’s old and craggy, and he looks nothing like an athlete.”

  “Then you do get my point,” she says.

  “I honestly don’t.”

  Her expression turns serious. “You’re asking me for help with romance. That’s like me asking you which painting Grant looks like. There are better people than me to help with your relationship goals, and I arranged for them to meet you in the café.”

  “Emma.” I hate surprises, and she knows it. And I’ve got zero interest in venturing down this path. “I don’t want to involve the world in my dating-or-not-dating woes.”

  “Declan,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. “You need to talk to my brother, not me.”

  Ohhhhhh. Fitz is the surprise. I don’t know what I expected, except I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst. “But you’re the only one who under
stands all my stuff . . .” She’s the one person I’ve shared the real shit with.

  “Yes, and I know, too, that you don’t open up that easily to people,” she says in the understatement of the century. “But I’m as alone as you are. I don’t know the first thing about how to fall in love or win back the man of my dreams. And I also don’t know how all of that differs for two men.” She sets a hand on my arm. “You need advice from two men who are very happy together.”

  When we reach the café, Fitz has his arm stretched across the back of his chair while he laughs at something Dean said. I sit with the guys, and we shoot the breeze on sports and work while we order coffee. But before long, Fitz cuts through the small talk. “All right, what’s the story? You want to get back together with your guy, and you need to figure out how to do it?”

  This feels like too many moments I’ve tried to escape, ones where people think they know me. But Emma’s right. She’s smart and sensitive, but she isn’t navigating the same waters I am.

  I swallow the knot of awkward in my throat. My voice sounds weird to my ears, but I say the uncomfortable words anyway. “He’s coming to New York next week, and I don’t know how the hell to pull this off. I don’t know the first thing about . . .”

  When I falter, Dean jumps in. “Love? Relationships? Putting your heart on the line?”

  “I don’t even know how to ask him if he’ll give me the time of day,” I say, feeling terribly exposed.

  Fitz doesn’t seem fazed by my cluelessness. “Don’t overthink it,” he says. “Just call him and tell him you want to talk to him when he’s here. It’s that simple.”

  But is it? “What if he says no?” I ask in a strained tone, scratching the back of my neck.

  “Then you’re in the same spot you’re in now. But if he doesn’t . . .” Dean offers a hopeful smile.

  “And you’ll regret it if you don’t try,” Fitz says, then drapes his arm around his husband. “Look. I very nearly lost this guy back in London because I was chicken-shit like you. It’s hard to crack open your heart and let someone see it. I didn’t know what to say, or how to do it. But I couldn’t risk losing him, so I figured it out on the fly.” Fitz looks at Dean like he’s the answer to all his prayers, then turns back to me. “I told him how I felt.”