Winning With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  But when we return to the dance floor, I’m still determined to finish what I started when I took that flight out of New York after winning Rookie of the Year.

  I’m ruthlessly determined to stop thinking about Declan Steele.

  In the middle of the next season, Chance’s wife, Natasha, leaves him, and we all keep an eye out for him as he goes through his divorce—Crosby, Sullivan, Miguel, and me. We take him out after games when we can. Now that my sister has opened a hipster bar in Hayes Valley, we have a place to go that feels like home. Sierra slings trendy cocktails at the Spotted Zebra, rocking a pink streak in her hair now. But she still wears Dragons earrings to taunt us.

  Sometimes I think Chance likes to go there to talk to her as much as drink. Well, she is chatty, like a good bartender, and he seems to need it.

  Later that year, the Cougars do make it to the World Series.

  It’s more than a dream come true. More fantastic than every boyhood wish, beyond any cliché.

  It’s utterly exhilarating, and it’s the most thrilling moment of my life when game six rolls around and I catch all nine innings and every pitch.

  I’m behind the plate when Chance Ashford throws a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball and the Miami Ace batter swings through it—

  And misses.

  I am fireworks.

  I am a parade.

  I wrap my glove around the ball so tight, shout to the heavens, then run out to the mound, tackling my teammate. The rest of the guys join us, as we win the World Series.

  It feels like the greatest night of my life, and then, somehow, it’s even better when Declan calls me the next day, congratulating me. We spend an hour talking on the phone about the series, recounting every pitch, every inning. I relive each moment as I share it with him. He listens to me tell the story, and it feels right.

  Just right.

  I don’t know what to make of that, especially when something like a butterfly has the audacity to land on my chest.

  It reappears, bigger and faster, over Christmas when I call to wish him a happy holiday. Then, on a Thursday morning in February, it shows up again, accompanying a text from Declan Steele.

  21

  Declan

  Then

  * * *

  The first few months after Grant leaves New York are the hardest.

  I’ve never really known what that’s like—getting over someone. Everyone else has been a clean break.

  This is the opposite of a clean break. It’s a messy ending, one that keeps spilling over into my life, but at least there is baseball at the end of a cold winter.

  The sport has gotten me through hard times before and it does it again as I learn how to hit a slider well, improve my fielding more, and drive up my consistency at the plate even higher.

  I spend time with Emma, Fitz and Dean, Tucker and Marissa, and Brady and Greer. Over the next few years, the latter two couples get married a month apart and I go to their weddings.

  Tucker ties the knot first, and I attend his wedding stag. I go to Brady’s February wedding alone.

  And life goes on like that.

  I develop new interests. I find new bands to listen to, I play paintball with Fitz, I scour stores and libraries for new books to try out. Dean and I become closer, and the brainiac in him keeps pumping recommendations at me—non-fiction stories of scandals and racy tales of business upheavals.

  I eat them all up.

  Those books are my gateway drug, and I go down the rabbit hole into memoirs, starting with comedians for laughs, then moving to harder-hitting tales. Stories of men and women bucking their upbringing, battling addiction, and most of all, struggling to understand what it means to love an addict.

  And how loving an addict has made it hard, for some, to love themselves.

  I bristle a bit as I read, since sometimes it feels like these stories are mirrors, and I’m not sure I want to see the reflection.

  But I don’t stop. I keep reading. I keep learning.

  I see my dad a few times. He asks to come to a game in San Francisco when I play the Cougars, but that feels like the worst idea in the world. I convince him to come to Los Angeles instead, buying him first-class tickets, several nights at a swank hotel, and all the Hollywood star tours he and his girlfriend could want, since he’s found a new lady now. Her name is Jackie.

  At the ballpark in Los Angeles, he’s up to his usual shenanigans. Meeting the guys on the field, doling out hitting tips, talking up the game.

  “You should do batting practice with us tomorrow, Jon,” Tucker suggests before our Bandits game. “It’ll be fun.”

  I don’t think Tucker and I have the same definition of that word.

  But my dad’s brown eyes implore me.

  Coach says it’s okay and my dad throws batting practice the next day. He looks happier than he ever has before.

  Trouble is, a few weeks later, he and Jackie hit a casino in Northern California. He slides right back into his old ways, his twin addictions ruling him. When he runs into financial trouble, I don’t balk. I just write the check.

  It’s easier.

  But it’s also all I know how to do.

  When the holidays march closer, I make plans with my mom and Tyler to go to Tokyo again. It’s become a tradition, one we’ve done for the last three Christmases since Grant won Rookie of the Year. I’ve been getting to know my stepbrother, his wife, and their young daughter. Mom, Tyler, and I decide to stick around in January and travel across Japan, visiting Kyoto, Osaka, and Hiroshima.

  Before I go, though, I have my agency’s holiday party to attend.

  Grant and I are both repped by Premiere, and I wonder if he will be there.

  I wonder, and I walk a little faster.

  On a chilly December night in New York, I head into a chichi restaurant in Chelsea, where the firm has rented a private room. My heart kicks like a horse when I spot Grant chatting with Fitz at the makeshift bar.

  Fitz waves me over. “Look what the cat dragged in,” my hockey bud says to me, then he claps me on the back. “Bring it in for a hug, mofo.”

  I’ve seen him recently, so it’s not like we need to hug it out.

  Which means I know what he’s doing. Fitz is trying to get me to hug it out with Grant. I say hi to the catcher next, with a bro hug that turns into a melt-my-fucking-body embrace even though we’re barely touching.

  But we don’t have to be wrapped up in each other for my heart to pound.

  Hugging the man you once loved is a unique kind of torture. One hit of that barbershop scent and I’m taking a trip way back in time.

  To some of my favorite days.

  All of them belong to him.

  I pull apart so I’m not sporting wood or cartoon-heart eyes for the whole party.

  “Good to see you,” I say, my voice a little rough.

  “You too.”

  A split second later, Fitz’s eyes find Haven, since she reps him too. “Need to go talk to the boss lady. See y’all later.” Then he stage-whispers to us both, “In case you were wondering, I have no boundaries with the two of you.”

  He takes off with a wink.

  As he weaves his way to Haven, I let my eyes linger on Grant for a little longer. He’s dressed casually in a maroon V-neck sweater that hugs his pecs and worships those powerful arms.

  He wears jeans that make his thighs look delicious. Nobody has ever looked as good in jeans as Grant Blackwood. Nobody has ever looked as good out of jeans either.

  “You look incredible,” I say, since I kind of can’t help myself around him. “I guess that means I have no boundaries with compliments.”

  “Same to you. So maybe I don’t have them either,” he says, his blue eyes taking a quick stroll of my frame, roaming over my jeans and dark blue button-down shirt.

  Unbutton it tonight, rookie.

  I sweep that thought away.

  “What are your holiday plans?” he asks, snapping me back to the here and now.

  �
�Going to Tokyo again. It’s become a thing. You?”

  “The usual. Hanging out with the family. Seeing my grandparents.”

  “What about Reese?”

  “She’s in South America right now. She had a job opportunity there.”

  We talk about family and friends more, then he tells me about River, and how they went into business together.

  A sliver of jealousy wedges under my skin. “River? From The Lazy Hammock? Our River?”

  He snorts. “Yes, our River.”

  Like it’s making an unexpected encore, the dragon of jealousy roars in my chest, clambers up to center stage. “Is he your River now?” I ask, the question tasting like spoiled milk in my mouth, curdling my stomach. The prospect of Grant having a boyfriend is horrifying.

  I’d rather drink antifreeze.

  And yet it’s entirely possible.

  And that makes it even more horrifying.

  Grant arches a brow. Smirks too. “Dude, we’re friends. Just friends. Like you and Fitz.”

  That’s good.

  That’s so fucking good.

  Dragging a hand down my face, I let out the biggest breath in the universe. “Good,” I say, as relief floods me.

  His lips twitch. “You still jealous?”

  I shrug, owning it. “Yes,” I say. Emphatically.

  An eyebrow lifts. That flirty look returns to his eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. And maybe I always will be. Boundaries, right? Or maybe not,” I say.

  He nods, flashing me his winning smile, the one that snared me in his net way back when. The one that still works some kind of wicked magic.

  I need to shift gears or the torch I carry for this man will be visible from space.

  “I’ve been following the work you’re doing with the Alliance,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks, man. That’s good to hear.”

  “Sometimes I think about getting more involved. Mostly, I think I’m just good at donating money,” I say, shrugging a little sheepishly.

  “Hey, nothing wrong with that. Giving money away is always a good thing,” Grant says.

  “But you? You’re the face of it all. I admire that,” I say, and pride surges in me. Pride for what he’s done. How he stuck to his plans. Grant had a vision, and he rose up, walking the walk and talking the talk.

  “You got to do what you got to do, right?”

  “Truer words,” I say, then scratch my jaw. “But maybe I’ll get more involved with volunteer work.”

  A grin lights his handsome face. “Do it.”

  The click of wingtips breaks the moment. Vaughn arrives, clasps a hand on my shoulder. “Hey Grant,” my agent asks, “can I steal this man away? I’ve got someone from Legends here.”

  That’s the watchmaker who’s one of my top sponsors, so Vaughn tugs me away.

  I don’t look back.

  If I do, I’ll say something like come spend the night, and the next one, and the rest of the month too.

  The next week, I fly to Tokyo, meeting my mom and Tyler in Roppongi, where Aaron lives with his family. One day after a stop at a tea house, my mom shoos Tyler away, saying she wants time alone with me.

  As we grab a table in a sushi joint in the heart of trendy Shibuya, she hitches a ride on a time machine. “Remember when I was in New York when you first joined the Comets?”

  “When you decided you weren’t sure if you were going to root for me? I tried to erase it from my memory, but no such luck,” I say drily, plucking an edamame from the bowl and popping it in my mouth.

  But Mom is serious today. “You mentioned someone. A guy you broke up with. You said you thought you handled it badly.”

  Yup. Serious mode. “Good memory.”

  “That made me wonder, Declan.”

  “About what?” I ask, grabbing another edamame.

  “About you and other people. You just turned thirty, and you always seem so in control of your relationships. Like you have it all on this perfectly planned level. And I was curious—whatever happened with that guy? The breakup you regretted?”

  I don’t think.

  For once in my life, I’m not carefully controlled.

  I’m relieved for the opening I didn’t even know I needed. I take it, kicking the door open. “He plays for the Cougars,” I say, and holy shit. I never thought I’d say that out loud to anyone beyond Emma, Fitz, or Dean, by extension. But it feels good to voice it to someone else too. Someone I trust completely.

  To family.

  “Grant Blackwood?” she asks, easily connecting the dots.

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. I never would have suspected anything based on the fact that you’ve never said a thing. But I guess it didn’t work out?”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  She drums her fingers on the table. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

  “What’s that?”

  She pops an edamame in her mouth and chews, then talks. “I’ve been speaking to my shrink.”

  “You’re still seeing someone?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sweetheart, I will always be a work-in-progress.”

  “Fair enough. What were you talking to her about?”

  “About how different my life is now compared to when you were in middle school. When things were falling apart with your father.”

  I smile sympathetically. “You’re much better, Mom. You’re happy now.”

  “I am. But that led me to think about you. Are you happy now? I never meet anyone you’re with. I never hear about boyfriends. It just makes me wonder.”

  “About what?”

  “Walls,” she says, pinning me with an intense mom gaze. “If you have too many. Or if you have too few. Honestly, I don’t know, Declan. I try to live without regret, but if I have one, it’s that when you were in high school, I was so focused on what I needed to heal that I didn’t really ask you what you needed to heal.”

  Her lip quivers, and I reach for her hand, set mine on top of it. “Don’t second-guess yourself. You did what you had to do. I was behind you every step of the way.”

  “But you were just a teenager. You were a kid trying to figure out who you were.”

  “Every kid is trying to do that,” I say, protesting as the waiter brings the sushi. “Arigato.”

  “Arigato,” Mom says to him, then zips her attention back to me. “Not every kid is raised by an addict and by someone who loves an addict. And not every kid who was raised by an addict and someone who loved an addict is coming to terms with his or her orientation,” she adds pointedly.

  My stomach twists as we revisit the past—my least favorite place to travel to. “What are you saying, Mom?”

  “I’m saying that you were so tough, so strong. You were all about baseball. Play harder. Play better. Practice more. At the time, I believed that meant you were doing fine. But now, I wonder if it meant that you weren’t.”

  My throat tightens. My muscles tense. “And what if I wasn’t doing fine?”

  Her eyes glisten. “I think you should consider talking to someone.”

  “Like a twelve-step program?”

  “Al-Anon could be good. Or maybe a therapist. Would you consider it? I think it would be good for you.” She pauses, and it feels important. “I heard that your dad still keeps turning to you when he has problems,” she says, laying the fact plainly on the table.

  I wince. “Who told you?”

  “He did, sweetie. He called me recently asking for money. When I said no, he said he’d just ask you and you’d give it to him. He said that’s what you’d been doing.”

  I slump back in my chair, dragging my hands through my hair. Busted. “Sometimes it’s just easier.”

  “I understand. And that’s why I want you to think about seeing someone. Talking through why it seems easier. What it means.”

  I take a deep breath. “I will.”

  Deep down, I know she’s right.

  When I return to
New York at the end of January, I do the hardest thing ever. Harder than breaking it off with Grant. Tougher than coming out. More difficult than giving my dad money.

  I turn to Google, find a therapist, and ask for help.

  The thing I’ve never done.

  This is my virgin territory, and I’m more terrified of what I’ll discover than I am of being hit by a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball.

  But after a few trial appointments that don’t work out, I find someone who does work. We start in May, and the timing lines up with the baseball calendar. Slowly, but surely, we start working through some of the shit I’ve been burying for years.

  When Grant wins the World Series in the fall, all I want to do is celebrate with him. He’s three thousand miles away so I can’t. But I can call him.

  He answers with a hoarse voice the morning after. “Hey!”

  “I guess someone had a good night,” I say, as I pace through my apartment, watching Park Avenue midday traffic cruise by below.

  “The best,” he says, and his delight is infectious.

  “Congratulations. I’m really happy for you. And proud of you, man.” I can’t wipe the grin off my face.

  “Thank you. I still can’t believe it. It feels like a dream.”

  “I can only imagine. Must be cloud nine,” I say, stopping to lean against the window, the cold of the glass pressing on my shoulder. “What was that like? When you caught the final pitch?”

  He laughs lightly, sighs happily. “It was like . . . remember when you were seven or eight? And you went to the ballpark? And you played with a friend or maybe even alone? And you pretended you were the announcer?”

  I slip back in time, warbling into a pretend mic. “And now, Declan Steele takes the plate with two outs in the bottom of the ninth in game seven of a nail-biter of a World Series.”

  “And you could hear the roar of the crowd and the crack of the bat when you were a kid?” Grant says, as enthused as I am over the memories. “And then you imagined connecting with the ball, watching it soar over the fences. You ran the bases, arms high in the air, and you jumped up and down when you reached home plate?”