Winning With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  My throat catches from the pure joy of the memory—and from the pure joy of the shared memory. “It was make-believe, but you were sure it was happening,” I say, a little far away as the warm, sepia tones of childhood dreams waft around me.

  “It did. It felt real,” he says, then lets out a deep, contented sigh. “It was like that, Declan. It was like every single dream coming true. And then, somehow, it was even better.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” I say, then I laugh, a little embarrassed. “I said that already.”

  He laughs too. “It’s okay. I feel a little loopy still. And I only had one glass of champagne last night. But I’m pretty sure I’m still wearing a couple bottles.” A sniffing noise carries across the phone. “Yup. I got doused in it.”

  An image of a post-victory locker room flashes before my eyes. Cheers, champagne, high-fives, hoots, and hollers. I want that someday. But right now, I’m glad Grant was able to experience the highest high.

  I head to my couch, sit down, and make a request. “How about you take me back to game one and walk me through every epic moment?”

  He laughs, a kid’s glee in his voice. “Really? You want me to recount the World Series?”

  “This surprises you? That I want every glorious detail of your greatest accomplishment? Your favorite night ever?”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds. “The jury’s still out on whether it’s my favorite night ever. But sure, I’ll tell you everything. So, when we ran onto the field in game one . . .”

  I settle in as Grant Blackwood tells me a story of victory, and I hang on every fantastic word.

  When the call winds down, he clears his throat. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

  “Going to Tokyo again. To see the family,” I say.

  “By yourself?” It comes out staccato.

  My brow knits. “With my mom and Tyler. Why?”

  “So, with family,” he emphasizes, more confident this time.

  A confused laugh bursts from me. “Yes, with family to see family. Why’d you say by yourself?”

  He breathes out hard. “You’re not seeing anyone?”

  Ah. That’s why he asked. I smile. “I’m not seeing anyone. I’m not taking anyone. It’s just a family trip,” I say, then seize my chance. “And you? Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No. No plans to either.” He sounds happy about that. Maybe as happy as I am to hear it.

  We say goodbye, and the time on the phone with him makes me feel . . . free. More than I’ve felt with anyone, even myself, in the last several years.

  On Christmas morning, I wake to a text.

  * * *

  Grant: It’s eight in California on Christmas Eve, which means it’s ten on Christmas morning where you are more than halfway around the world. Which means Santa already visited you. I hope you got the new train set you wanted.

  * * *

  I laugh in my hotel bed and write back.

  * * *

  Declan: I got Lego Star Wars.

  * * *

  Grant: Sweet! Did you ever build a Millennium Falcon out of Legos when you were a kid?

  * * *

  Declan: Honestly, I was more an Indiana Jones fan. So, I built an ark.

  * * *

  Grant: Han Solo man here, so I was all about the ship.

  * * *

  Declan: You want to go down the list of great Harrison Ford flicks on Christmas morning?

  * * *

  Grant: I’m up for that anytime! But . . . I have a random question for you.

  * * *

  Declan: Hit me.

  * * *

  Grant: Can I call you?

  * * *

  Declan: Of course.

  * * *

  “Merry Christmas,” I say when I answer on the first ring.

  “Merry Christmas to you.”

  “So, what’s your random question? Enquiring minds want to know.”

  The faint sounds of a car whisking by land on my ears. “I’m walking down the street in my grandparents’ neighborhood right now. But earlier, when I was eating Christmas Eve dinner with my sister and my grandparents, Sierra started making up a silly version of The Night Before Christmas, and that made me think of something you once said.”

  I furrow my brow, trying to draw a Christmas connection to Grant and me. “What was that?”

  “Poetry. You said you studied poetry as your minor. That’s unusual. What’s that all about?”

  This is as good a chance as any to practice some of the stuff I’ve been working on with Carla. Honesty. Openness. Vulnerability. “I told you about what happened when I was thirteen. At the championship series,” I say, sitting up in bed, staring out the window at the Shibuya district below, the crowds zigzagging through the crosswalk.

  “Yes. You did. With your dad.”

  “That stuff kept happening every so often in high school. When he was around. When he came to my games. I got really tired of the other kids and parents looking at him, and looking at me, and looking away. Eventually, I was so worn thin I did something really stupid.”

  “What did you do?”

  I’ve only ever told Carla, Emma, and my mom about my big fuck-up at the end of high school. But it’s not simply a high school story. It’s a story of change, and it’s time to tell Grant. “I was eligible for a student athlete award at the end of my senior year. If I excelled on the field, I’d win the award and some additional scholarship money. But the thing is, if I won, I’d have to give a speech,” I say, shuddering as I remember the anxiety palpating in me over public speaking. Playing ball quietly on a team was one thing. Being singled out was entirely another. “I didn’t like public speaking, so I started playing like shit. Deliberately.”

  “Oh wow, man. You must have really hated public speaking if you’d do that,” he says, sympathy in his tone, and understanding too.

  “Bingo. That’s how much I didn’t want to give a speech. For a month, maybe more, I played like crap. I’d already been accepted into college, but still I tanked my play. I lost out on the award and the extra money. I figured it was the end of the year—maybe no one would care. But my mom, shrewd woman that she is, cared. She noticed. She sat me down. Asked me if I had done it on purpose. She was so judgement-free that it unlocked all my bottled-up fears about my public speaking. I served it all up, how I hated being the center of attention because I hated all those eyes on me.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She talked it out. Said it was a common fear, one she’d experienced too. And she told me how poetry helped her.”

  “That’s fascinating. How does poetry help?” Grant sounds rapt, and that emboldens me to keep going.

  “She said that reciting Maya Angelou in the mirror before she had to give a presentation at work gave her the boost she needed. Still I Rise was her talisman, and she said saying someone else’s words first centered her and gave her the confidence to speak her words in front of an audience. So, I signed up for a poetry class in college. Emma was in it, and she helped me study poems, recite them, understand them. And doing that eventually gave me the confidence to not be such a chicken-shit.”

  “You’re hardly a chicken-shit. You’re great with the press, Deck. I’ve seen your interviews. Is it all because of poetry?”

  I smile, nodding. “Yes. I owe a lot to T.S. Eliot, Yeats, Frost. I have my favorites, though, like The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. It centers me, helps me focus. I used to recite lines in my head before I would talk to the press, and eventually, talking to them became second nature.”

  “That is seriously cool. You’re so natural when you give interviews—you’re a great advocate for baseball and for playing your heart out.”

  I square my shoulders with pride. “Thanks. I wanted to be like Jeter. A leader on the field, and the guy the media can turn to.”

  Grant is quiet for a beat, and then takes a deep breath. “When I went to college, I was determined to tell my own story about who I am.”


  “Because of your stepfather?” One night during spring training five years ago, Grant had shared that his mom’s new husband outed him in an assembly in front of the entire high school.

  “Yes,” he says now, so assured and determined. “I never wanted to feel that way again—so exposed, everyone assuming they knew this one piece of me. It was intense and, well, uncomfortable is an understatement.”

  “I bet,” I say, my heart aching for that kid. For any kid who had to endure that.

  “Anyway, I kind of shut down for a bit after that. I didn’t want to leave the house, or play ball, or even go for a run. All the things I loved.”

  “That’s a hard thing to deal with. What did you do?”

  “My grandparents took me out to dinner. To my favorite sushi place, since I love sushi,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  “Good to know,” he says, a little flirty, and I dig that sound. “So, over spicy tuna rolls, my grandmother told me, ‘You can either let this get you down, or you can be someone who speaks up for yourself and for others. Tell your own story.’ That was my light bulb moment. I saw how I needed to own my identity in every way. To out myself constantly. Slap it up on social media. Say it when I meet people. To be active, be proud, be out, so others could be too.”

  I’m honored that he’s sharing the rest of the story with me. Letting me glimpse why he is who he is. “The whole Frank thing inspired you, then? Made you who you are?” I ask, pressing the phone closer to my ear.

  “In a way. It lit a fuse in me, sure. And so did my grandparents. They said, ‘You’d make a great activist. Maybe this is your moment.’”

  A smile takes over my face. “You took something hurtful and turned it around.”

  “But, Declan, if you think about it, we both did that. We both took these situations we didn’t ask for and used them for good.”

  “To become the men we are today,” I say, buzzed that Grant Blackwood and I are finding new common ground on Christmas morning. It’s like an extra gift in my stocking, especially since I want this conversation to be the start of a much deeper one we have soon.

  With that in mind, I ask if he’ll be at an upcoming awards event in San Francisco in February.

  “I will,” he says, a note of hope in his voice.

  “Me too.”

  In the background on his end of the line, a woman calls his name, laughing.

  “I’ll be inside in a minute, Sierra. I’m just on the phone.”

  I hear her ask, “Who are you talking to?”

  Grant pauses, maybe wondering who I could be to him. All the titles I could have.

  “Someone,” he finally replies, and I don’t mind that. I do, after all, want to be someone to Grant.

  I, too, like that he returns to the topic of the event. “So, you’ll be here in February, Declan?”

  “I will. Will I see you there?” I ask, a note of hope in my voice this time.

  “Yes, you will.”

  It’s not a plan per se. But it’s damn close.

  When I land in San Francisco in February, my first instinct is to message Grant.

  It’s a good instinct.

  When he writes back, I’m pretty damn sure I’m going to be changing my flight and staying an extra day.

  And, more to the point, an extra night.

  Present Day

  22

  Grant

  I’m naked in bed, under the covers, chilling and listening to a thriller when the text arrives.

  It’s a Thursday morning in February, and I pause the book as soon as the message pops up.

  * * *

  Declan: Holy fuck. I just landed. It’s fuck-all cold in San Francisco.

  * * *

  Smiling, I stretch out on the bed and type:

  * * *

  Grant: Don’t you know what Mark Twain said? The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.

  * * *

  Declan: It’s not summer. It’s February, and it’s colder than New York.

  * * *

  Grant: Not here in my house. I have a fireplace in my bedroom.

  * * *

  Declan: Showoff.

  * * *

  I snap a photo of the fireplace—it’s electric, but still. The end of my bed is visible in the shot, and I don’t crop it out. I add one word and send it to him.

  * * *

  Grant: Toasty.

  * * *

  Declan: That’s not the word I’d use for the shot of your bedroom.

  * * *

  Maybe I should stop. But after the World Series, and after talking at Christmas, this text exchange feels natural. It feels like what Declan and I should be doing today.

  * * *

  Grant: What word would you use, then?

  * * *

  Declan: HOT.

  * * *

  Grant: True. Maybe I should take off the covers.

  * * *

  Declan: Don’t let me stop you.

  * * *

  Grant: Oh, I wasn’t. I definitely wasn’t.

  * * *

  Declan: Is there a picture coming my way?

  * * *

  Grant: Damn, I send you one pic, and you’re angling for another?

  * * *

  Declan: You’ve always been good at sending me selfies that made me want more.

  * * *

  Grant: True. One of my many skills. Here you go.

  * * *

  I send him a pic of me in bed. It’s from the waist down, but the covers are on, showing only the shape of my legs under the white duvet.

  * * *

  Declan: *groans* Such a tease.

  * * *

  Grant: But are you warmer now?

  * * *

  Declan: Yes. I definitely am. Much warmer. Also, will I still see you tonight at the awards?

  * * *

  I stare at Declan’s note for a few seconds. I kinda like that he’s not assuming he’ll run into me. That he’s not simply saying catch ya later.

  * * *

  Grant: Yes. You still will.

  * * *

  Declan: Good. I look forward to it.

  * * *

  I lock my phone and stretch out, my hands behind my head, and think about tonight.

  When I look at the clock, a new countdown begins.

  That afternoon, I get ready for The Sports Network award gala, which means it’s tux time.

  I fiddle with my bow tie, slide on my jacket, then turn to my plus one. “Need help, Pops?”

  Rolling his eyes, my grandpa chuckles. “I knew how to tie a bow tie before you were born.”

  “I should hope so,” I say, deadpan.

  A few minutes later, he’s dapper AF, and I tell him as much.

  “Dapper AF. It’s everything I ever wanted,” he says.

  We leave my place and head to the limo waiting outside. The driver opens the door for my pops, and I slide in next, thanking the chauffeur as I do.

  Once I’m inside, my grandpa turns to me. “So, tonight’s guest list . . .” He trails off like he’s leading the witness.

  “Yes?”

  He wiggles a silver brow. “I heard it might include a certain someone.”

  I roll my eyes.

  He laughs. “It’s no use. I see your dreamy, faraway look.”

  “I don’t have a dreamy, faraway look,” I insist.

  Pops turns serious when I expect more banter. “Actually, that’s true.”

  I tilt my head, wondering what’s up. “Did you just agree with me?”

  “I did. You used to get that look. Now? Not so much,” he says with a sigh. “I think maybe you’ve gotten good at keeping people out, son.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve noticed some changes in the last five years. You used to trust easily, let people in easily. You don’t do that as much.”

  “You’re already in, Pops,” I say, flashing a smile. “No worries.”

  “That’s wha
t I mean. You’ve got such a great happy face,” he says as the limo rolls along Fillmore.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. But sometimes I think it’s a mask. I know you made some tough choices way back when, but you’ve done great things—for yourself, for the sport, for others. Maybe it’s time to start letting people in again.” He shrugs, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Or maybe one person.”

  I lean my head back against the leather, close my eyes, sigh. “A certain person texted me this morning.”

  “Is that so?” He sounds delighted.

  When I open my eyes, the man who’s practically my father is grinning like the Cheshire cat.