Winning With Him Page 2

  I wish I didn’t look like him at all.

  “I told Tuck he was dropping his shoulders,” my dad adds, all gregarious.

  Tucker grins. “And then I lined up my back shoulder and bashed the hell out of every single ball during practice.”

  I swallow, reaching deep down for words. “How . . . long?” I need to get a handle on this situation.

  Dad looks at his watch, gives a casual shrug. “I got here thirty minutes ago.”

  My father can do a ton of damage in thirty minutes. Hell, he can do a ton of damage in thirty seconds.

  Has he said more about me?

  Has he mentioned Grant’s name?

  A chill sweeps through me, but before I can assess my next move, Brady James cuts in. “Your dad is like the baseball Yoda. He told me to open my hips, and boom. Longball, just like you want your DH to do.”

  No. Just no. Just no.

  Why the hell is my dad the acting batting coach for these guys?

  Why the fuck is he here?

  Tucker grins excitedly, pointing at me. “Jon, do Declan. Analyze your son’s swing.”

  I groan quietly. My brand-new teammate is already on a first-name basis with my father. The carnival ride has flipped, and I’m dangling from the rollercoaster car, shaking precariously upside down in the loop-de-loop.

  With a can-do grin, my dad gestures to a bat on the ground. “Give it a swing, son. I’ll tell you what you need to do.”

  I shake my head.

  “Come on.”

  I shake again.

  Tucker grabs the bat, shoves it at me. “We’ve all done it. Just take one cut and your pops will tell you how to improve.”

  Don’t they get it?

  Don’t they see who he is?

  He’s not some chill pops. He’s not a cool dude who’s just like us.

  He’s the drunk dad, ready to hurl tall tales at his family.

  But they can’t see that because he’s wearing his I’m-just-one-of-the-guys mask.

  I lift the bat and I swing at an imaginary ball, hoping it’ll keep my dad from uttering the word boyfriend again. Can’t let him come even that close to breathing Grant’s name out loud.

  My dad studies me, then declares, “You need to open the front hip a little more, and you’ll smack that ball over the stands, son,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  It comes out dry as chalk. I lick my lips, trying to get rid of the taste.

  I need a strategy to get him out of here. Picturing the road to the complex from the airport, I wonder if there is some entertainment along the way. A pool hall? Some mini golf? It’s fucking Florida. There must be mini golf.

  Think, Declan. Think.

  But I come up empty, and it’s like I’m thirteen again, trying to ignore the problems right in front of me.

  Ignore, deny, avoid.

  I grasp for The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, the first poem that gave me the guts to speak up.

  But there’s no time to recite it in my head because my dad slaps me on the back, his voice booming once again. “Did he tell you? I gave his boyfriend batting tips.”

  No, my head bellows.

  I want to tackle him, to slam my hand over his mouth and seethe, “You said you wouldn’t.”

  “You did?” Tucker asks, a lift in his brow.

  “Does your boyfriend play ball?” Brady inquires.

  My stomach plummets to the middle of the earth.

  I shake my head, roll my eyes, do my best silly dad look.

  “Dad, I’m not seeing anyone,” I say, draping an arm across his shoulders and squeezing tight. “But let’s catch up off the field.”

  I pat him on the back then use my considerable strength to drag him away from his new crew. He shoots me an indignant look. “What? I was having a good time. I helped your new team. They love me.”

  “Yup. I know,” I bite out.

  I lead him off the field, through the dugout, and down the corridor, grinding my teeth the whole way, ready to pulverize my own damn mouth. I pull him into a quiet corner of the corridor in the facility. “Dad, I’m begging you. Do not mention my personal life in front of my teammates—not ever again,” I say, desperation painting over every single square inch of my tone.

  “But everyone knows you’re gay. That’s not a secret. Look, I said I was sorry for telling you to stay in the closet when you were younger. But won’t you let me make up for it by embracing it now? Love is love.”

  As if this is about love is love.

  I try to breathe deeply as he twists my world like it’s a dishrag in his hands. “This has nothing to do with being gay. I’m out. I’m all the way out. That’s not the point. This has everything to do with me wanting some privacy, like I asked you for on the field.”

  He smiles a big dopey grin. “You love that guy, don’t you? I can tell. Love is good, son,” he says, choking up. “You’re always trying to stay away from it, but you’re just like me. You can’t resist it.”

  A headache rumbles behind my eyes, thumping mercilessly. “We’re not involved,” I say, already emotionally exhausted from my father. “I’m not with anyone.”

  He wags a finger at me, gives a sly smile. “But I bet you want to be. Just go for it. I’m behind you every step of the way.”

  I catch a whiff of the tequila when he talks, and I clench my fists, every muscle tight like a snare. “How much have you had to drink today?”

  He scoffs. “Nothing.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Dad, I can smell it. How much have you had?”

  He lifts his thumb and forefinger. “Fine. Maybe one drink.”

  I breathe out hard. “Or maybe a little bit more?”

  He shrugs. Then he opens his finger and thumb wider. Wider still. Then even farther. He chuckles. “Okay, more than one.”

  I can’t believe I’m about to do this. But I need some motherfucking space. “There’s a casino down the road. I passed it on the way in from the airport. Can you go play the slots? We’ll meet later. I promise. I’ll see you for dinner. That work for you?”

  His eyes brim with sadness. “You don’t want me to watch you play? As soon as I heard you were traded, I came all the way across the country. I wanted to support you. I wanted to be here for you. I caught a plane.”

  What the hell?

  “You came across the country to . . . support me?” That doesn’t even make any sense. But I don’t have the time to try to unpack his carton of bullshit.

  I do what I couldn’t do as a kid—I pretend. I’ve had years of acting practice by now, and I grab his arm and beseech him. “I do want you here, Dad. I promise. I swear I do.” I sigh heavily, like this saddens me, this truth I’m about to unwrap for him. “The thing is . . . I want to impress my new team and coach, and if you’re here, all I’m going to think about is impressing you. So, can you just help me out? I can focus better if I’m not trying to impress the man . . .” It pains me to say this. It pains me so damn much. “The man I look up to.”

  “Aw,” he says, a soft smile curving his lips. He pats my cheek. “You’re so sweet. I get it.”

  My stomach curdles as I tell him to wait then race to the locker room to fish some bills out of my wallet. Back in the hall, I press a couple hundred dollars into my dad’s palm. I know I’m feeding another of his addictions, but I don’t know what else to do.

  I walk him out of the complex and add for good measure, “And, like I said, I’m single all the way. Baseball only.”

  It feels like the worst—and most necessary—lie I’ve ever told.

  2

  Declan

  Once I put my dad in a Lyft headed for the casino, I rush back to the field, grabbing my glove on the way. On the diamond, I am all business. In the first inning I field the unholy hell out of a ground ball that comes scorching my way, throwing it to first base, getting the opponent out.

  This is all I have to do.

  This.

  The game—throwing, hitting, fielding.

&
nbsp; I’ve done this since the shit started, since my dad hit the bottle.

  I’ve gotten good at it too—throwing myself into baseball, ignoring everything else.

  But the thing is, you can’t hide from your problems for very long. You can only tuck things away into the corner for a little while, and it’s always a shorter span than you think.

  When the game ends, I look up to the stands and—

  Are you kidding me?

  He came back.

  He’s heading down the steps from the seats, sauntering to the field, chatting with the guys on the first-base line.

  With my heart lodged in my throat, I walk over.

  “Hey Steele,” says Tucker, “I just googled your dad. He hit .327 in the minors. That is dope. Can he be our hitting instructor?”

  Is he serious? It was just a throwaway idea he’d had earlier, or so I’d thought.

  Again, I fake being fine, flash an I-am-not-dying-inside smile. “I’ll talk to him at dinner. Dad, want to get some grub?”

  His eyes light up like I’ve gifted him the moon. “Let’s go,” he says, then tosses me a wink. “And you’ll give me all the details on what you’ve been up to.”

  My chest burns. He doesn’t even have to say the word boyfriend, and he’s right back at it, rocking my boat.

  Tucker elbows me. “Yeah, who’s the mystery guy?”

  I shake my head and force out a laugh. “No one. Dad’s just busting my chops.”

  Yeah, romance and me—that’s fucking hilarious.

  So damn entertaining.

  “Someone you left behind in San Francisco?” Tucker asks with a frown. “Let me tell you, I miss my girlfriend. Marissa’s back home in Manhattan.”

  “You’ll get to see her soon,” I say, hoping to deflect attention.

  “I can’t wait. And hey, bring your guy to a game,” Tucker calls as I ferry my dad out of there. “We’ll all get a bite to eat after. Marissa, you, me, and your dude.”

  I don’t even shower. I just change and get the hell away from my teammates and their offers to double-date.

  At a nearby restaurant, my father dives into his chicken pasta like he’s never eaten before. “This is so good,” he moans around the food.

  “Glad you’re enjoying it,” I say as I slice a piece of steak.

  “So much. Now, can we settle something once and for all?”

  I finish chewing and set down my fork. “Sure.”

  “You.” He waggles a utensil my way along with a pointed look, and then proceeds to play amateur shrink and play it badly. “You shut people out. You’re afraid to love. Since your mom and I split, you worry the same could happen to you.”

  “No. That’s not my concern.”

  He tilts his head, shoots me a sympathetic look. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Doubt lines his eyes. “I care about you. I want you to be happy. You looked so damn happy in that picture from the other night.” He means the shot of Grant and me flanking a fan, a social media post he texted me about the next day.

  Dragging a hand down my face, I groan. “Dad, I was happy because I was at a hockey game. It’s that simple. You’ve got to stop spinning things into what they’re not,” I insist.

  He scoffs. “Come on. Grant Blackwood. He’s a good-looking guy.” He taps his sternum. “Look, I’m straight, but I can tell. You’d be foolish not to like him.”

  Hearing him breathe Grant’s name chills my bones.

  I’m back in time to every occasion he came home drunk, all the times he wouldn’t let go of a topic. Was your mom messing around with her co-worker? Is that why she’s so happy? Did you see anything fishy? Tell me, please tell me. Just please fucking tell me.

  No, Dad. There’s nothing going on. Just stop.

  There was nothing going on.

  “Stop. Just stop,” I beg. “Just tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you need.” My voice trembles, this close to snapping. I cannot let him breathe Grant’s name anymore. I cannot let this shit rain down on the man I love. If word gets out that we had a spring training fling, I don’t know what it’ll do to Grant’s gameplay.

  I don’t give a flying fuck that people know I date men. I don’t care if someone prints in a gossip rag that I went out with a TV star, a blues singer, an Internet exec.

  Coming out is the best thing I ever did, but it doesn’t make me Teflon. It isn’t a sword that’ll save me or save Grant.

  Being out doesn’t make it okay that I fucked a teammate. That’s a line you don’t cross, no matter your orientation, no matter whether you live in or out of the closet.

  I crossed it, and now the consequences are knocking on my door—and Grant’s.

  A rumor would look bad for me, but it’d be ten degrees of horrible for the rookie who’s not even on the roster yet. I have to stop it.

  And I know how.

  “Do you need money?” I ask. I know what shuts him up, but my gut churns at what I’m about to do—enable him.

  My father winces like he’s embarrassed. But he’s not. This isn’t the first time he’s asked me for dough. I doubt it’ll be the last time I give it to him.

  “Kara kicked me out,” he says, his voice wobbly. “Because I went drinking with Cousin Barry a couple of weeks ago. But it was just once. One night. It was because we got some bad news about our tow truck business.”

  I brace myself. “What’s the news?”

  “I owe some money, and Barry and I are going to lose the shop if I don’t pay up. If I can just get it back up and running, I’ll return to AA. I swear.” Now he’s the one begging. Our roles—they change on a dime.

  I lick my lips, swallow roughly. “How much do you need?”

  He gives me a figure. Five figures. A very high five figures.

  I don’t blink. “I’ll help you out,” I tell him, hating myself, but doing it anyway.

  His haggard face lights up. “You will?”

  I nod. “I will.”

  Relief floods his features. “I love you.”

  I’m quiet for a few long seconds, then I find the will to speak. “I love you too,” I manage to say, unsure if it’s true. “Do you have any place to stay tonight?”

  “Motel down the street.”

  “Let me get you a nice hotel. I’ll stay with you.”

  On its surface, the offer seems generous.

  Kind.

  Like a good son.

  A grateful smile lights up his face. I’m grateful too—that I can be his probation officer tonight. That I’ve got an ankle cuff for him now. A muzzle too, one that’ll buy me enough time and distance that he can’t hurt Grant or me.

  He has no evidence of the affair, so all I have to do is keep denying it, and eventually, Dad will drop it.

  We finish eating, and he doesn’t mention Grant, or a boyfriend again.

  At the hotel, I check him into a room, and after he showers, he collapses on the bed, chats about Barry and their plans, talks about the steps he needs to work on in AA, and the amends he wants to keep making, including for how he handled my coming out.

  Soon enough, he talks himself into sleep.

  Alone with my thoughts, I text Brady, tell him I’m crashing with family, then I stare at my phone for thirty minutes.

  My fingers tap out a message that feels like a guillotine.

  I am putting my own head under the blade and letting it fall.

  Can I do this?

  With my dad snoring away, I stare endlessly at the screen, at the message.

  I don’t send it, though.

  I’m not sure I can.

  My head pounds mercilessly, a bone-deep hammering. My leg bounces a mile a minute.

  I could call Emma. Could talk to my mom. Maybe my stepdad. Could ask someone for advice. But then I’d have to explain. Admit I’ve been giving my dad money from time to time. Admit I fell for a guy on my team. Admit I don’t have my shit together.

  Once I crack open this can of worms, it’ll spread insid
e me like a disease. I won’t have the strength to do what I need to do.

  I need to fix the problem I created.

  But there’s one thing to do first.

  I click away from my messages and check the spring training scores, and I smile.

  For the first time in a few days, Grant got a hit. A single that amounted to nothing, but still, that’s a helluva lot better than hitless. Plus, no errors. No passed balls.

  As I mull that over, his name blasts across my notifications.

  I sit bolt upright, nearly dropping the phone like it can see inside me. Like it knows my secrets and what I’m about to do.

  With nervous fingers, I click open the text.

  * * *

  Grant: I followed your advice. Shifted my back knee. Thanks, man. Hope your first game was good.

  * * *

  That’s all.

  A simple update.

  A gorgeous, beautiful, heart-pounding update.

  One that makes me ache and want.

  One that tugs on every corner of my heart.

  This news is what I hoped for.

  And it’s also an obvious sign.

  My guy is playing better than he did when I was there. When I was sneaking into his room every night, feeding my desires, getting in his head with my bottomless need for him.

  Scrubbing my palm across the back of my neck, I replay the games that fell during the time we messed around. The Scoundrels, the Sharks, the Bandits . . . His worst games occurred when he was seeing me.

  He made mistakes on the field during the day when I was seducing him, teaching him, touching him at night.

  When I was a gluttonous lover, asking for more, then asking for yet another bite.

  Ah, hell. I am a greedy, selfish bastard.

  But I was with him last night too.

  I close my eyes, my head falling back against the couch as I recall our time at The Lazy Hammock.

  “But nothing during the season, right? We’ve got to focus on baseball during the season,” Grant had said.

  The man underlined his needs. Highlighted them in neon ink. Made it clear what he could and couldn’t handle—no talking, no texting.