It won’t be long before someone commands our attention. That’s how it goes at these events. You never get more than a few minutes to catch up with anyone.
It’s the span of an at-bat. When you see your pitch, you have to swing.
I’m about to go for it—to ask what he’s up to tomorrow—when Grant clears his throat. He turns his back to the crowd, his body language signaling don’t talk to us.
“Listen,” he starts roughly, and I tense.
Listen is one of those roadblock words.
A warning sign.
Stop. Do not pass Go.
Listen could slay me.
But if I’ve learned anything in the last nine months of therapy, it’s that not only do I need to talk about shit, I also need to know when to shut up.
24
Declan
Listening pays off.
His next words are an invitation.
“I have a thing tonight with one of my sponsors. And my grandpa’s in town, staying the night at my house,” he says, barely audible.
Even next to him, I have to strain to hear. “Keep going,” I say. I definitely want to hear what’s next.
“But are you around tomorrow?”
My lips quirk in a grin. “I can be.”
“Is that so?” He’s all flirty undertone again, and I dig it.
“Yes. What do you have in mind?”
His eyes lock with mine. He licks his lips, then mouths, “Meet me for that . . . not-drink?”
The whole world slows to this second. The earth narrows to the two of us. This feels like the start of something entirely new.
Something so different from the past.
We’re different. I know I’ve been changing in all sorts of ways—putting myself out there more, facing hard truths, expanding my mind along with my heart.
Grant isn’t the same either. He’s not that wide-eyed rookie covered in ketchup and laughter, the eager newbie looking up to his idols on the field. At twenty-seven, he’s one of the best players in the majors, a clutch performer, a businessman—and more than that, he’s an activist.
A leader in all the ways he hoped to be.
I don’t know that I deserve him. But I know this—I want to deserve him. I want to be worthy.
I’m almost ready, I can hear myself saying to Carla in our most recent session.
But I’m not letting this chance—if that’s what it is—pass me by. “I’ll be there. Text me a time and a place, okay?”
“I will. Let’s say six.”
I tap my temple. “It’s locked in.”
He names a place too, tells me he’ll make a reservation. I want to pump a fist because I don’t even have to wait for the text.
We’ve done it. We’ve made plans.
I’ll see him alone in less than twenty-four hours.
Grant parts his lips like he’s about to say something, but then he shakes his head, seeming to think the better of it.
“Good seeing you, man,” he says in his regular voice, and claps me on the back.
A bro clap on the back.
But it doesn’t faze me. I know I’m not just one of the guys to him. No more than he is to me.
Well into that night’s ceremony, Nadia takes to the stage to present what she told me is one of her favorite awards.
“This award is perhaps the highest honor,” she tells the audience, a large, cream-colored envelope in her hand. “It goes to the man or woman who exemplifies giving back. And tonight, I am thrilled to announce that this year’s Best Sportsman award goes to . . .”
She stops to slide a finger under the envelope flap then takes out a card. Beaming with delight, she reads, “Grant Blackwood, catcher for the San Francisco Cougars, who exemplifies sportsmanship with his volunteer efforts for local charities supporting underprivileged young athletes and LGBTQ athletes. Congratulations, Grant.”
Not gonna lie. I clap the hardest and cheer the loudest as the catcher jogs to the stage.
His acceptance speech is brief. “I’ve been lucky. I’ve had a good run. I play with a great team, with guys who have my back. And this?” He holds up the statue. “This is what motivates me every day. So, thank you. All of you.”
Another round of cheers echoes in the ballroom.
Pretty much everyone here is rooting for him.
But I’m the only one who’s seeing him for a not-drink tomorrow, and I kind of feel like I’ve won something too.
The next morning, I head to a café in Pacific Heights to meet Nadia for breakfast, lecturing myself as I push open the door.
Don’t watch the clock the whole time.
I’ve got eight hours to pass before I can see Grant—and maybe his fireplace too, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself.
Except I do.
I really do.
I grab a table, and Nadia sweeps in a minute later. We hug, order, then catch up as we wait for omelets.
She dives right into relationship talk. Gotta admire someone who gets right to the point. “So, any new men who rock your world?”