25. Declan

A month later

When I finish my Friday morning workout at the neighborhood gym, I walk up Fillmore Street, grab an iced tea at my favorite coffee shop, then call Mom as I make my way home.

Even though I lived in San Francisco during my first four years on the Cougars, this city is home to me now in an entirely new way. It still blows my mind how much I love being here with Grant. What would it be like to be here in ten years with him? Maybe with Grant and a family? That's what I'm still trying to imagine, and the picture's still blurry.

That's why I need to talk to Mom.

"Any chance you're free tomorrow after my game? I was hoping to chat with you again about the whole making you a grandma or not thing," I say.

With a laugh, she answers, "Yes, of course."

This isn't the first time I've reached out to her to talk about the big issue. We chatted a few weeks ago when Grant was out of town in August. Grabbed a coffee one morning before she went into work, and I told her everything he'd said about wanting to have a family someday.

She listened, nodded and said it was a lot to think about.

It was.

It is.

And I'm still thinking.

I haven't stopped thinking.

"Do you want me to come over now? I know Grant's in Seattle," she says, since she follows the team's schedules.

"He's coming back Sunday night. But it's not urgent, Mom. I'm just working through some stuff. I talked to Carla too, but wanted to chat with you, as well."

"Ah, I didn't know you were still seeing your therapist, sweetie." I can hear the smile in her voice. The pride too—she's the one who encouraged me nearly two years ago to see someone. "That's great. I'm so glad you're still in touch with her."

"I don't see her as much, but maybe once a month we do a Zoom session. It's helpful."

"Of course. I still see mine, as you know." She takes a beat, taps on her keyboard. "Why don't I come to your game tomorrow afternoon, and we can grab a bite at the Ferry Building after? Wait. Nope. Too crowded post-game. Too many fans."

I smile, glad she caught onto that right away. "What about that new noodle bar in the marina? Reese was telling Grant about it, and it sounded good. It's less fan-centric."

"Perfect." Her voice softens. "Are you sure you don't want to chat now? I'm happy to talk anytime."

I shake my head. "I have a game against Chicago in a couple hours. The pitcher is a ruthless leftie who owns me at the plate this season, so I need to get in the zone."

"John-Paul Stockman. You've had a tough time hitting against him since you became a Dragon."

Mom knows the pitchers now? "You follow me that closely?"

"I'm a baseball fan. I know a thing or two."

"Color me impressed."

"Don't act so surprised. Your father isn't the only one who knows the sport. And I bet you can crack the code on Stockman."

"That's why I'm going in early today. To work with some of our lefties."

"If we could bottle your focus and market it, we'd own the world," she remarks, then we say goodbye.

A little later, I'm ready to go to the ballpark for some extra practice with Gunnar and the bullpen. I bound downstairs and stop in the foyer to grab my keys. As I toss them up and down, I flash back on the day Grant gave me this new car.

I'd just been traded to San Francisco. We'd been sharing his Tesla for the first week we lived together. But our schedules weren't lining up, so one Sunday morning he told me he was taking me out for a coffee at a new café across the city. That was unlike him. My guy likes to walk and stay in the hood for his morning Joe. But I didn't suspect he was giving me new wheels, until I pushed open the door to the garage. A huge red bow sat perched on the hood of a new BMWi8.

"Your favorite car," he'd said.

I turned to him, blinking, in shock. "You got me a car?"

"You got me you, so I figure this is a good start at giving back."

I kissed the hell out of him, and then we christened the car. Pretty sure we never got that cup of coffee. Grant knows how to take care of me, whether it's a car or a bagel or a text message. More proof that he'd make a great dad someday, and not because he gave me a car, but because he cares deeply about the people in his life. There's zero doubt in my mind about him. The doubt is all on me.

And I hate doubt.

But in the meantime, I can let him know I'm thinking about him. That's our routine when we're apart—to chat before our games.

As I unlock the car and slide in, I grab my phone to send him a message. But once I open his name, a notification pops up from Owen, asking me to give him a quick call.

Before I turn the engine, I dial the PR guy's number.

"What's up?" I ask, cutting to the chase.

"Hey! So, I'm calling you in a work capacity and a friend capacity," he says, direct and upbeat, since that's his style.

"Got it. Hit me," I say, bracing myself for whatever media issue has reared its head.

"Troy ran another piece this afternoon about you and Grant. It's more of the same blah-blah-blah bullshit as last time," he adds.

"Thanks for the heads up. But I don't read that crap."

Owen sighs happily. "And that is one of my favorite things about you. It could not make my PR heart happier to know that my players can ignore the stupid stuff out there. But," he says, slowing down, a note of concern in his voice, "the piece mentions Grant, and tries to claim that because your performance against pitchers in Grant's league has improved this year, that supports his claim that Grant is giving you tips on all the pitchers in his league..."

Ah, yes. I get it now. I understand Owen's concern. It's for Grant, and that's sweet. "I'll call him right now. Make sure he's okay. Thanks for reaching out as a friend."

"No problem. I know he worries about this more than you."

"He does. You're a good one, Owen," I say, then hang up and dial my guy.

Grant answers right away. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a phone call? Wait. Let me guess. You're horny and need me to tell you exactly how I plan to ravage your sexy-ass body when I get home this weekend? Okay, fine. I was just putting on chest pads, but I can take a break to tell you all about it."

Cracking up, I shake my head. This guy. He kills me. "Yes, I want all your sex plans, but I wanted to make sure you were doing okay. Troy wrote another piece."

"He sure did," Grant says, and he's all sunshine and good spirits. He's not bent out of shape.

Interesting. "And you're good with it?"

"I am. Want to know why?"

"I do."

"Someone told me to tune it out. And I listened to that someone," Grant says, sounding pleased as punch with himself.

"Well, look at you," I say with a low whistle.

"I don't give a fuck what he says about me. You did that for me. So... thank you."

A grin spreads across my face. "You did it, Grant. But I'm happy I could help."

"Me too. But I do have to hit the field in a minute. Good luck with Stockman today."

"You're not going to give me any hitting tips, are you?"

"You wish. If you wind up in the World Series playing against Stockman, that's when I'll give you tips. Not now. Not while we're both in contention for the playoffs. Want to know why?"

"Why?"

"Because if I give you a tip and you win, that means I might have to face you in the World Series, and can you imagine how devastated you'll be when I beat you? I don't know how I'd console you."

"Stab a knife in my chest, why don't you? You're the cruelest."

"And you wouldn't have it any other way. When it comes to baseball, you want to beat me, and I want to beat you. And that's the way it should be."

I do love his competitive fire. It matches mine. "We are birds of a feather. Like herons."

Grant snort-laughs. "Bang me like a heron, Declan."

"I will go horny heron on you this weekend."

"Mmm. You almost make me want to tell you how to hit Stockman with that sweet nothing. Love you."

"Love you. Also," I say, slowing down, taking a breath. "Grant?"

"Yes, Deck?"

"Thanks again. For being patient. For waiting for me." I hope he knows what I mean.

Grant's quiet at first. "You were always worth waiting for, Declan," he says, in a tender voice that makes it clear he knows what I'm saying.

And that's another reason I want to find my answer soon.

So I don't make him wait any longer for me.

Right now, though, I need to find the answer to an immediate dilemma. I drive to the ballpark, formulating a plan for Stockman.

One that doesn't rely on my boyfriend's hitting tips, or my dad's, or anyone else's.

One that relies on me.

After I arrive, I march straight to the locker room to find Gunnar. My teammate has a crummy batting average against Stockman this year too. "I know what to do," I announce to the third baseman, then we gather by our lockers, search past video for our at-bats against the leftie, and nod sagely at the same time once we spot the issue. "Stockman started jamming us this year. He's all up and in," I say, tapping the screen like I've found the buried treasure.

Gunnar's eyes spark with a plan. "We need to crowd the plate. He won't be able to jam us so much."

"We'll jam him instead," I say, and we smack palms. Then he tells me something very interesting indeed about the night we were at the dance club earlier in the season. That night, we both homer off Stockman and win the game.

We win the Saturday game too, pulling us even closer to a playoff spot. I meet Mom outside the ballpark, then we head to the noodle shop in the marina, and I wish the answer to wanting kids was as easy as researching at-bats.

I wish I had an answer for Grant, since he deserves to know where I stand. But I wish I had it for me too. I desperately want the answer and I want to know how to find it.

As we head to the restaurant, a bird squawks overhead. Looks like a falcon. If memory serves, I spotted a falcon the first time I went for a run with Grant in spring training way back when.

Mom cranes her neck to the darkening sky. "Remember when you used to go bird watching as a young teen?"

"I do remember. I wanted to be a bird and fly away," I say, drily. She knows about my bird fascination, where and what it came from.

She squeezes my shoulder. "Well, I'm sure glad you stayed, sweetie."

Laughing I say, "Yeah, me too."

Once inside the noodle shop, we grab a table and order, and then Mom gives me that it's time to talk face.

I hold my hands out wide. "What do I do?"

She smiles gently. "I can't make that decision for you. But I want to help you figure out how to make the decision that works for you."

Leaning back in my chair, I scrub a palm across the nape of my neck, my brain still a mess, like it's been for the last two months. I don't know how to find clarity. "How do I do that? I've been weighing it, and I'm lost. I know so little about kids. No brother or sister, as you know. I didn't grow up with cousins. I've been a solo ranger, Mom."

"That's true. You have. I have to imagine that makes it harder for you. Makes it all seem more mysterious."

That's exactly the issue. "How do I know if I'm ready to make that choice someday?"

She lifts her glass, takes a drink of bubbly water. "Do you remember when you first wanted to play baseball?"

"When I was six?"

"Yes."

"Sort of. I remember wanting to go to the park and hit balls."

"That was part of it. But even though your father was a minor leaguer, you didn't want to sign up for a team before you had a go on your own. You would go to our backyard and take practice swings all day. You'd throw balls to your father and me. You wanted to put baseball through its paces before you joined a team. That's how you are."

"Are you saying I should carry a doll or whatever they do these days so I get used to kids?"

"No. You don't need to get a doll. But you do like to know what you're getting into. You do that when you're taking something seriously."

She's onto something. That's how I approach the unknown—but the unknown that I'm considering. Funny, it's how I approached Grant too, in Arizona. When he propositioned me about sleeping together years ago, I weighed his request, turning it over and checking out all the angles. "That sounds like me. But you can't test out kids."

"Exactly. That's probably why you're so conflicted. You want to be sure of things before you do them, sweetie," she says, understanding me completely.

"Guess it's a good thing we won't accidentally have them," I deadpan.

She laughs. "That's definitely a good thing."

I mull over her advice about practice. "But does that mean I need to go find a friend with kids and babysit? That doesn't feel quite right either," I say, frowning, since kids aren't baseball. And I certainly didn't test out sex with Grant before I agreed to take him around the bases. So I'm not sure I need practice with kids per se. "I'm not sure that would give me the answer I'm looking for."

"That's true. Whether you enjoy watching someone else's kids doesn't always tell you if you'll want your own. And we can't magically give you a brother or sister, so I don't know that you'll ever have the certainty of experience that you might have if you were an older brother."

I sigh heavily. "So where does that leave me?"

She gives a soft smile. "I can't tell you if you're ever going to be ready, and I don't know that you ever will feel ready like you did about baseball. This is different. But I can say with absolute certainty that I think you'd be amazing at parenting."

Warmth spreads through me, but so does more doubt. "You really think so? Or are you just saying that because you're my mom?"

"My job as your mother is to think you'll be amazing. But I also truly think you will be." She takes a pause. "Do you want to know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you're determined to learn from the past. Because you have learned from the past. But I also think you'll be a good father because you have a great partner. That guy loves you soooooo much," she says, her voice breaking. Her hand flies to her mouth, and her eyes fill with tears.

"Mom," I say, switching to her side of the table, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I am," she chokes out, her voice filled with potholes as tears stream down her face.

"Why are you crying?"

She hides her face against my chest, hiccups and lets out another loud sob. "Because you found someone you love. Someone who loves you back. The night he got hurt? All he wanted was to see you." Mom lifts her face, meets my eyes. "When I was driving him to your house, he asked if I'd heard from you, and then he said..." She stops, takes a moment to catch her breath. "‘I really want to see your son.' You were all he wanted. Declan, he just loves you with everything he has."

Grant told me as much that night, but hearing it from another person makes my heart swell for him even more. "I feel the same for him," I say.

"I know you do. You found the thing that makes you happy in baseball, and the person who makes your life complete in Grant," she says, in a wobbly voice thick with emotion. "That's all I've ever wanted for my child."

"Stop. You're gonna make me cry too," I whisper.

But I suspect she's onto something. Finding your passion and finding your person?—

Maybe the answer is just that simple.