Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,51

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