Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) by Lauren Blakely

When we finish our game, River and I amble back toward the bar. “Thanks for that, man,” I tell him. “If you ever make it back to San Francisco and want to go to a game, let me know, and I’ll get you tickets. That is, if I’m on the team.”

He nods excitedly. “That’s my plan—to make it back to California. It would be good to be near my sister and parents again, and I have this whole big dream of what I want to do with The Lazy Hammock. Expand everywhere. I want to start in San Francisco. Open a bar there—I’m imagining a spot in SoMa first. Not quite as crowded as the Castro.”

“Good location,” I say, picturing the neighborhood just south of Market.

River sweeps his arm out wide. “First stop Arizona. Next stop . . . ubiquity.”

“A most excellent gay bar in every city,” I say.

He drops his jaw. “Shut up. That’s going to be my new slogan. Can I steal it?”

I laugh. “You can have it.”

River pats my shoulder. “Good luck making the roster.” Then, he scrubs his chin before offering, “Listen, take my number—for when you need a friend.”

I enter it in my new phone and on my way out of the bar, I send him a text so he has my number too.



* * *



Grant: Baseball and hookups. Nothing more.



* * *



It’s a promise to myself. But a promise to another person will keep me accountable.

River replies as the Lyft takes me back to the hotel.



* * *



River: Bars and hookups. Nothing more. And I got your back.



* * *



It feels good to have a friend. In the worst of times, I’ve learned not to take a true friend for granted.





6





Grant





Eight Years Ago

Age fourteen





* * *



When my friends say it was awkward and embarrassing to endure The Sex Talk from their parents they have no idea what “so awkward I wanted to die” really feels like.

Like right now as my parents screwed late on a Friday night. As soon as the moans started, I grabbed my earphones and turned on a movie on my computer. It was a strategy I’d learned from years of them screwing and fighting.

It was all they did.

They had no filter. They went from yelling at each other about who last cleaned the dishes or did the laundry, to how good it felt to be pounded over the bathroom sink.

“Yes, bend me over. Spank me,” my mom begged.

I cringed and pressed my earphones tighter to my head.

Normally, I’d leave the house—take off for the park, hit some balls at the cages. Or I could have escaped to my grandparents’ place, but they were on an RV trip in Yosemite. My sister was staying at her best friend’s house, and I was stuck in our tiny, cramped house with the paper-thin walls.

I jacked up the volume as the moans and groans picked up speed. I’d heard it all before and estimated they’d be done in fifteen minutes.

Twenty-five minutes later, when Reese texted me to check out a new song, I figured it would be safe to pause National Treasure—one of my grandpa’s favorite flicks—and switch over to my phone.

As I wrote back to Reese, my mother’s voice cut across from the other room. “Yes, I’m on the pill, asshole. I told you that.”

“Like that means anything,” my father sneered. “That’s what you told me back in high school, and look where that led.”

“I did not say that,” she shouted. “I told you to use a condom, but gee, someone couldn’t do that right.”

“It’s not my fault the condom broke,” he said.

I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing they’d just shut up.

“It’s certainly not my fault you knocked me up,” she fired back at him.

It was a knife jammed between my ribs, but more of a butter knife by now. Not like the serrated edge of the first time I’d heard them talk about not wanting me.

About how I was a mistake. Same with my sister, two years younger.

“You should have had an abortion like I told you to,” my father spit out.

I froze—even my blood stopped moving.

But my ears still rang with this new accusation, a barb he’d never flung at her before.

I couldn’t go back to the computer now. I didn’t care about the movie, only about the horror I was overhearing.

“Don’t blame me,” she yelled. “I would have, but Mom wouldn’t let me.”

“Well, just remember who was going to take you to the clinic. And you better not be lying about being on the pill now.”

A wave of nausea rose up inside me, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop listening.

“Get out,” my mother seethed at my dad. “I’m sick of you.”

“Why do you fuck me, then?”

“That’s all you’re good for.”

“If you’re pregnant again, you’ll get rid of it this time.”

It.

Get rid of it.

I needed to get away from my parents. Did they know I was here? Did they even care?

“Get the fuck out,” she screamed at him.

And that was enough.

No more for me.

I didn’t want her to come in here and cry with me, vent to me, complain to me. That was her favorite thing to do—sob with her kids over her shitty husband.