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

Not tonight, Mom.

I left my laptop on the bed, yanked open the window and climbed out, sprinting across my yard, then the neighbors’, all the way to Reese’s place a few houses down.

Her mom let me in. I must have looked awful, because she asked if I was okay, and when I told her I needed to see Reese, she squeezed my shoulder and walked me to her daughter’s bedroom.

With the door closed, I told my closest friend everything. I tried so damn hard not to cry. But it didn’t work.

“Shh. Someday . . . someday it will be different,” she whispered as she hugged me and I hugged her back. “At least you have your grandparents.”

She was right. My grandma and grandpa were all I needed. With them, I had more than enough, and I knew, deep down, I’d be okay.

As long as I was careful to never give a piece of my heart to someone who would throw it away.





7





Grant





Present Day



* * *



Declan broke my heart.

But baseball? Baseball doesn’t let me down. Baseball shows up the next day with a first-aid kit.

It gets to work on the wounded heart that River started to fix with friendship.

With three days left in spring training, Fisher calls me aside after a morning workout. I trot over to him by the third-base line, where he rests his elbow against the stands.

“Let’s talk, Blackwood.”

I straighten and square my shoulders, ready to take his news, whatever it is, like a man.

“Yes, sir.”

He sets a hand on my shoulder, looks me in the eye, and draws out the silence until his lips twitch and give him away. “How would you like to be our starting catcher on Opening Day?”

I try not to grin like a fool, but it’s futile. When your greatest dream comes true, grinning should be a requirement.

“I’d love it,” I say, as sunshine floods my veins.

“Good. Starting catcher job is yours, rookie.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much, coach.”

“No need to thank me. We’re not handing out favors here. Everything you get, you earn,” he says, then gives a crisp nod and turns away.

I raise my face to the sky. It’s bright and blue and full of possibility. It’s a brand-new day, and I am going to savor it.

I run a finger across my chest, over my uniform, tracing the place where the arrow is tattooed on my skin.

Goals, protection, a future.

I dodged a bullet.

I nearly lost the love of my life thanks to a man.

Now, I have a fresh chance with baseball, and I swear I will take this chance and be faithful to baseball.





A few days later, I get on the team plane and return to San Francisco, leaving Arizona with its desert and wide-open skies and memories of first times behind me.

I’ve been through worse than this and came out on the other side.

The key to survival is you don’t let the people who hurt you back in.





The Night Before Opening Day





8





Declan





Heels click-clack across the hardwood floor as I try to decide if I like this place.

I wander through the living room while the realtor, Avery, gestures to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the city beyond as Manhattan unveils itself. “And you have a fantastic view of Central Park. Soon the spring flowers will be in bloom,” she says, her pretty soprano voice floating across the one-bedroom apartment on Fifth Avenue. “The tulips are gorgeous, and the hyacinths too.”

I wince.

“Or maybe you don’t like flowers,” Avery says, reading my expression quickly.

“They’re fine.” What the hell can I say?

Oh, hey, hyacinths remind me of this story a guy told me late one night in bed, about Apollo and his lover who turned into a hyacinth, and now I can’t live near some blue flowers.

Yeah, that sounds great. I go with, “The view is great. Nice neighborhood too.”

“There’s a great organic cafe around the corner. It’s hard to beat if you like that type of food,” she says.

I give her a faint smile as I check out the kitchen. “That’s great.”

Fitz’s husband hooked me up with Avery. Dean met her at his bar and she gets high marks from the referral service for gay- and gay-friendly realtors in the city. Avery has busted her ass so far. When I called her from Florida a few days ago and said I needed a short-term rental in the city immediately, in just a few hours, she found me a place to rent for the first month here.

Now, on my one day off before the season opener, she’s taken me to six places. She’s an Energizer bunny of a realtor. Nothing seems to get her down, even though I haven’t fallen for any of the apartments for sale.

Maybe I’m not in the mood to like anything. Perhaps my wiring isn’t working that way right now.

She keeps talking as she gazes out the window. “I’m partial to the park, of course. My wife and I were married there.”

“That’s great,” I say listlessly.

That seems to be all I can manage. That’s great. That’s great. That’s great. It sounds so hollow, but that’s been my mood.

“Sorry,” I say with more vim and vigor this time. “It is great.”