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

At least, I hope I’m vimming and vigoring.

Avery flashes a bright smile. “Let’s check out the rest of the place. How do you think you’ll like playing in New York City?”

“Hard to say. I’ve only ever played as a visiting team. Sorry about that,” I say.

She gives me a curious look, then she waves aside the apology. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not so long as you get us the World Series.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Avery chatters more about the building, undeterred by my mood. She’s been undeterred all morning—high marks indeed.

When we head into the bedroom, I stare at the empty space, imagining what it would look like with a king-size bed.

Imagining the bed.

Imagining the company—and I don’t mean for sex.

I mean the falling asleep with someone. The waking up with someone. The November with someone.

I look away, turning to the main bath.

“Do you like it?” Avery asks as I pass her.

I give a half-hearted shrug. “When can I move in?”

She shoots me a sympathetic look. “Are you sure, Declan? You don’t seem crazy about it.”

It’s funny, the realtor’s concern. I didn’t expect someone trying to sell me something to care about my state of mind.

But maybe it’s just that obvious. Maybe I need to try harder to move on.

I wish I were as good at ignoring shit as I want to be.

“Yeah. It’s just something I need to do.” I pat the doorway to the bathroom. “This’ll do.”

“This will be your home. It’s a big deal. It shouldn’t just ‘do.’ I’m happy to show you as many places as you want to see,” she says. “Do you want to see something in Chelsea or the West Village where there’s more of a scene, maybe?”

I shudder, hating the thought. “No. I actually like being closer to work.” The Upper East Side has the benefit of proximity to the ballpark in the Bronx.

“If you want it, we can move forward and close in a month.”

Permanent.

I would own this pad.

But that’s what this is—my new permanent life in New York. Three thousand miles away from family. Three thousand miles away from my father. And three thousand miles away from the man I miss.

But it’s also across the street from those fucking hyacinths, and I can’t. I just can’t be that close.

“You’re right,” I say. "Show me something else.”

She sweeps her hand toward the door. “We’ve got a whole city to tackle.”

The next place is off Park Avenue, with a view of the East River. The kitchen is modern, the living room is spacious, and the building has a private gym. It’s a block away from a great sushi place, she says.

But mostly it’s the view I’m buying.

Or really, the view I’m not buying.

“I’ll take it,” I say, and try to focus on what I’ll enjoy about this new place. The same thing I hate about it. That it’s three thousand miles away from San Francisco.





Later that day, I head to meet my mom and her husband for lunch. I bought tickets for them both to come out here for Opening Day, and they arrived last night. I picked this restaurant in the fifties for Tyler—he is second generation Korean-American and loves to check out Korean spots wherever he travels.

As the scent of bibimbap and garlic wafts around me, I find them at a table in the corner. Mom stands to throw her arms around me. “You look the same,” she says, giving me a once-over.

I arch a questioning brow. “Did you expect me to look different?”

I let go of her as Tyler tugs me in for an embrace as well. I love this dude. He’s never afraid to give a full-on hug. No toxic masculinity from him, he likes to say.

“I expected you to look different because you play for the enemy,” Tyler says, deadpan.

I roll my eyes. “Wait. I bought tickets for the two of you and you’re not even going to root for my new team?”

Tyler shakes his head, adamant. “I’ve been a diehard Cougars fan for ages. I don’t think I can root for the New York Comets. It’s against my nature.”

“And you, Mom?” I stare sternly at her.

“Ummmm,” she says.

I wave a hand. “I’m your son. You need to root for me.”

She holds up her hands in surrender. “I’m doing my best.”

I shake my head as I join them at the table. “And to think I got you seats on the first baseline. Guess I’m sorry about that too.”

“We promise to enjoy them,” Mom answers, but the rest of her words fade away when I key in on my own.

Sorry.

I’ve said it over and over today—for little things, things I’m not even really sorry for.

Maybe sorry is on my mind. Maybe it hasn’t left my mind since I sent Grant that text.

“So how was the last week of spring training?” Tyler asks after we order. “Was it an adjustment after four years with the Cougs?”

“Do you miss your Cougar friends?” Mom asks. “It’ll be hard not seeing Crosby and Chance, I’m sure.”

Their questions all seem so normal, no different than any conversation we’ve had about baseball, about work, about friendships.