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

But there’s so much they don’t know.

So much I keep from them so they won’t worry.

I flash a smile and tell a massive lie that twists inside me. “The last week was great.” I can segue into the truth, and it unknots some of the tight coil inside me. “Tucker is fantastic. Brady’s a cool dude. The new manager is great. It’s all good.”

No lies there. Those specific details of spring training are completely honest.

But I don’t tell Mom how awful the last week has been.

I’ve never been good about telling her how things have been with my dad. She doesn’t need to know what he’s like these days because he’s no longer her burden to bear. After trying so damn hard to save him when I was younger, she’s free of him.

Nobody fought harder to make a marriage work than my mother. Nobody tried more patiently to help an addict. She did everything to get my father help, but he lashed out at her with his baseless accusations. He hurled horrible lies at her and questioned her constantly.

When she finally left him, she was able to have the life that she deserves. She was able to meet Tyler, a man she can have an open, honest relationship with.

I want her to have this happiness, and I won’t fuck it up by telling her how my father turned my spring training into the latest episode of family bribery.

After lunch, Tyler takes off to catch up with a friend he grew up with in San Diego, and Mom suggests we go for a walk. We chat briefly about the city as we stroll past The Plaza toward the park, but she doesn’t seem interested in small talk.

“You seem distracted, sweetheart,” she says quickly, her eyes sharp, her tone concerned.

“Do I?”

She rubs my shoulder. “I can read you. You’re my kid—my one and only, so I’m not distracted trying to read other ones,” she says with a laugh that fades back into concern. “Is it about your dad?”

I straighten, coming alert. “What makes you ask that?” Does she know he showed up in Florida? Does she know I cracked open my wallet again?

With a weary sigh, she says, “I heard through the grapevine that he’s been having some trouble with his business.” My worry inches higher, but then she goes on. “It seems, though, that he just got a loan. I didn’t know if that had been weighing on you.”

Ah. Nothing to worry about it. He framed my money as a loan.

Perfect.

“No, that’s not it. I just . . .” I think about what I really want to ask her. How much I want to tell her what’s weighing on me. And I find the simplest way in. “Did you ever regret something, Mom?”

A soft smile is her answer. “Of course. But I try to live without regrets. To take care of things that need attending in this moment. What happened that you regret?”

Everything.

And one thing.

The thing I’m beyond sorry about.

“I handled something badly,” I admit as we walk along the park, an early spring breeze blowing past us, a bus trundling by.

“With someone?”

A pang lodges in my ribs—or maybe the constant pang I feel deepens, tunnels further into my soul. “Yeah. This guy I like,” I say, grateful it’s so easy to talk to her. It’s always been this way—she’s the polar opposite of my dad. Not least in how she handled it when I came out to her.

Thank you for telling me. I love you. I’m here for you. I’ll listen. What do you need from me?

That was all I needed. She’s always been the one I could talk to about relationships, but I haven’t done it often. Hardly any man has warranted a mom talk.

“I met someone, but it didn’t work out for . . . many reasons. And I think I could have handled the breakup better.”

She rubs my shoulder harder. “Maybe you should tell him that?”

It sounds easy, but I know it won’t be.

It is necessary, though.

So damn necessary.

That night when I’m alone in my rented apartment, I pick up my phone and I dial Grant’s number.





9





Grant





With wide-eyed wonder, my friend Reese stares at the ginormous tub in my hotel, half a mile from the ballpark. She lets her tongue loll out of her mouth then draws it back in. “I want to spend the night in that,” she says longingly.

Laughing, I gesture to the porcelain vat. “Let me get you some candles, sweetheart. How about a bath bomb? Maybe a little meditation music?” I tease, then add, “Go right ahead. Get in there.”

Her big blue eyes twinkle with delight, lighting up her familiar face. “Seriously? I don’t have a tub in college, and this here is a dream bath.”

“Then live the dream.”

She sinks onto the edge, stroking the porcelain, cooing at it, even.

“Weirdo,” I say, laughing. We’ve laughed a lot tonight, possibly because Reese declared it a no-Declan-talk zone, and I was more than happy to observe the moratorium.

Reese doesn’t have classes tomorrow, so she drove down from college for Opening Day. Everyone else is coming too. My grandma and grandpa. My sister. My dad and his girlfriend. My mom and Frank.

But tonight, it’s just Reese and me until I hit the sack at ten. Gotta be rested and ready for my Major League debut.

“I’m going to bed in thirty minutes, so get your butt in the tub, woman.”