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

“Can you wait till the end of the season so I can help out?”

He shakes his head, laughing lightly. “I can’t. But can you trust me that I’ve got this covered?”

“I want to help,” I say.

“You offering is all the help I need.”

“What about a physical therapist? Can I get you one? Regular PT would be good for you.”

My pops smiles, lifting his coffee cup. “It’s nice of you to offer again. Sure.”

I grin too. “Thank you for not protesting.”

“I can tell it’s important to you. And you’re important to me.” His rolled sleeves show the detailed ink on his arms, and he runs his hand over the bands that look like water. I have matching waves on my arm, something that connects us.

I meet his gaze. His eyes are lighter blue than mine. People always used to say I have my mother’s eyes, but I knew I had his. “You know you’re like my dad, right? That you’re the real father to me?” I say, choking up.

His lip quivers for a moment, but he nods, resolute. “I know. And you’re a son to me,” he says, and then he wraps his arm around me and squeezes, and I know my life is going to be as great as I let it be.

I’ll get over Declan. I’ll get over the heartache and move on. But I have family, and that’s what matters the most.

After Pops drains his cup of coffee, he sets down the mug, takes a breath, then turns to me again. “What happened to the guy you met in spring training?”

I offer up a sad smile. “It didn’t work out.”

He pats my hand. “You okay with that? Or do you miss him?”

The question is an excellent one. Maybe I’m lucky here too, because I can answer with the truth. “A little of both, Pops.”





Over the next five months I play like a fiend, determined to have the best rookie season anyone has ever had.

By all accounts, I am.

Declan doesn’t call again. I don’t call him, either. When I go out with the guys on my team for a burger or a game of pool, we sometimes catch glimpses of his games playing on the TV at the bar.

Crosby mentions him from time to time too, dropping tidbits about their latest running bet on who will have a better batting average, or who will smoke out the other team when we play our series in September. Chance will relate their text thread about the absurd trivia they are dying to feed the teams’ Jumbotron operators.

Did you know Chance Ashford throws a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball, but is afraid of spiders, mushrooms, and peanut butter?

Did you know Declan Steele studied art history in college and his favorite song has always been “November Rain,” which he’d like to sing a cappella to the ballpark tonight?

Didn’t know that about Chance.

Didn’t know that, either, about Declan’s major.

I don’t let on, though, that I know he likes Guns N’ Roses. I simply nod and smile at all the right times.

In September, the team will travel to New York for our series against the Comets. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen Declan since the morning he left.

I didn’t know how I’d feel when the day came, but now that it’s here, I’m ready to face him. So damn ready.





September





10





Declan





Maybe I do spend more time getting ready for work than usual. I trim my beard, take a long shower, put on my best jeans and a good polo. You never know who you might run into in the corridor at the Comets stadium. Sometimes I bump into visiting players.

Could happen today.

My dumb heart gives a kick, saying yes, wouldn’t that be great!

I roll my eyes at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. But still—I hope.

I grab my Comets ball cap, phone, and wallet, and head out of my apartment to catch the subway to the ballpark. As the train rumbles out of the station on its way to the Bronx, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.

My dad’s name appears on the screen.

Bracing myself for bad news, I click open the thread.



* * *



Dad: Look at this beauty! Our truck is so spiffy!



* * *



A photo follows—a shot of his new tow truck with the logo of Two Cousins Towing emblazoned on the side.

A small smile pulls on my lips.

I don’t usually smile when my dad’s involved, but a quick scan of our text thread from the last few months is the reason I do now.

Like this one from a month ago.



* * *



Dad: I got my one-month chip. Thank you.



* * *



It’s the tenth time he’s earned a one-month chip. Or maybe the fifteenth. I don’t know. Still, maybe this time it’ll stick.

Then there’s this message from earlier in the summer.



* * *



Dad: Thank you, thank you, thank you. You saved our business. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Also, that was a helluva game last night. You do me proud on the field. And off the field.



* * *



As I look at the latest picture of the truck, I have plenty of questions and doubts. Is he better? Will he stay sober this time? Will his business make it? I wish I knew.

But all I know is the last five months have been peaceful enough, giving me plenty of time to think.