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

Plenty of time to consider everything I could have done differently.

Sighing, I write back to my father.



* * *



Declan: It’s a beauty, all right.



* * *



Then I close the thread and picture how I want today to go.





11





Grant





As the plane taxis along the runway in San Francisco, ready to fly to New York, I send a text to River.



* * *



Grant: Dude, we are in playoff contention. Let me say that again—we are in playoff contention.





* * *



River: And that is exactly why your game will be on the big screen tomorrow at The Lazy Hammock. Though, confession: I would play it anyway. Of all the major sports, baseball uniforms are my fave.





* * *



Grant: Understandable. Too much padding with hockey and football. Not to mention helmets.





* * *



River: You know me so well.





* * *



Grant: But what about basketball? Isn’t that kind of the least amount of clothes? Wouldn’t that be your favorite?





* * *



River: Hun, my fav is . . . wait for it . . . swimming! Hello, itty-bitty bathing suits. Come to River.





* * *



I laugh as I type out a reply.



* * *



Grant: Of course Speedos are your favorite.





* * *



River: Yours too. Just admit it. You love watching swimming.





* * *



Grant: Honestly, I like hockey for the strategy.





* * *



River: Said no one ever. Anyhoo, keep me posted on how it goes seeing Mr. Tall, Dark and Totally History. Also, strike his ass out.





* * *



I grin as I read his last text, loving the sentiment, loving that he’s in my corner.



* * *



Grant: That’s up to the pitchers, but I’ll do my part.





* * *



River: I have no doubt you will. And I’ll see you soon. I’m heading back to SF later in the fall to visit family. We’ll have to check out the best gay bars in the city. I insist. It’s research. Wink, wink.





* * *



Grant: Right. It’s only for research.





* * *



River: Fine, fine. Research and hookups. I can totally multitask. What about you?





* * *



Grant: I’ll let you know when I’m ready.





* * *



I turn off the phone as the plane takes off, soaring into the sky.

Will I be ready then? Who knows—I haven’t hooked up with anyone since spring training.

Maybe that’s for the best. My stats certainly seem to think so. We’re well into September, and I’ve already hit more than thirty home runs. Plus, my batting average is more than .300. I have zero complaints.

Once we reach our cruising altitude, Crosby unhooks his seatbelt, strolling down the aisle to my row. “Rookie,” he says, his voice gruff, like he’s the commander initiating an inquisition on a submarine. “How are your socks?”

“My socks?”

Crosby stares sharply at me. “Yes. Your socks.”

“My socks are just fine.” I tug up the bottom of my jeans to show him my purple socks with zebra print. They’re a gift from my sister—purple is her favorite color, and zebras were her favorite animal growing up. Giving each other silly socks is a long-running joke between us. “Sierra gave me these for my birthday.”

“Excellent choice. Do you wear the same pair when you’re on a streak? You’ve gotten hits in each of the last ten games. I want to know if you’re wearing the same socks.”

I shake my head. “Dude, I put these on today. Because I believe in something known as, wait for it, hygiene. Laundry—try it sometime.”

From the row in front of me, Chance chuckles under his breath.

Crosby continues the sock query. “Are you sure? Because that is some kind of sorcery you have going on—getting hits in ten games in a row without a pair of lucky socks.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Seriously. No socks were made filthy in the pursuit of my current hitting streak. I change them after every game.”

He hums doubtfully. “That’s just crazy.”

Chance pops his head up over the seat back, staring at Crosby with his dark eyes. “No, that’s called being a grown-ass man.”

Crosby’s eyes shoot death rays at Chance. “Don’t try to tell me you’ve never worn the same pair of socks when you’ve had a couple of saves in a row.”

Chance shakes his head. “I’m not superstitious in the same way as you.”

“It’s not even superstitious. I just like to pay homage to the gods of luck, and I do so with fox socks, monkey socks, chipmunk socks, even elephant socks,” Crosby says.

“And he can tell you which socks he wore to which game,” Chance tells me. “This man has an encyclopedic memory for his socks. It’s pretty scary.”