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

That’s Declan for you. He’s my Whac-A-Mole.

Crosby continues, “I don’t want to see his ass on base. I want our pitchers to strike him out in every single at-bat. I want to destroy him.”

Chance whistles appreciatively. “Hell to the yes, but why so vicious? He’s a friend still, right? Or did he steal your socks?”

“Yes, he’s a bud,” Crosby assures him. “But fuck friendship. This is baseball. Former teammate or not, we must annihilate him.”

“We do that to everyone,” I say. Declan is no different than any other player we want to retire at the plate.

He’s no one special.

“That is true,” Crosby says. “But I want to gloat when we play pool with him tomorrow night. Because that’s what we’re going to do. You’re all joining me after the game. Also I have a bet with the motherfucker that he won’t get on base, and I want to win, so help me out.”

As the guys join in on the bet, I’m not thinking about money. I’m not even thinking about how our pitchers can strike out Declan.

I’m thinking that we’re all playing pool with my ex-lover tomorrow night.

The first and only man I’ve ever slept with.

The guy who still makes my skin flash hot.





12





Grant





Baseball is mental.

Once you have the skills, the game is instinct, reaction, practice.

It’s in your mind.

I vow to lean on that as the Cougars take on the Comets, my team against Declan’s.

When he takes to the field in his pinstripe uniform, running to the shortstop position, he doesn’t look my way.

I don’t look his.

That works well for a while.

Then the Comets’ pitcher sends a delicious curveball over the plate in my first at-bat. It’s the first inning, two outs on the board, and I slam a double into right field and pull up at second.

The back of my neck prickles with awareness.

My spring-training fling is twenty feet away. He turns his head, glances in my direction. Those dark eyes of his linger on me for longer than they should.

Look all you want, shortstop. This could have been yours.

And since the game is mental, I swipe him from my mind as the Cougars’ centerfielder comes to the plate.

As Miguel hits a sharp line drive up the middle, I’m sure I’m going to be making my way home. But Declan dives for the ball, scooping it up mere inches from the ground in a killer display of reflexes and skills.

That’s the inning.

“Motherfucker,” I curse under my breath as I walk off the field.

When Declan strides to the plate for his first at-bat in the bottom of the first, I tug down my mask, crouch, and stare only at my pitcher.

Declan takes a few practice swings, and I try, I swear I try, not to look at him.

Not to think of him.

Out of the corner of my eye, though, I can’t help but notice his beard is thicker. He was scruffy before. Now, he’s got a helluva lot more than a five o’ clock shadow. But not grizzly-bear levels. More like just right levels.

I shove that thought away. He’s just like any other opponent.

But when Declan stands in front of the plate and adjusts his batting glove, his gaze drifts to mine once more.

He shoots me the barest of grins, the corner of those lips curving up.

“Hey there,” he says under his breath, just for me. I don’t even think the umpire can hear him.

He says it with a hint of a smile and a trace of memory. It’s as if we’re back in the corridor of the spring training complex.

As if we’re meeting for the first time.

As if we would start over in just this way.

Eyes would lock, the world would go still, and we’d know that this was just the beginning. We’d meet after the game, someplace in New York, and grab a bite to eat, something to drink. We’d flirt, talk, and tease.

He’d invite me over.

I’d say yes.

We’d blot out the world all night long.

Later, we’d tell the story of how we met one day at the plate during a Cougars–Comets game. I was catching, he was hitting, and the rest is history.

In a span of three seconds, I’ve rewritten our love story.

I’ve got to stop this shit.

We don’t have a happy ending. We don’t have a new beginning.

We are over.

I draw a deep, fueling breath and center myself. Then I call for a fastball down the middle, and Declan flies out to center field.

When the inning ends, Crosby catches up to me on the way to the dugout, and we knock fists. “Keep that up. I’ve got a bet to win.”

“I’ve got your back,” I say.

Declan goes hitless in his next at-bat, but a few innings later, his teammates load the bases. At the bottom of the seventh, it’s do-or-die for the Cougars when he comes to the plate.

We’re ahead, but only by one. If Declan knocks in a run, the game is tied. If he hits a hard single, the runners on third and second can score. If we strike him out, though, we keep the lead.

Sullivan, pitching in relief, paces the mound. Declan works the hell out of his at-bat, fouling off pitch after pitch, waiting for just the right one, until he gets to a full count.

This is it.

I lower my hand to call the payoff pitch, and a memory flashes bright and clear—the slider he went deep on last year, the talk of spring training, the play I watched that night in his hotel room.