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

He can’t hit a slider for shit.

I call for it, and Sullivan blinks, then stares, silently asking if I’m sure.

I nod firmly.

Sullivan fires it off.

Please let me be right.

Declan swings right through it, missing it sharply.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” We lock eyes and he shoots an oh no you didn’t look straight at me.

I smirk. “Better luck next time,” I say, heading off the field.

We go on to win the game.

Later that night, he strides into the pool hall like he’s determined to ignore the fuck out of me too.

But when his eyes find mine, they’re burning hot.





13





Declan





I always make good on my bets.

I take my ribbing like a man too. Crosby gives me a helluva hard time while we play pool, mocking me for my hitless night—as well he should.

It’s the spring training crew, together again, but I’m the odd man out as the lone Comet amid five Cougars—Sullivan, Miguel, Crosby, Chance . . . and Grant.

After an hour or so, Sullivan and Miguel say they’re going to hit a club, and those rookies take off.

And then there were four, just two guys I call friends and my favorite rookie in the whole wide world.

Five and a half months haven’t changed a thing for me.

Time has done nothing to lessen my desire for Grant or dampen my feelings for him.

I’m not entirely surprised I still feel this way. The man hasn’t been far from my thoughts since I landed in New York more than five months ago. But I’m a visual guy, and seeing is believing.

I do believe.

Here I am, mere feet away, and all the feelings have come rushing back. All the longing, all the desire.

All the falling.

My heart beats so damn fast when he’s near.

It’s so hard not to stare at him like he’s the only one. Even with Crosby and Chance around, I can feel a charge between us, reminding me of everything I like about Grant Blackwood. He’s funny, outgoing, gutsy . . .

And he cares.

He cares deeply for people.

I need to get a minute alone with him. The whole evening, my antennae are up like I’m sensing the air or waiting for the perfect pitch. When Crosby and Chance wind themselves up in a debate about the episode of The Office playing on the bar’s TV screen, I see an opening. The guys start googling trivia facts and wander away from the table, and I’ve never been more grateful for Michael Scott.

I waste no time. I turn to Grant, who’s on the other side of the pool table, rubbing chalk on the end of the cue. “What was up with that pitch?” I ask.

He gives me a blank look. “Which one?”

“You know which one. You called for a slider.”

I don’t actually want to talk about the pitch. But you can’t just dive right back into I think about you all the time and all the things we could be. I can’t start this convo by telling him how good he looks, how fast my pulse is spiking, how often he invades my head. So, baseball it is.

Grant scoffs. “No shit I did.”

“But I thought we talked about that.” I laugh, trying to be casual.

His hard eyes say this isn’t funny. “Don’t. Don’t fucking embarrass yourself by saying anything about that night. I called for it because I knew you wouldn’t hit it,” he says, crisp and sharp.

Practically hissing at me.

Seems I misjudged this conversation.

“Right,” I say, backpedaling into I don’t even know what.

Fire burns in his voice as he holds up a stop-sign hand. “You didn’t have to tell me that for me to know it. I knew it because I studied you, like I study everyone else. I’m a fucking Major League catcher, and it’s my job to know what you can and can’t hit. Now excuse me,” he says, setting down his pool cue and stalking to the restroom.

Well, fuck me.

I didn’t ask him a real question, and already this conversation has gone horribly.

But I refuse to accept my own failure when I can do things differently this time. I give him a minute to take a leak, then I follow him, heading into the restroom where he’s washing his hands.

I shut the door, press my back against it, and leave my hand on the knob. We’re the only ones here. “That’s not what I was going to say, Grant,” I say quietly.

He turns his gaze to me, still looking pissed, as he dries his hands with a paper towel. “What were you going to say then, Declan?”

“I was going to say good job. You called a good game. I was impressed.”

Twin spots of red spread across his cheeks. That hint of embarrassment is so damn adorable. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, dipping his head as he tosses the towel in the trash can. He takes a beat then looks up, and gone is the anger. “Didn’t mean to get pissy. I thought you meant something else.”

“I didn’t mean anything bad.”

Then, I just stare at him. I run my eyes up and down his frame, taking in how good he looks in that tight red T-shirt from his alma mater, those jeans that hug his legs spectacularly, that mess of dark blond hair. His clean-shaven jaw. His blue eyes that seem to see inside me. That always have.

Yet he has no idea that I let him in more than I’ve ever let in anyone. That maybe, just maybe, I could let him in more.