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

“Thanks.”

It comes out dry as chalk. I lick my lips, trying to get rid of the taste.

I need a strategy to get him out of here. Picturing the road to the complex from the airport, I wonder if there is some entertainment along the way. A pool hall? Some mini golf? It’s fucking Florida. There must be mini golf.

Think, Declan. Think.

But I come up empty, and it’s like I’m thirteen again, trying to ignore the problems right in front of me.

Ignore, deny, avoid.

I grasp for The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, the first poem that gave me the guts to speak up.

But there’s no time to recite it in my head because my dad slaps me on the back, his voice booming once again. “Did he tell you? I gave his boyfriend batting tips.”

No, my head bellows.

I want to tackle him, to slam my hand over his mouth and seethe, “You said you wouldn’t.”

“You did?” Tucker asks, a lift in his brow.

“Does your boyfriend play ball?” Brady inquires.

My stomach plummets to the middle of the earth.

I shake my head, roll my eyes, do my best silly dad look.

“Dad, I’m not seeing anyone,” I say, draping an arm across his shoulders and squeezing tight. “But let’s catch up off the field.”

I pat him on the back then use my considerable strength to drag him away from his new crew. He shoots me an indignant look. “What? I was having a good time. I helped your new team. They love me.”

“Yup. I know,” I bite out.

I lead him off the field, through the dugout, and down the corridor, grinding my teeth the whole way, ready to pulverize my own damn mouth. I pull him into a quiet corner of the corridor in the facility. “Dad, I’m begging you. Do not mention my personal life in front of my teammates—not ever again,” I say, desperation painting over every single square inch of my tone.

“But everyone knows you’re gay. That’s not a secret. Look, I said I was sorry for telling you to stay in the closet when you were younger. But won’t you let me make up for it by embracing it now? Love is love.”

As if this is about love is love.

I try to breathe deeply as he twists my world like it’s a dishrag in his hands. “This has nothing to do with being gay. I’m out. I’m all the way out. That’s not the point. This has everything to do with me wanting some privacy, like I asked you for on the field.”

He smiles a big dopey grin. “You love that guy, don’t you? I can tell. Love is good, son,” he says, choking up. “You’re always trying to stay away from it, but you’re just like me. You can’t resist it.”

A headache rumbles behind my eyes, thumping mercilessly. “We’re not involved,” I say, already emotionally exhausted from my father. “I’m not with anyone.”

He wags a finger at me, gives a sly smile. “But I bet you want to be. Just go for it. I’m behind you every step of the way.”

I catch a whiff of the tequila when he talks, and I clench my fists, every muscle tight like a snare. “How much have you had to drink today?”

He scoffs. “Nothing.”

I narrow my eyes. “Dad, I can smell it. How much have you had?”

He lifts his thumb and forefinger. “Fine. Maybe one drink.”

I breathe out hard. “Or maybe a little bit more?”

He shrugs. Then he opens his finger and thumb wider. Wider still. Then even farther. He chuckles. “Okay, more than one.”

I can’t believe I’m about to do this. But I need some motherfucking space. “There’s a casino down the road. I passed it on the way in from the airport. Can you go play the slots? We’ll meet later. I promise. I’ll see you for dinner. That work for you?”

His eyes brim with sadness. “You don’t want me to watch you play? As soon as I heard you were traded, I came all the way across the country. I wanted to support you. I wanted to be here for you. I caught a plane.”

What the hell?

“You came across the country to . . . support me?” That doesn’t even make any sense. But I don’t have the time to try to unpack his carton of bullshit.

I do what I couldn’t do as a kid—I pretend. I’ve had years of acting practice by now, and I grab his arm and beseech him. “I do want you here, Dad. I promise. I swear I do.” I sigh heavily, like this saddens me, this truth I’m about to unwrap for him. “The thing is . . . I want to impress my new team and coach, and if you’re here, all I’m going to think about is impressing you. So, can you just help me out? I can focus better if I’m not trying to impress the man . . .” It pains me to say this. It pains me so damn much. “The man I look up to.”

“Aw,” he says, a soft smile curving his lips. He pats my cheek. “You’re so sweet. I get it.”

My stomach curdles as I tell him to wait then race to the locker room to fish some bills out of my wallet. Back in the hall, I press a couple hundred dollars into my dad’s palm. I know I’m feeding another of his addictions, but I don’t know what else to do.

I walk him out of the complex and add for good measure, “And, like I said, I’m single all the way. Baseball only.”

It feels like the worst—and most necessary—lie I’ve ever told.