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

Grant drops my hand, drags his through his hair. His eyes widen, shock registering in those blue irises “Wow.”

Yes, this is my baggage. This is what I come with. This is why I don’t open up.

“That came from him?” he asks, maybe needing to be sure.

“It did.”

“I thought it was you. Like a piece of advice from you.”

I shake my head. “No. That was Jon Steele. He was a great minor leaguer. Honestly, he’d be a great hitting coach if he could get his act together. I was pretty pissed when he first told me what you should do. But I knew he was right, and I wanted you to do well, so I passed it on.”

A long sigh seems to fall from his lips. “He was right. So, I guess, thanks. I get why you told me. It worked.”

My hand aches to hold his again, so I reach for him, and he lets me. That emboldens me. “The whole time he was talking in Florida to the guys, all I could think was how he was seconds away from blurting out your name. Everyone would know we’d been involved, and it would look bad that we’d been together as teammates, especially with you going into your first season.”

Grant nods in understanding. “That would have been a red-hot mess.”

“Exactly,” I say, relieved that he gets it. “I was just so sure he was going to say something. He kept it up during dinner that night. All I could think was that someone would know, word would get out, we’d become this media circus. And if that happened, what would it do to you when you hadn’t even made the roster yet?”

Grant’s jaw ticks, like he’s processing all this news.

And it’s a fuck-ton of news.

“Not gonna lie, Deck. This is . . . a lot,” he says in a heavy tone.

That’s what worries me the most now, I suppose. That I’m a lot. That he won’t want to deal with my a lot.

It’s not just baggage. It’s a cargo-hold full.

“And you were playing better without me. You did well in the first game when I was gone, and you’d done so much better before we started up. I thought ending things had to be for the best. For you.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then a few more. “But was it for the best? Shutting me out like that?”

I drag a hand through my hair, regret roiling through my veins. “It was all I knew to do at the time. That’s what I was trying to say when I called you before Opening Day,” I say, and like a kick in the pants, it hits me how thoroughly short-sighted that was. “And now I can see like a billboard flashing in front of me that calling you before Opening Day to deal with my shit was a mistake too.”

He gives a subtle shrug that says yeah, it was. “Listen, I understand everything you’re saying. At least, I think I do. I won’t try to pretend I understand addiction or alcoholism, but it sounds like the way you grew up was complicated and difficult.”

“I know you didn’t have it easy, either,” I say. I don’t want to be all woe is me.

“I didn’t, but I’m talking about you,” he says, soft but firm. “So let me talk about you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What I’m saying is thank you for telling me. Thank you for letting me into your stuff. I know that’s not easy,” he says, then takes both my hands in his and squeezes, and I think yes, we can fix this, we can sort this out. “But you could have called and told me that. You could have talked to me.”

And he hits that on the nose.

Gets right to the heart of the matter.

“I was a coward, Grant,” I say, owning it. “I fucked up. That’s my biggest regret. I was too scared to call you.”

“Why? I’m not going to judge you for your family.”

I press my lips together, wanting to hold in all these hard truths. But I let them out instead. “I knew if I called you, if I heard your voice, if I even asked for advice on how to handle the shitstorm of my life, that I’d cave. Ask for more of you. Want more of your time, more of your big fucking heart.”

“I’d have given it to you,” he says, tender and so damn vulnerable that I want to smother him in kisses and let him do the same to me. I want to drown in his affection and get lost in him.

“But I thought the only way I could help you was to . . . end it.”

Grant’s face is stony for a few seconds. Then for several more before he drops both my hands, ending his touch. “I get what you’re saying.” He pauses, works his jaw. “But the problem is you really fucking hurt me.”

My heart plummets, an elevator cut from its cable. “I know,” I mutter.

“But do you? Do you have any idea how I felt when I got your text?”

I meet his eyes, face him like a man. “No. Tell me. Because I thought about it every day. I thought about you every day.”

He swallows like there are rocks in his throat. “I felt like I was nothing. I felt like what we shared was nothing. Like our plans to meet in November were a lie. Like I was just this stupid virgin you messed with and then kicked to the curb.” His eyes are hard enough to cut glass. “That’s how I felt.”

“You weren’t nothing, Grant. You were everything,” I say, then I dig down deep, reaching far inside with a brand-new shovel. “I was falling in love with you. I’m still in love with you.”