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

I have to take a breath before I can go on, speaking more gently but intently too. “I am so damned grateful you paved this path, Deck. You and other gay athletes. But I’m walking it now too, in a way that means something to me—doing work, speaking up, being a voice. And I want to matter outside of myself. I want to represent something to others. I want to succeed at the highest level to show the world that a gay guy can play ball just as well as a straight one. I want to be remembered for how I played, not just who I loved.”

He nods as he listens, inhaling deeply, exhaling heavily, resigned. “It’s love or baseball.”

I shrug helplessly. “Yeah, it is.”

“And you’re choosing baseball.”

“I can’t choose anything else,” I say, trying to get him to understand.

Declan’s dark eyes shine as he swallows roughly. He shakes his head and grabs my hand, squeezing it. “You don’t have to explain,” he says, with potholes of emotion in his voice. “I understand. I don’t like it”—he draws a deep, hard breath like he needs it to finish without choking up—“but I respect it. I get it, and I get you. Completely.”

I hate that I’ve hurt him even as he accepts the decision. But I’d hate myself if I didn’t make this decision.

Neither one of us says anything for a while. Maybe there’s nothing more to say. Finally, I rise, grab my phone, and head to the door.

Declan follows me, standing nearby as I put on my shoes and grab my jacket. He looks like he just lost the World Series. I bet I look the same way.

Probably worse, because with baseball, there’s always next year.

I don’t think love works like that.

But maybe love works like this. “By the way, you want to know how to hit a slider?”

He tilts his head, question marks in his eyes. “Sure.”

“Don’t swing at it so much. It’s a pitcher’s pitch. Track it the whole way to the plate. If it’s a slider, chances are it’ll fall on the corner and you won’t need to swing, anyway. Only swing if it’s a strike,” I say.

“Thanks for the tip.” He pins me with his intense gaze, taking me in like it’s for the last time. “Goodbye, rookie.”

“Goodbye, Deck,” I say.

Then he leans in, brushes the softest kiss to my lips, and lets me go.

I walk down the hall, a thousand-pound weight camped out in my chest, my mind screaming go back, go back, go back.

But I listen to my gut—to the instinct that tells me to get in the elevator and go.

To leave the first man I ever loved.

And hope the other love of my life doesn’t abandon me.





The Next Few Days and Over the Next Several Years





20





Grant





I have no time to breathe during the next few days.

After I finish a morning of meetings with the Alliance about the work I’ll be doing for the organization, Haven takes me on a whirlwind tour around the city. For the rest of the week, it’s coffee with an athletic gear company near Columbus Circle, lunch in Midtown with a shoe company, then a dinner with another shoemaker and a breakfast the next day with a cell phone company.

They’re all courting me, and it’s kind of crazy.

When we leave the fanciest breakfast joint I’ve ever seen—the forks looked like they were made of gold—Haven and I wander through the West Village for a post-mortem.

“What did you think? Did you ever expect you’d have the pick of the litter?” she asks as we pass cafés, T-shirt shops, nail salons, and furniture stores, all with rainbow flags in the windows.

“No. Never.” My head is still swimming with my post-award life, and my heart still sinking from leaving Declan. But I try to focus on business—that was the point of saying no to him. “Who do you think I should partner with?”

We trade ideas as we walk along Christopher Street, but my mind derails completely when the Stonewall National Monument comes into view. My breath catches, and the hair on the back of my neck tingles as I stare at the park across from Stonewall Inn.

I had no idea we were near it.

I stop and stare, and Haven does too. The history major in me records details, places it in a timeline and contemplates what it says about how the world changes when groups of people push for change.

The man in me, though? I’m just grateful to be living now.

My agent squeezes my arm. “You want a picture in front of it?”

It’s a good question, but the answer comes easily. “Nah, some pictures are better without people in them.” I snag my phone from my pocket and snap a shot, then take a look. Yeah, it’s better like this—just the monument and what it means.

Haven is quiet, letting me have space for my thoughts, perhaps, but once we pass the park, we return to business.

And I suppose business and life, sports and activism, are all the same, now.





That night, I post the picture of the Stonewall Monument on my social media.

The next morning, I’m alone in New York for the first time, with time to kill until my flight leaves tonight. But my feet know where they want to go—right back to Park Avenue.

I stand across the street from Declan’s building, counting to eleven. I reach his floor, then slide my gaze to the left, hunting for the corner apartment with the view of the East River.