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

More, gimme more.

I’m just like my father, asking for more than I’ve earned. More than I deserve.

I knew Grant wouldn’t turn me down. That I’d get everything I wanted, no matter the cost to him.

There is no room for love and baseball as a rookie.

Only baseball.

I am a distraction.

My heart caves in on itself, aching with what I’m about to do. Grant won’t, so I’ll have to.

Returning to my messages, I check the time. It’s after midnight on the east coast, a few hours earlier in Arizona. I type out the rest of the text to Grant. If I get on the phone with him, I’ll cave. If I call him, I’ll tell him everything.

Because he’s the one I want to call for advice.

He’s the one I want to ask for help.

He’s the one.

But I can’t lay my burdens at his feet where they’ll trip him up.

I have to be strong.

Make a clean break.

It’s all I can do. It’s all I’m good at, anyway.

I finish the message.



* * *



Declan: This is killing me, Grant. You have to know. But making plans was a mistake. We can’t do this. Any of this, including November. Miami is a bad idea.



* * *



I schedule my phone to send it in thirty minutes, then I get to work cleaning up the broken glass of my life.





I don’t trust my father. I don’t trust him to stay away from me, from my teammates, from baseball. I need him far, far away. As he sleeps, I make plans. I call Barry, my dad’s cousin in Oakland, and ask if he’ll take him in as they focus on the shop.

Barry says he will, and I buy a plane ticket as we talk. He’ll pick my dad up tomorrow at the Oakland airport.

Thirty minutes later, I set my phone to do not disturb except for my six-thirty alarm.

The next morning when I turn on my phone there are no messages.

No missed calls.

But then, the do-not-disturb option on my phone never shows missed calls. I shake my head now, disgusted at myself for hoping for a missed call.

If I’m making a clean break, Grant probably is too.

But hell, does it ever hurt, this silence.

I suppose I ought to be grateful for it. If Grant had called, he might have tried to talk me out of breaking things off. If I heard his voice, I’d give in. Go back.

In a heartbeat.

I can’t. I just can’t. I’m no good for him, and I have to think about him now. Not me.

Besides, what kind of coward wants his boyfriend to talk him out of breaking up?

I don’t deserve him.

I focus on the here and now.

Before I go to the ballpark, I check out of the hotel, take my dad to the airport, and walk him to security. Before he goes through the turnstile, I transfer him money. More than five figures.

It feels like hush money.

Probably because it is.





3





Declan





Thirteen years ago

Age thirteen





* * *



As I walked to the plate, I peered up at the stands, hunting for a familiar face.

One with eyes the same shade as mine.

One that came with a voice like a warm hug.

But the last several games—heck, for most of last season—my dad hadn’t been there as regularly as before. He hadn’t shown up next to my mom, leaving her alone in the stands.

She’d waved and cheered me on just the same, and I smiled and waved back, but I’d wished he’d been there.

I missed him.

Missed my dad, my coach, my hero.

When I reached the plate, I took a few practice swings and the pang of missing was so intense, it felt like a hole, tunneling into my heart.

Ignore it.

As I shifted my focus to the pitcher, I said it again.

Ignore this pain. Be stronger.

That was how I had to be.

I had to play like that.

I zoned in on the moment, and I whacked a triple into center field.

That approach worked for a few more games.

Deny, pretend, ignore.

I didn’t miss him anyway.

Who cared? I didn’t need him.

And still, he didn’t show up.

We made it to the championships, and I played my heart out without him, hoping he’d show.

In the last game, I launched a rocket over the fence, and a voice shouted from the stands. “That’s my son!”

My wish was coming true.

As I ran, I snapped my gaze to the stands, excitement curling through my body.

Until I found him, stumbling down the bleachers.

Ignore it.

But I couldn’t pretend.

As I crossed home plate, he clambered over the final seat and ran onto the field to give me a hug, but tripped and fell—a drunken, stinking mess.

His scent clogged my nostrils. That had to be alcohol. Later, I’d learn it was tequila.

He lifted his arm, a plaintive plea, laughing, like this was all so funny.

Nothing was funny. This wasn’t what I’d wished for.

Heat flooded my cheeks, the surge of embarrassment. Shame filled my body.

“Give me a lift, son,” he said, chuckling.

As my throat tightened, I spotted movement on the edge of my vision—a bird swooping by. No, a falcon. I wanted to be that falcon and fly away from here.

From all the eyes watching me. Watching us.