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

I flop down on the couch and FaceTime him, stat.

“Yes, I am going to hit a homer tomorrow,” I say when I see his face.

“Happy to inspire you to go long,” he says.

Then we get inspired together, talking dirty, acting dirtier, till we come together.

It’s a beautiful sight. The way we lose control for each other is a dream come true.

Especially when we come down from our FaceTime high and Declan shoots me that easy grin. “Want to know what I miss the most?”

“Tell me.”

“Kissing you,” he says, kind of dreamy.

“I can’t wait for your lips,” I tell him, feeling stupid in lust and stupid in love at the same time.





It becomes a thing. The better I play, the more the reward.

I’ve always been highly motivated when it comes to baseball. But Declan’s method of positive reinforcement sends that to a whole new level. I have the best spring training ever, and it carries over into Opening Day. I go two-for-four at the plate, and we get our official World Series rings in a pre-game ceremony.

Across the country, Declan knocks in two runs, and the Comets win as well. That night, I call and ask about his game. But he’s more interested in the ring ceremony, so I give him all the details.

“Send me a pic of your ring.”

I do as he asks, and a few seconds later, he hums. “I want one of those,” he says, abject longing in his voice.

“You’ll get one. I know it,” I assure him.

“I don’t know—I’ve been playing for ten years and haven’t even made it to a World Series. Who knows how long I’ll play?”

I sit up straighter in bed. “You’re not thinking of retiring, are you?” I don’t want Declan to hang up his cleats early. He has so much game left in him.

“No way. You’ll have to pull me off the diamond kicking and screaming.” He laughs lightly, but wistfully. “All I’m saying is you never know what’s going to happen. Every year feels like it could be my last.”

“I get what you mean, but I don’t believe it. You’re only thirty-one. You’re going to be playing for a long time. I can feel it.”

“Long enough for you to come to one of my games and root for me?” His voice pitches upward hopefully.

I latch onto that note. “Is that something you want? Me in the stands?”

“Yeah. I do want that.” A happy sigh rumbles over the phone. “I have this fantasy of seeing you in the stands, of us locking eyes. Of calling my shot and hitting a homer for you.”

I laugh, truly tickled by that image. “And when you cross home plate, you’ll jog over to me. I’ll lean over and give you a big smacker. Is that your fantasy too?”

He groans, long and low. “I want that. Badly.” After a moment, he shifts his tone. “Seriously, though, I would love it if you were at one of my games. You don’t even have to kiss me. Just knowing you’re there would rock my world.”

“You know what’s amazing? When someone tells you what he wants. When you know you can give it to him.”

“You’d do that?”

“Yes. I would. I want to rock your world, Declan Steele.”

“You definitely do.”

“And I am sure someday you’ll have a ring.”

And I’ll be at that game, cheering you on.

But, that wish, I hold close to the vest. There’s too much to jinx in it.

“Maybe. But even if I don’t, I’m pretty happy right now,” he says.

“So am I.”

Except for that little matter of a long-distance relationship. We haven’t talked about that—what it looks like long-term, how we’ll make it work beyond May.

On one hand, it seems like we’re navigating the relationship part just fine. But I’m not convinced either one of us knows a thing about how to handle the distance.





34





Declan





One thing I learn about Grant Blackwood in April: he likes to give gifts. It’s not entirely surprising, but it is absolutely endearing.

The first gift arrives in digital form late one night after a game.

I’m on the subway heading home, tempted to open it. I’ve learned, though, that multimedia texts and emails from Grant are best viewed behind closed doors.

I wait . . . mostly patiently.

Once I’m inside my apartment, I click open the text, and I’m both turned on and amused as I click on a picture of Grant’s ass photoshopped into a Topps baseball card.

A chuckle bursts from me as I read the stats. Instead of batting average, height, and weight, he’s listed:

Firm enough to flick a quarter off it.

Round, tight, and delish.

Your favorite place.

He does include position, though. But rather than catcher, he writes: Versatile AF. Can play all positions and loves all positions.

It’s the best gift ever.

I write back.



* * *



Declan: Does this mean you want a dick card?





* * *



Grant: Dick card, dick pic, dick drawing. S’all good.





* * *



I FaceTime him, so he gets a dick video that turns into a long, late-night phone call where we get ready for bed together.