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

My business partner is the only one who knows I’m back together with the shortstop. It’s been good to have River to talk to. He’s been in on it from the start, from that first night in Phoenix. He’s been supportive too, trusting my judgement. More important, I trust it too.

“He arrives tomorrow. I’m about to claw my way out of my skin. I can’t wait.” That seems to be how I feel about a lot of things, though—I’m waiting, and I can’t wait for the next thing. “But he’ll have to leave in twenty-four hours.”

“Then we’ll have to start a countdown till the off-season, hun. You two can spend every hour together, then.”

“We probably will.”

“And I hate you for that,” River says with a wink. “Meanwhile, I’ll be here at this bar, literally meeting every hot gay guy in a ten-mile radius and still not finding Mr. Right.”

“Your Mr. Right is out there,” I say. “Maybe he’s even someone you’ve known for a long time.”

He shoots me a what-are-you-talking-about look. “And who might that be?”

I shrug, then smile. “Someone you’ve mentioned a few times.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Spill the beans on my Mr. Right. Now. I demand it.”

“Your friend Owen, from college.”

River shakes his head, scoffing. “No, no, no. We are just friends. He can’t be my Mr. Right.”

Whatever he has to tell himself. All I know is mine arrives tomorrow night.





The Cougars afternoon game against the Miami Aces is a win, and I go home to shower and get ready for the event at the art gallery. Black slacks, a dark purple button-down, and I’m good to go.

As I head downstairs to the garage, my phone bleats with a news notification from the Sports Network.

I slide it open as I get in my car and freeze before I turn on the engine.



* * *



Is Declan Steele on the trading block? A source tells us the golden glove shortstop for the New York Comets might be trade bait for Seattle or Los Angeles.

My heart springs wildly. Holy shit. If this is real . . .

My fingertips tingle with excitement.

Los Angeles is so much closer. Los Angeles is practically a bus ride away. Seattle is close too, only a two-hour flight.

My bones buzz as I dial his number.

But I go straight to voicemail, so I send him a text.



* * *



Grant: Is this for real? Are you seriously being traded out west?



* * *



I close the screen, open the garage, and pull out. Along the way, I blast Five Seconds of Summer, Adele, and Bruno Mars till I reach the gallery. The valet takes my car, and I check my phone for messages on the way in.

No reply.

But he has a game today in Los Angeles. I click over to the LA Bandits schedule. Yup, the game’s about to start, so his phone is tucked away in his locker.

As I open the gallery door, I check the starting lineup for the game and stop in my tracks when I see Declan’s not on it. What the hell? Was he injured? Is he taking a day off?

I text him again.



* * *



Grant: You okay? You’re not on the lineup. LMK, Deck.



* * *



But my phone is silent for the next minute, the next two . . .

I take a big breath. Lineup probably didn’t update online for some reason. He’s on the field and I won’t hear from him for a few hours.

No biggie. This is our life. We are both out of pocket a lot.

I put my phone away in a feat of willpower and find Reese. We talk about the event, then for the next two hours, I catch up with some of the charity organizers and donors until the event winds down. As slow time-to-go music plays, I grab my phone from my pocket once again so I can check to see if my boyfriend has texted.

But before I can open the messages, all the breath rushes out of my lungs.

I don’t move.

I don’t speak.

I barely blink.

A man just strolled into the art gallery, looking for someone.

That someone is me. Because that man is mine.

My phone goes back in my pocket, and I walk to the guy who’s not supposed to be here till tomorrow. Declan’s like a tractor beam, drawing me in. I drink in the trim beard, the dark eyes, the secret smile.

I hope no one can hear my heart racing, but I don’t know how to stop it.

And I don’t want to. When I reach him in the entryway, neither of us makes a move to hug or touch, but my whole being aches to connect with him.

“Hey there,” he says.

“Hey to you.”

“Want to get out of here?”

I nod and walk away without looking back.

Outside, I hand the valet my ticket then turn to Declan, still trying to sort out his appearance. “What are you doing here a day early?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re in your car.”

“You’re such a tease,” I whisper.

“Trust me on this, rookie,” he says in a smoky voice that sends a shiver down my spine.

The desire to throw my arms around him and smother him in kisses is staggering. Reese always talks about love languages, and I’m pretty sure mine is touch. My entire being is begging me to say hi to him with lips and hands and entwined arms.

As we wait for the valet to return with my Tesla, Declan clasps his hands together, like he’s resisting me too. Yeah, he has the same love language. We’re both physical people. Our bodies are our livelihood.