Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,22

joke between us. “Sierra gave me these for my birthday.”

“Excellent choice. Do you wear the same pair when you’re on a streak? You’ve gotten hits in each of the last ten games. I want to know if you’re wearing the same socks.”

I shake my head. “Dude, I put these on today. Because I believe in something known as, wait for it, hygiene. Laundry—try it sometime.”

From the row in front of me, Chance chuckles under his breath.

Crosby continues the sock query. “Are you sure? Because that is some kind of sorcery you have going on—getting hits in ten games in a row without a pair of lucky socks.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Seriously. No socks were made filthy in the pursuit of my current hitting streak. I change them after every game.”

He hums doubtfully. “That’s just crazy.”

Chance pops his head up over the seat back, staring at Crosby with his dark eyes. “No, that’s called being a grown-ass man.”

Crosby’s eyes shoot death rays at Chance. “Don’t try to tell me you’ve never worn the same pair of socks when you’ve had a couple of saves in a row.”

Chance shakes his head. “I’m not superstitious in the same way as you.”

“It’s not even superstitious. I just like to pay homage to the gods of luck, and I do so with fox socks, monkey socks, chipmunk socks, even elephant socks,” Crosby says.

“And he can tell you which socks he wore to which game,” Chance tells me. “This man has an encyclopedic memory for his socks. It’s pretty scary.”

Crosby claps a hand on my shoulder. “I do indeed. And that’s why I need to know if you have a favorite animal, Grant. Because I might wear lucky socks in your honor.”

I bring my hand to my heart. “Aw, that’s so sweet. But why would you do that?”

Crosby stares at me sharply. “To celebrate the fact that you are on track to be the motherfucking Rookie of the Year, of course.”

“I wouldn’t go there yet,” I say, even though I’m beaming inside at my teammate’s regard—and the suggestion I might win one of the sport’s most prestigious awards.

“Yeah. Don’t jinx him,” Chance says.

Sullivan pops up from next to the closing pitcher. “But G-man, you do have a hell of a shot at it.”

I ignore the prediction; it would be bad form to lean into it. Instead, I return to Crosby’s question. “My favorite animal . . .” I scratch my head. “Are we five? Do we still have favorite animals?”

The third baseman rolls his eyes. “We play a game for a living. We absolutely can have favorite animals.”

Hmm.

What’s mine?

Unbidden and red-hot, a memory springs to mind—Declan prowling up the bed like a tiger, taking his sweet-ass time, ready to pounce on me. “Panther,” I say quickly, shoving the image into a locked drawer.

Crosby smacks the back of the seat. “One pair of panther socks are coming right up in honor of you.” A second later, he furrows his brow. “What are you doing in the off-season?”

The question jerks my heart out of the carefully controlled orbit where it’s been spinning for the last five and a half months.

That’s how long it’s been since I made plans with Declan. Five and a half months since we talked about seeing each other in the off-season. Five and a half months since he asked me to meet him in Miami.

And five and a half months since he called it off.

Do I miss him?

Not every second. Not every hour. But probably at some point each day.

Do I imagine Miami?

Every so often my mind wanders to what might have been—blue skies and sand, the ocean and sun-kissed skin. Days with no schedule and nights that don’t end.

My heart lurches, scrambling toward the city in Florida, wanting to throw itself on the beach next to the shortstop.

But I need to stop imagining what might have been. Declan is in the past, and every day, the memory hurts less.

Besides, I have new plans.

“My grandfather had knee surgery this summer, so I’ll be up in Petaluma, spending some time with him and my grandmother.”

And when I’m not with them, maybe I’ll take River up on his offer to cruise the bars. Or maybe I’ll get on Grindr. It’s been a while. I’d really like to get laid again.

That, I don’t need to share with the guys.

“I’ll be around, though,” I add. “Got something in mind?”

Chance peers over the headrest. “We do some volunteer work with local underprivileged kids—coach and play ball. Want to

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