Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,24

as the Cougars’ centerfielder comes to the plate.

As Miguel hits a sharp line drive up the middle, I’m sure I’m going to be making my way home. But Declan dives for the ball, scooping it up mere inches from the ground in a killer display of reflexes and skills.

That’s the inning.

“Motherfucker,” I curse under my breath as I walk off the field.

When Declan strides to the plate for his first at-bat in the bottom of the first, I tug down my mask, crouch, and stare only at my pitcher.

Declan takes a few practice swings, and I try, I swear I try, not to look at him.

Not to think of him.

Out of the corner of my eye, though, I can’t help but notice his beard is thicker. He was scruffy before. Now, he’s got a helluva lot more than a five o’ clock shadow. But not grizzly-bear levels. More like just right levels.

I shove that thought away. He’s just like any other opponent.

But when Declan stands in front of the plate and adjusts his batting glove, his gaze drifts to mine once more.

He shoots me the barest of grins, the corner of those lips curving up.

“Hey there,” he says under his breath, just for me. I don’t even think the umpire can hear him.

He says it with a hint of a smile and a trace of memory. It’s as if we’re back in the corridor of the spring training complex.

As if we’re meeting for the first time.

As if we would start over in just this way.

Eyes would lock, the world would go still, and we’d know that this was just the beginning. We’d meet after the game, someplace in New York, and grab a bite to eat, something to drink. We’d flirt, talk, and tease.

He’d invite me over.

I’d say yes.

We’d blot out the world all night long.

Later, we’d tell the story of how we met one day at the plate during a Cougars–Comets game. I was catching, he was hitting, and the rest is history.

In a span of three seconds, I’ve rewritten our love story.

I’ve got to stop this shit.

We don’t have a happy ending. We don’t have a new beginning.

We are over.

I draw a deep, fueling breath and center myself. Then I call for a fastball down the middle, and Declan flies out to center field.

When the inning ends, Crosby catches up to me on the way to the dugout, and we knock fists. “Keep that up. I’ve got a bet to win.”

“I’ve got your back,” I say.

Declan goes hitless in his next at-bat, but a few innings later, his teammates load the bases. At the bottom of the seventh, it’s do-or-die for the Cougars when he comes to the plate.

We’re ahead, but only by one. If Declan knocks in a run, the game is tied. If he hits a hard single, the runners on third and second can score. If we strike him out, though, we keep the lead.

Sullivan, pitching in relief, paces the mound. Declan works the hell out of his at-bat, fouling off pitch after pitch, waiting for just the right one, until he gets to a full count.

This is it.

I lower my hand to call the payoff pitch, and a memory flashes bright and clear—the slider he went deep on last year, the talk of spring training, the play I watched that night in his hotel room.

He can’t hit a slider for shit.

I call for it, and Sullivan blinks, then stares, silently asking if I’m sure.

I nod firmly.

Sullivan fires it off.

Please let me be right.

Declan swings right through it, missing it sharply.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” We lock eyes and he shoots an oh no you didn’t look straight at me.

I smirk. “Better luck next time,” I say, heading off the field.

We go on to win the game.

Later that night, he strides into the pool hall like he’s determined to ignore the fuck out of me too.

But when his eyes find mine, they’re burning hot.

13

Declan

I always make good on my bets.

I take my ribbing like a man too. Crosby gives me a helluva hard time while we play pool, mocking me for my hitless night—as well he should.

It’s the spring training crew, together again, but I’m the odd man out as the lone Comet amid five Cougars—Sullivan, Miguel, Crosby, Chance . . . and Grant.

After an hour or so, Sullivan and Miguel say they’re going to hit a club, and those rookies take off.

And then there were four, just two guys I call friends and my