Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,3

good, son,” he says, choking up. “You’re always trying to stay away from it, but you’re just like me. You can’t resist it.”

A headache rumbles behind my eyes, thumping mercilessly. “We’re not involved,” I say, already emotionally exhausted from my father. “I’m not with anyone.”

He wags a finger at me, gives a sly smile. “But I bet you want to be. Just go for it. I’m behind you every step of the way.”

I catch a whiff of the tequila when he talks, and I clench my fists, every muscle tight like a snare. “How much have you had to drink today?”

He scoffs. “Nothing.”

I narrow my eyes. “Dad, I can smell it. How much have you had?”

He lifts his thumb and forefinger. “Fine. Maybe one drink.”

I breathe out hard. “Or maybe a little bit more?”

He shrugs. Then he opens his finger and thumb wider. Wider still. Then even farther. He chuckles. “Okay, more than one.”

I can’t believe I’m about to do this. But I need some motherfucking space. “There’s a casino down the road. I passed it on the way in from the airport. Can you go play the slots? We’ll meet later. I promise. I’ll see you for dinner. That work for you?”

His eyes brim with sadness. “You don’t want me to watch you play? As soon as I heard you were traded, I came all the way across the country. I wanted to support you. I wanted to be here for you. I caught a plane.”

What the hell?

“You came across the country to . . . support me?” That doesn’t even make any sense. But I don’t have the time to try to unpack his carton of bullshit.

I do what I couldn’t do as a kid—I pretend. I’ve had years of acting practice by now, and I grab his arm and beseech him. “I do want you here, Dad. I promise. I swear I do.” I sigh heavily, like this saddens me, this truth I’m about to unwrap for him. “The thing is . . . I want to impress my new team and coach, and if you’re here, all I’m going to think about is impressing you. So, can you just help me out? I can focus better if I’m not trying to impress the man . . .” It pains me to say this. It pains me so damn much. “The man I look up to.”

“Aw,” he says, a soft smile curving his lips. He pats my cheek. “You’re so sweet. I get it.”

My stomach curdles as I tell him to wait then race to the locker room to fish some bills out of my wallet. Back in the hall, I press a couple hundred dollars into my dad’s palm. I know I’m feeding another of his addictions, but I don’t know what else to do.

I walk him out of the complex and add for good measure, “And, like I said, I’m single all the way. Baseball only.”

It feels like the worst—and most necessary—lie I’ve ever told.

2

Declan

Once I put my dad in a Lyft headed for the casino, I rush back to the field, grabbing my glove on the way. On the diamond, I am all business. In the first inning I field the unholy hell out of a ground ball that comes scorching my way, throwing it to first base, getting the opponent out.

This is all I have to do.

This.

The game—throwing, hitting, fielding.

I’ve done this since the shit started, since my dad hit the bottle.

I’ve gotten good at it too—throwing myself into baseball, ignoring everything else.

But the thing is, you can’t hide from your problems for very long. You can only tuck things away into the corner for a little while, and it’s always a shorter span than you think.

When the game ends, I look up to the stands and—

Are you kidding me?

He came back.

He’s heading down the steps from the seats, sauntering to the field, chatting with the guys on the first-base line.

With my heart lodged in my throat, I walk over.

“Hey Steele,” says Tucker, “I just googled your dad. He hit .327 in the minors. That is dope. Can he be our hitting instructor?”

Is he serious? It was just a throwaway idea he’d had earlier, or so I’d thought.

Again, I fake being fine, flash an I-am-not-dying-inside smile. “I’ll talk to him at dinner. Dad, want to get some grub?”

His eyes light up like I’ve gifted him the moon. “Let’s go,” he says, then tosses me a wink. “And you’ll give me all the details