Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,43

shoulders sagging. I have to let him go.

I log into my airline app and change my flight to the next one out of JFK. Need to get out of here, stat, before I change my mind.

Two hours later, I’m in the air, flying away from New York City—and Declan. The flight attendant swings by, asking if I want a drink, and I blink in recognition. It’s Dylan, the same guy who was on my flight to Arizona for spring training several months ago.

“Hey! I know you,” he says.

“Yeah, from the flight to spring training,” I say with a smile. “Good to see you, Dylan.”

He laughs. “No! From this.” He grabs his phone and shows me a picture from the awards. “It’s my boyfriend’s Insta. I started seeing him last month. He’s an amateur cyclist and he loves you.”

“That’s awesome,” I say, humbled. “Tell him I hope he crushes it in his next century.”

“I will.”

Six hours later, I’m back in California, and I head straight for my grandparents’ home. It’s always been my safe harbor when I need to escape.

I spend the next month helping them out around the place, going for light jogs with my grandfather. When the winter break rolls around, Reese comes home from college, and we watch movies, play video games and go to the gym.

She becomes my new morning workout partner. It’s a relief to know she’s not temporary. I don’t have to worry about her leaving my life.

Before the next spring training, I get another tattoo. And when the season starts, I play even better than last year.

I see Declan once—for our series in San Francisco.

Please don’t give me the cold shoulder for turning you down.

When he comes to the plate in the second inning, his expression is impossible to read.

I call a fastball for the first pitch, and he homers off it.

At least it wasn’t a slider.

He rounds the bases, and when his cleat touches home plate, he gives a quick nod then a tiny smile.

That’s all.

But maybe it’s enough to say he’s not holding a grudge?

The next night, our old spring training crew goes out for pool—Crosby, Chance, Miguel, Sullivan, Declan, and me.

It’s déjà vu, only the shortstop and I aren’t meeting up later in a hotel room.

A pang of longing cuts deep; I miss the way it was. But I focus on the way it is, initiating an important bar debate as we play.

Namely, would you date Taylor Swift, or someone like her? Because what if she, or he, wrote a breakup song about you?

Chance shakes his head fifty times. “No way.”

“You’re really telling me you wouldn’t date Taylor Swift just because you think she’d write a breakup song about you?” Crosby asks him.

“I’m really saying that,” he says for the tenth time since Crosby refuses to accept his answer.

Crosby raises his hand. “Not me. I’d absolutely take the chance. I’d love to be the subject of a pop song. Bring it on. I will be her Layla. No questions asked.”

“Wait,” Sullivan chimes in. “In this scenario, do we get royalties on the song she writes about me being a dick? In that case, I’d take that chance.”

Miguel rolls his eyes. “You think Tay-Tay splits royalties with anyone?”

I raise a finger. “Fair point. Besides, Miguel, you’re about to get married.”

The soon-to-be groom flashes a proud grin. “And all you assholes are invited to my wedding.”

“That was so heartfelt. Can I please be your best man too, with that kind of offer?” Declan asks.

“If you’re lucky.”

A little later, when I head to the restroom, I half expect Declan to follow me.

He doesn’t.

I wish he had, and I’m glad he didn’t.

Because I know what would have happened—what my body still wants to happen.

When I leave the john, Declan is alone at the pool table. The other guys are at the bar. My skin heats as I walk to him, stand near him. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“Good. Everything’s good.” He sounds like he means it, and not like he hates me for turning him down in New York.

“How’s your family?” I ask.

Declan gives me a wry smile. “I went to Tokyo for Christmas.”

I grin. “Oh yeah?”

“I invited myself and took my mom and Tyler.”

“How was it?”

“Great. Thanks for the suggestion. I’m glad I went.”

“Me too,” I say, then I draw a soldiering breath and ask a tougher question. “How’s your dad doing? Is he hanging in there?”

He sighs, long and sad. “He went to rehab, got back together with his third wife, then went to