Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,8
awful words mock me.
Once more, and my head spins. A spike of adrenaline jolts my senses into high-def as the room whirls around me, and I set a hand against the wall for balance.
Is this real?
I heave a breath against the tightness of my ribs, but I’m swallowing sand. Shock and anger make a fist, viciously squeezing my heart until I think it might burst.
Declan broke up with me via text message.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I’ve never had a boyfriend. But I’m pretty sure you don’t break up with one over a text.
I want to believe it’s a mistake—a wrong number or a drunk text.
But Declan doesn’t drink. This note is meant for me and can only be from him because it’s about us. About the end of us.
With a death-grip on the offending phone, I read the message again, but the words are still on the screen in cruel black and white.
The man doesn’t even have the guts to call me and shatter my heart in real time.
Holy fuck. I can hardly keep hold of the cell. I’m shaking because I’m so fucking hurt. I’m trembling because I’m so fucking angry.
I shove my free hand through my hair.
This can’t be happening.
He didn’t mean this. No way this is real. I know Declan.
Better to check—to give him that much credit, at least. Better to follow up and find out.
Better to know.
I don’t care what time it is in Florida. I dial his number, jaw clenched, fists tight, and I swallow my pride as the phone rings and rings and rings.
“Pick up, Deck,” I mutter. “Pick up the fucking call.”
Another ring.
One more.
Then voicemail. “You’ve reached Declan Steele. Leave a message.”
I stab the end button.
The chicken-shit asshole doesn’t answer his phone after he dumps me?
Who does this?
Who is he?
I take a few deep breaths to settle the stabbing pains in my chest, but emotions explode in me.
Without thinking, I hurl the phone at the wall, putting all my arm behind it, like it’s game seven in the World Series, bottom of the ninth, and the winning run is trying to steal a base.
Like fucking hell he is.
The phone hits the wall with a loud crack then falls to the carpeted floor with an anticlimactic thud.
No flying shards of glass or pinging aluminum case.
Seething, I stalk over to stare at the carcass. The glass is spiderwebbed and the screen is black. I try to turn it on, but nothing happens.
Fuck.
I don’t feel one bit better. Instead of a jackass who got dumped by text, now I’m just a dumped jackass with no phone.
After our morning workout the next day, I do my damnedest to avoid my teammates, but as I’m leaving the locker room, Crosby calls me over.
“You want to grab some lunch with Chance and me?” He nods to our closing pitcher, who’s just shutting his locker.
Any other time I’d say yes, but not today. Not now. “Raincheck?”
“Sure,” Crosby says, then cocks his head. “Where you off to in a rush?”
Embarrassed, I rub the back of my neck. “I dropped my phone last night. Gotta get a new one.”
“Sucks, man.”
Yes, it does. For too many reasons.
I start to call a Lyft, but of course I can’t, so the concierge at the hotel calls a cab to take me to the nearest Apple store. I ask the driver to wait. The hassle of replacing my phone and transferring my data stings especially because this is down to my own stupidity.
New phone in hand, I return to the taxi, open my messages, and go straight to my contacts. The delay from last night hasn’t abated my anger or determination.
With fury simmering in every move, I delete Declan’s contact info from my phone so I’m not tempted to call him.
Ever again.
That afternoon, I shove his text to a corner of my mind. I was never supposed to be involved, anyway, with him or anyone else. I came to Arizona to play ball.
That evening, I play my heart out in the game against the Las Vegas Coyotes, knowing my job is on the line.
In the fifth inning, with runners on first and second, the Coyotes’ batter hits a whopper of a double. As the runner on second rounds third, our left fielder gloves the ball and hurls it to Crosby, our cutoff man at third.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I mutter, yanking off my mask, getting in position.
The Coyotes runner charges down the base path, barreling toward home as Crosby cocks his arm.