Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,9
field the throw.
As the runner flies toward the plate, I step into the base path, and the ball finds a welcome home in my glove. Sweeping my arm down, I tag the runner—right as he collides with me.
He hits with the force of a freight train.
Oof.
The impact knocks me right off my feet and I hurdle toward the dirt, landing on my back with a deafening thud.
My ass took the brunt of the fall, and pain shoots up my back and down my legs. The world goes blurry and dark, and Declan’s text replays in my head.
Miami is a bad idea.
Fuck him.
Declan is a bad idea.
Losing this game is a bad idea.
Letting a roster spot slip away on account of a hot lay is a bad idea.
I’m not giving Declan Steele the satisfaction of anything, least of all, this play.
Several painful, achy seconds later I pop up and brandish the gloved ball above my head, ignoring the hell out of my aching ass.
The ache will fade because I’m fine.
Catchers fall. Catchers get up.
I brush the dirt off my uniform.
The runner is out, the inning is over. We’re still ahead, and my manager trots over to me. “You okay, Blackwood?” Fisher asks, intent and serious.
“I’m great,” I say, and I mean it.
Because . . . I feel amazing out here on the field. Incredible, even. This close to invincible.
On the diamond, I’m safe from men like Declan.
Here, I have baseball, and tonight, I logged an RBI, and an epic play at the plate.
I am on fire.
“I’m ready for my next at-bat,” I tell the manager as the team trainer rushes out, along with the hitting coach, the pitcher, Crosby, Chance, and Sullivan.
“You okay, dude?” Sullivan asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Never been better.”
Coach keeps his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you checked out.”
“But I want to play.”
Fisher smiles and shakes his head. “I know. But this is more important.” He hands off the rest of the game to the hitting coach, then walks me inside the facility.
In the trainer’s room, the team doctor checks me out, but I tell him I’m fine. I’m totally fine. “It was just a routine play,” I say.
The doctor scowls. “He slammed into you. That’s not supposed to happen anymore.”
“The ball was in the base path, and the rules say you can field it. Sometimes the runner collides with the catcher,” I explain, still hyped on adrenaline.
Fisher nods. “I know it wasn’t a dirty play. But we can’t let anything happen to you. Got to look out for you, kid. You damn well better be fit for a long career with the San Francisco Cougars.” I can hear his relief as the team doc gives me a thumbs-up, and that relief warms my soul.
In spite of that text, in spite of Declan ‘Dickhead’ Steele, I smile. That relief, that “career with the San Francisco Cougars,” is the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.
It gives me a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, the starting job is still mine to win.
Good thing I went all-out on the field.
But that’s all I know. That’s all I’ve ever done. I play with everything I have.
The only times I didn’t were when Declan was in my room, in my head, in my body.
He’s gone now, in every sense of the word.
And it’s just baseball and me.
As it should be.
When the game is over, I leave the locker room and head down the corridor. I make my way out of the complex and run into my agent on her way in. Haven parks her hands on her hips and shoots me a stern stare. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”
“I didn’t feel like talking,” I tell her in an even tone.
“Well, let’s start talking now.”
I lift my brow, still Mr. Cool. “Is it bad news?”
She shakes her head, tucking her brown hair behind her ears. “No. I was in town for something else, and I wanted to see you and tell you I talked to the GM. He said everything’s looking good with you, especially after tonight and last night.” She flashes me a warm smile that matches her tone. “Let’s just say I’m feeling pretty good.”
That’s what I want to hear. Even though my heart has been pulverized by that man on the other side of the country, my career has not.
“Let me take you out to dinner, then,” I say, putting on my best happy face.