Winning With Him (Men of Summer 2)

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.

She shakes her head. “No, let me take you.”

As we eat, I do my best to stay focused on her, on the here and now. I nearly succeed, especially since we talk about music and movies and a whole lot of not-baseball, which keeps my mind off the man who ripped my heart in two.

Trouble is the next night, I’m still thinking far too much about Declan Steele, and there’s only one person I can talk to about it.

After we win the night’s game, I call a Lyft and head to The Lazy Hammock.

Time for some bartender therapy.

5

Grant

I’ve only been here three times, but already The Lazy Hammock feels like an old friend, its familiarity like a blanket on a cold night, warming my iced-out heart.

Overhead, Jack Johnson croons about banana pancakes, and it’s such a marked contrast to every song that makes me think of Declan. Or really, it’s just the one song linked indelibly to him—“November Rain.”

The lyrics, all about how nothing lasts forever, should have been an omen. But fuck Guns N’ Roses. And fuck Declan. And fuck every sad, pathetic breakup song ever.

I want what Jack Johnson has, want to pretend like it’s the weekend. Here in the bar, it feels like I’m living in one of his tunes. Living in an escape.

The host flashes a smile my way, one that lights up his hazel eyes behind his glasses. He’s probably handsome, with his dark skin and toned arms, and it’s probably smart business, hiring a good-looking host, but I’m unaffected.

Not his fault.

“Hey there,” the man says. “Table for . . .?” He waits for me to fill in the gap, to say if I’m alone or if I’m meeting someone. When I don’t answer, he adds, “Or a seat at the bar?”

My throat is dry as sandpaper, like saying why I’m here will scrape my voice.

“Bar, please,” I manage, and the dude with the glasses gives a smile, tucks a menu under his arm, and says, “This way.”

I can find my own way to the bar, but I let him walk me since I don’t have it in me to protest. Plenty of eyes follow me there, but I doubt it’s because anyone knows me as a Cougar.

It’s more because I’m in a gay bar.

Alone.

Does that make me fresh meat?

No idea. The rules of decorum in gay bars are Greek to me. This is the only one I’ve ever been to.

I feel like I’ve walked onto the baseball diamond with ice skates. Yeah, I’ve been here once without Declan, but even then, I was still with Declan.

When I reach the counter, I grab a stool and scan for River, the bar’s owner. I need a friendly face. Badly.

I spot him at the end of the bar, pouring a beer from a tap, his lanky silhouette calming my out-of-whack pulse. Damn, did I ever need to see a friend tonight. “Oh, you have to see it!” River says to the customers he’s serving. “It’s spectacular. No one ever overestimated the grandeur of the Grand Canyon.”

As he sets a glass in front of the two young guys, the twinkle in River’s eyes says he sees me.

Wait.

Will he think I’m here to pick him up?

That I’m here to pick up someone else?

Great. Something else to stress over.

I study the menu intently, mostly so no one will talk to me.

A minute later, the owner-slash-bartender stands in front of me with a smile, his inked arms flexing as he plants his palms on the bar. “You just can’t stay away from The Lazy Hammock, can you? This is your fourth visit in a week, Grant, with and without company. Since you’re alone this time, does that mean tomorrow you’ll be here with Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome?”