Winning With Him (Men of Summer 2)

He scratches his jaw. “What do you mean?”

I push forward. I am bold. “Do you have a place here in the city?”

“I don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I need to sell my New York apartment.”

“Did you get a hotel room here? Did the team give you one?”

“No. When the traveling director contacted me yesterday to make arrangements, she asked if I needed a place. I took a chance. I figured I could stay with you for a couple days.” He swallows roughly, working his jaw over, a hint of nerves flickering in those brown eyes. “I can go to a hotel.” He sounds worried.

I cut that notion off at the knees. I step into his space. Curl my hands over his shoulders. And I jump. “I want you to live with me. Will you move in with me? There’s no point in us having two separate places, is there?”

Holy shit. My voice went up ten octaves. That was harder than I thought. But I’ve always spoken the truth to him. Now I’m simply speaking a big truth.

A bold, love-drenched one.

Like the sun peeking over the horizon, Declan’s smile rises, slow and steady, growing bigger, growing bolder. “You want me to move in with you right now?” He sounds . . . awestruck.

I march forward with my question, powered by hope. “I do. Maybe I’m being presumptuous, but I feel like you’re probably going to be here every night you’re in town. Or I’d be at your place.”

“Then, this is a practical thing?”

Shaking my head, I step closer, sliding between the V of his legs. My hands travel down to rest on his forearms. “It is practical, but I’m not asking you because of that. I’m asking because I want to be with you, Deck. When I go home after a game, I want to see you, if you’re in town. When you’re done playing, I want you to come home to me. I want to sleep with you, and I mean both ways—sex and sleep. I want to wake up next to you. This morning was heaven. It was a dream. You and me in bed together,” I say, the recall sending sparks over my skin.

“You are the best way to wake up, rookie,” he says, all morning gravel and sleepy sexiness.

“See? I even like it when you call me rookie. I’m that in love with you. And when you’re in love like this, you just want to grab all the time you can get with your person. You’re my person,” I tell him, emotions pouring out of me. And I can’t stop them, especially when he clasps our hands together.

“You’re my person too, Grant.”

I keep going. “When we have a morning off, like today, I want us to throw on some clothes and walk down the street to get a cup of coffee. Or go for a run. Or walk across the bridge. Or go to Crosby’s mom’s café. Or to Sierra’s bar. To get a not-drink.”

Declan laughs. He threads his fingers tightly through mine, squeezing harder. “We are good with the not-drinks.” The smile never leaves his face. “We’re really good at a lot of things, Grant.”

“We are,” I say, my heart thumping as we inch closer to this next step. “We figured out how to do the long-distance thing. You’ve been my boyfriend since February. Hell, we were together for all intents and purposes that day you called me after the World Series. That was us starting again. And here we are. I don’t want to be half together. I want to be all together.”

He gives a firm, but tender tug on my hands. “Are you worried I’m going to say no, babe?”

“Yes, I’m terrified.”

Declan lets go of my hand to graze his thumb across my lower lip then presses a kiss there. “Don’t be scared of a thing with me. My answer is yes,” he says, intense and passionate. I breathe a huge sigh of relief as he keeps going. “I would love to live with you. I want to come home to you. I want to have a life with you. So much.”

Then he stops, drawing a deep, soldiering breath, and I tense.

“What is it? I know there’s a but coming. Just tell me,” I say, frazzled and out of sorts.

He lets go of my face, sets his hands on my hips, shakes his head. “If you’re picking up any worry or fear, it’s only because of what I have to tell you.”

My stomach craters. “Just say it. You drive me crazy sometimes.”

“I don’t want to scare you away,” he says, his voice thin with worry.

“You won’t,” I say, desperate to know what’s going on.

“I asked for the trade,” he blurts, serving up the admission in a messy heap, like a scoop of melted ice cream, spilling all over the bowl.