Winning With Him (Men of Summer 2)

I don’t send it, though.

I’m not sure I can.

My head pounds mercilessly, a bone-deep hammering. My leg bounces a mile a minute.

I could call Emma. Could talk to my mom. Maybe my stepdad. Could ask someone for advice. But then I’d have to explain. Admit I’ve been giving my dad money from time to time. Admit I fell for a guy on my team. Admit I don’t have my shit together.

Once I crack open this can of worms, it’ll spread inside me like a disease. I won’t have the strength to do what I need to do.

I need to fix the problem I created.

But there’s one thing to do first.

I click away from my messages and check the spring training scores, and I smile.

For the first time in a few days, Grant got a hit. A single that amounted to nothing, but still, that’s a helluva lot better than hitless. Plus, no errors. No passed balls.

As I mull that over, his name blasts across my notifications.

I sit bolt upright, nearly dropping the phone like it can see inside me. Like it knows my secrets and what I’m about to do.

With nervous fingers, I click open the text.

* * *

Grant: I followed your advice. Shifted my back knee. Thanks, man. Hope your first game was good.

* * *

That’s all.

A simple update.

A gorgeous, beautiful, heart-pounding update.

One that makes me ache and want.

One that tugs on every corner of my heart.

This news is what I hoped for.

And it’s also an obvious sign.

My guy is playing better than he did when I was there. When I was sneaking into his room every night, feeding my desires, getting in his head with my bottomless need for him.

Scrubbing my palm across the back of my neck, I replay the games that fell during the time we messed around. The Scoundrels, the Sharks, the Bandits . . . His worst games occurred when he was seeing me.

He made mistakes on the field during the day when I was seducing him, teaching him, touching him at night.

When I was a gluttonous lover, asking for more, then asking for yet another bite.

Ah, hell. I am a greedy, selfish bastard.

But I was with him last night too.

I close my eyes, my head falling back against the couch as I recall our time at The Lazy Hammock.

“But nothing during the season, right? We’ve got to focus on baseball during the season,” Grant had said.

The man underlined his needs. Highlighted them in neon ink. Made it clear what he could and couldn’t handle—no talking, no texting.

And I still pushed.

I still prodded.

I said give me more.

“Do we really have to go cold turkey? What if we talked? What if we FaceTimed? What if we Skyped?” I’d asked him.

More, gimme more.

I’m just like my father, asking for more than I’ve earned. More than I deserve.

I knew Grant wouldn’t turn me down. That I’d get everything I wanted, no matter the cost to him.

There is no room for love and baseball as a rookie.

Only baseball.

I am a distraction.

My heart caves in on itself, aching with what I’m about to do. Grant won’t, so I’ll have to.

Returning to my messages, I check the time. It’s after midnight on the east coast, a few hours earlier in Arizona. I type out the rest of the text to Grant. If I get on the phone with him, I’ll cave. If I call him, I’ll tell him everything.

Because he’s the one I want to call for advice.

He’s the one I want to ask for help.

He’s the one.

But I can’t lay my burdens at his feet where they’ll trip him up.

I have to be strong.

Make a clean break.

It’s all I can do. It’s all I’m good at, anyway.

I finish the message.

* * *

Declan: This is killing me, Grant. You have to know. But making plans was a mistake. We can’t do this. Any of this, including November. Miami is a bad idea.

* * *

I schedule my phone to send it in thirty minutes, then I get to work cleaning up the broken glass of my life.

I don’t trust my father. I don’t trust him to stay away from me, from my teammates, from baseball. I need him far, far away. As he sleeps, I make plans. I call Barry, my dad’s cousin in Oakland, and ask if he’ll take him in as they focus on the shop.

Barry says he will, and I buy a plane ticket as we talk. He’ll pick my dad up tomorrow at the Oakland airport.

Thirty minutes later, I set my phone to do not disturb except for my six-thirty alarm.

The next morning when I turn on my phone there are no messages.

No missed calls.

But then, the do-not-disturb option on my phone never shows missed calls. I shake my head now, disgusted at myself for hoping for a missed call.