Chapter 6 Dani
Dani
“I’m just saying,” Clarke said, flipping her pen between her fingers like she was about to chuck it at me. “If we don’t add Mic’d Mondays back into the weekly rotation, the fans might fly off the handle.”
“The fans are chaotic gremlins,” I told her. “If it were up to them, we would livestream Pink taking a shit.”
She paused. “Do you think he would?”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the giant wall calendar we had spent the morning filling in with color-coded sticky notes, half-baked ideas, and at least one slightly pornographic sketch of River, the team’s hipster barista mascot.
“Although, now that you mention it, let’s talk to J.P. in digital media about having him do a series of gardening videos for YouTube.”
She twirled her pen excitedly, as though it were a magic wand. “And we can use the rooftop garden for it, emphasize the sustainability of the stadium’s facilities, and tie it into—”
“—the farm-to-table events,” I finished for her, already scribbling out a reminder for myself. “I love it.”
The Roasters’ stadium was one of the few in Major League Baseball that had integrated an edible garden into its design. Nearly eight thousand square feet of the roof over the press box had been converted to an organically maintained rooftop farm that grew seasonal herbs and vegetables year-round.
In fact, there were already plans to add a greenhouse in the next couple of years and begin growing our own coffee beans.
We already had an in-house coffee roastery, which meant fans could take home a fresh bag of Rose City Roast on game days, subscribe to the monthly coffee club, and attend latte art classes with guaranteed “guest barista” appearances by some of the players.
“Speaking of, we also need to lock in a date for the Farmers Market Feast.”
Just one more thing to add to my seemingly never-ending to-do list.
The last couple of weeks had flown by, and it was like all I could do was hang on for the ride.
I hadn’t felt this kind of bone-deep exhaustion since my first year of grad school, when I’d been running on cold coffee and cortisol, praying that my Wi-Fi would hold out until I’d submitted a paper at 11:59 p.m.
What could I say? Last-minute deadlines made me horny.
There had always been something oddly addictive about them—the chaos of a looming deadline, that strange mix of adrenaline and dread humming just beneath my skin.
Pregnancy, as it turned out, wasn’t all that different.
I was closing in on my second trimester, and everything had already started shifting—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
My favorite jeans no longer buttoned without the help of some higher power, and my skin, which had been reliably low maintenance my entire adult life, had turned against me overnight.
And then there were the dreams.
Absolutely. Fucking. Unhinged.
Just last night, I’d dreamed I gave birth to a baguette and cried because the crust was too hard. Needless to say, Pink had been horrified when he’d come downstairs for breakfast and found me sobbing into my toast.
But the work didn’t stop. I was still booking photoshoots, still hoofing it up and down the stadium to engage with fans and sponsors, still smiling at my friends and coworkers, who had no idea that beneath the ripped-to-shit denim and pleather jacket, I was quietly building a human being from scratch.
“I’m okay with adding Mic’d Monday into the mix.” I held up my hand to cut off her response. “But if Diaz goes on another ten-minute rant about how characters never finish their food in shows or movies, then I hurl myself over the side of the stadium.”
“Fair enough,” she said without missing a beat. The entire team, plus most of the staff, was used to my dark sense of humor. “Just be sure to do it on the third-base side. There’s better lighting, and I already know which lens I’d use for the slow-motion fall.”
I shook my head. “Remind me to never give you a performance review.”
The two of us were camped out in what we fondly referred to as the “fishbowl”—a small office space in the corner of right field with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the diamond.
It had taken us a year, but we had finally upgraded from a couple of old clubhouse chairs that smelled vaguely like sunflower seeds, and a mini fridge full of energy drinks to a plush sectional and fully stocked kitchenette.
Was it glamorous? No. Functional? Barely.
But it was absolutely ours, down to the life-size cardboard cutout of David Bowie from Labyrinth. He never failed to make us smile.
I flipped through our content calendar, tapping my pen against my cheek. “Next week we’re also dropping the ‘Which Roaster Are You?’ filter on Instagram, so plan on adding some of those to the social media queue.”
“Done.”
“Oh, and between you and me, I’m rigging it so that nobody gets Roman.”
That was what he got for missing the team’s mandated weekly social media training. Fuck with me, I fuck with your ego.
“You’re a monster.”
I shrugged. “I prefer the term visionary.”
It felt good to be back in the office, especially after a week-long road series in Tallahassee and Atlanta. Fucking humidity. I had never been so excited to come back to the rainy Pacific Northwest.
This was the fun part for me—the calendar coordination, the brainstorming sessions, the quiet chaos of trying to wrangle professional athletes into acting like adults on camera.
Easier said than done. What I did not appreciate was the nausea that had been slowly creeping up on me since that emotional piece of toast this morning.
Clarke looked up from her laptop, narrowing her eyes like she could read my whole internal monologue.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I told her, even though there was a good chance I might throw up on my planner any second.
She twisted her lips, unimpressed with my answer. I should have known better than to lie to her, of all people. There were three things that set Clarke apart from the crowd, all of which made her the ideal coworker.
First, as a former socialite, she had extensive media training herself—poise, charm, and the kind of camera-ready resting face that could make a senator sweat.
Second, she knew how to coax just about anything out of anyone, and she did so with a smile on her face and honey in her voice. There wasn’t a player on the team who hadn’t been taken with her charm. Platonically speaking, of course. Soren would never give her up without a fight.
Third, she always had a fully stocked mini pharmacy in her purse—antacids, Advil, floss picks, even backup tampons in three different sizes. The woman was a walking CVS, and more than once, she had saved my ass.
And stomach. And vagina.
“Nausea?” Clarke asked.
I nodded.
She reached into her Mary Poppins bag and produced two separate packages. “Ginger chew or lollipop?”
“What, no Saltine crackers?”
“Those are in my other purse.”
I waved her off. “I think I just need to take a break for a few minutes.”
She closed her laptop. “That works for me. Soren wanted to meet me for lunch anyway, before he meets with Coach Daddy.”
The bile in my throat flared instantly, and this time it had nothing to do with the hormonal havoc going on in my lower abdomen.
I sat up straighter and leveled her with a look. “Oh my god. Not you, too.”
“Sorry, but it’s a catchy nickname,” she defended, trying to suppress a giggle. “Once you say it out loud, it sticks.”
I buried my face behind my hands. “I hate it here.”
“And yet, here you are,” she said sweetly, reaching for her latte. “By the by, since we’re already on the subject—”
I groaned, loud and long, tilting my head back toward the ceiling like I was summoning divine intervention.
“—have you told him yet?” she continued, ignoring my dramatics. “Or do we need to discreetly plant a positive pregnancy test on his desk next to the scouting reports?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
The twinkle in her eyes told me she very well might, given the chance. So much for that sweet, Southern-belle demeanor.
“We could do it tastefully,” she hedged. “Maybe tuck it into a Roasters-branded onesie.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m just waiting for the right time.”
“And will that be before or after game seven of the World Series?” she asked flatly.
“I don’t know,” I snapped, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry, I just— It’s not exactly something you mention in between takes of a TikTok video. I mean, what am I supposed to say? ‘Great game, coach! By the way, I’m carrying your fetus.’”
Clarke’s expression softened, just a little. Enough to remind me she was pushing because she cared.
“Well, hells bells. First of all, incredible line delivery, though I think we can do better than that.”
I swallowed past the nausea and tried to catch my breath.
She reached out and squeezed my hand. “I know it’s scary, hon. I do, but I think it’s just going to get harder the longer you wait.”
That’s what she said.
Fuck, I had been living with Pink for too long.
“I know.”
Clarke was quiet for a moment. Then carefully asked, “Do you think he’ll freak out?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. Brooks is already a great dad, but this wasn’t exactly part of the plan.”
“Yours or his?”
“Either.”
She nodded. “Still, he deserves to know, regardless of what happens between the two of you.”
I winced. “That’s part of the problem.”
She gave me a knowing look. “Because you like him.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I stared at the ceiling, unsure whether I wanted to laugh, cry, or crawl under the couch and live there permanently. Whatever was between Brooks and me, it wasn’t nothing. But it also wasn’t something. Not yet. And maybe that was what scared me most.
“Why don’t you lie down for a few minutes while I grab lunch, and I’ll bring you back some soup?”
“And crackers?”
“Of course.”
“And maybe a pint of ice cream?”
She snorted. “We’ll see.”