Chapter 7 Brooks
Brooks
The TV screens behind me glowed with looping video clips. Pitch sequences, batting angles, field coverage charts—flashes of motion and heat maps that only made sense to guys who lived and breathed this game. Luckily, every person in this room did.
We were deep in pregame mode, the kind where nobody really blinked and nobody checked their phones. They knew better than that.
Well—most of them did.
Roman had once tried to hide his cell inside his glove during a meeting, like I wouldn’t notice him tapping out a text with his pinky through the laces. I’d confiscated it and made him watch film with the rookies for a week straight. He hadn’t slipped up since.
They were a good bunch of guys, my best crop of players yet.
Probably because all of them had been hand selected by me.
It wasn’t every day that you were offered the opportunity to put together a franchise from the ground up, and when the Roasters’ front office had given me the green light, I hadn’t wasted it.
After signing my contract, I had spent months with my head buried in scouting reports, watching grainy footage from minor league parks in the middle of nowhere.
I’d sat in half-empty bleachers at college fields, flown overseas to scout arms in the Dominican Republic, and spent a week in Japan watching my right-fielder take fly balls until midnight.
I hadn’t been after stars. I’d wanted grit. Guys who could take a hit and still show up the next day hungry. And somehow, I’d found them.
I clicked the remote in my hand and the screen shifted to a split screen of our batting order against the opposing team’s pitching rotation.
“We all know that there’s nothing worse than losing to a team you know you should beat,” I said, my voice calm but clipped. “Which is why we’re stacking today’s lineup with hitters. This list swings early and swings hard.”
The team’s ASL interpreter mirrored my words so our catcher, Bennett, could follow along. Bennett wore cochlear implants, but signing was still the clearest and most efficient way to communicate with him, especially in a clubhouse full of noise, chaos, and guys who forgot to enunciate.
“And you know what that means.”
“Work the count,” came a few voices.
“Exactly. Force the long innings. They don’t like playing behind, and their bullpen falls apart after the sixth. If we can wear down the starter by mid-fourth, we control the rest of the game.”
I moved to the side of the monitor, nodding toward a looped clip of an outside pitch their leadoff hitter chased three times last series. “Same goes for pitchers. Don’t be predictable. Mix your tempo, use the corners. Make them earn it.”
Roman snorted from the second row. “No pressure.”
Fucking loudmouth. You could hear our first baseman coming from a mile away, and it had nothing to do with his massive .
. . feet. Then again, like most world-class shit-talkers, the guy also had one hell of a work ethic.
He was secretly one of the hardest workers on the team.
The kind of guy you’d want next to you in a bar fight or, better yet, a brawl at home plate.
“Garcia,” I said without looking at him, “try fielding something clean today and we’ll call it even.”
That earned me a couple of laughs. The kind that told me the tension was still there, but it was cracking a little.
We had a tough series ahead of us. The Vancouver Tridents had been knocked out of the playoffs last season earlier than expected, so we all knew they were hungry for another shot. We were, too. That World Series title wasn’t going to defend itself.
I turned the screen off with the remote. “Sinclair, you’re up.”
Soren “Sin” Sinclair, the team’s duly elected team captain, was on his feet before I finished saying his name. He gave me a nod as I stepped back, and then he turned to face his teammates.
The room went dead silent.
Not because Soren demanded it, but because that was what happened when Soren talked. People listened.
He didn’t pace, didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at his teammates like he saw every one of them for exactly who they were.
“This is our house,” he said.
A couple of heads nodded. Damn, he was going to make one hell of a coach one day.
“We’ve worked our asses off to get here. We’ve trained for hours, rain or shine, played through injuries, sacrificed time with friends and family, and it’s all led to here. Whatever they bring tonight, is nothing we can’t handle.”
He glanced toward tonight’s starting pitcher, Jared Pink, and gave him the smallest grin. The two had become somewhat of an unlikely dynamic duo during our first season, and even though they fucked with each other at every turn, I knew it was done with love and admiration.
“Pink’s throwing gas,” Soren continued. “We’ve got heavy hitters stacked all the way down the lineup. And our fielders? Best in the fucking league.”
That got a few shoulder bumps and low mutters of agreement.
“But none of that matters if we don’t play like a unit. Not just nine guys on a field—one team. Start strong. Stay locked in. And no matter what happens out there, don’t stop swinging.”
He set his sights on Matty Miller, our starting shortstop. “Unless you’re swinging at balls four feet outside the zone.”
The room cracked up. Matty flipped him off half-heartedly, grinning through it.
I still hadn’t quite figured Matty out just yet.
He was all Southern charm on the surface—always smiling, always polite, the kind of guy who brought his own tea and sugar packets on road trips because nobody made sweet tea the way he liked it, and whose All-American boy looks drove the fans wild—but something about him felt just out of reach.
Like there was a closed door in that laid-back exterior he didn’t plan on opening for anyone. Not even his coach.
“Play hard,” Soren continued. “Play clean. Play for the guy sitting next to you. Let’s go win this thing the way we know how.”
Then he paused, looking around the room with that calm, level stare of his.
“And don’t forget, the faster we finish this, the faster we get to postgame tacos.”
Roman pumped a fist in the air. “Let’s fucking go.”
I shook my head. The room erupted in applause, chairs scraping back as the guys stood, hooting and clapping each other on the back. There was no denying that this group was food motivated. And hell, I couldn’t blame them.
Tacos were delicious as fuck.
I let the pandemonium ride for a few more seconds, then clapped my hands twice. “All right, that’s enough taco talk. Get loose, get your heads on straight. BP starts in twenty.”
“Coach,” Tucker said as he passed me. “I’m gonna hit one into the upper deck for you tonight.”
“Appreciate that. Try not to strike out twice before you get there.”
He laughed, tossed his warm-up hoodie onto the bench, and jogged off.
One by one, the guys filtered out of the meeting room, jogging out toward the field with that pregame swagger that always made me feel part-proud, part-anxious. I checked my watch.
10:25.
If I was going to make it in time, I had to go now.
Athletes lived and died by their pregame routines and superstitions, and coaches were no exception.
For some guys, it was a specific brand of sunflower seeds—my assistant coach scoffed at anything other than Vlasic Dill Pickle.
For others, it was a lucky headband or pair of sweat-soaked socks—our centerfielder, Wesley Nunez, received at least two complaints per week.
I had a different kind of lucky charm, though—a pint-sized sexpot in denim who just so happened to have a thing for soy chai lattes.
I cut through the weight room, past the tunnel to the field and toward the main concourse, taking the steps two at a time. I didn’t need a calendar invite to know that Dani would be there. Same as she was every home game, just before the players hit the field for warmups.
We hadn’t talked in a few days. Not since Carolina’s disappearing act last week, which, yeah, might have taken ten years off my life.
Dani had handled it like a pro, though—calm, cool, and collected.
In fact, Carolina hadn’t stopped talking about her all weekend, or the list of sourdough starter names they had come up with together.
Since then, my interactions with Dani had been few and far between. No sarcasm or flirtatious smirks. No smartass jabs about my whey protein bars tasting like chalk.
It was official; she was dodging me.
And that bugged the hell out of me. Worse, the fact that it bugged me, bugged me even more.
She didn’t even know what she did to me—storming around the stadium with her latte in one hand and phone in the other, barking orders at men twice her size like she’d been born to run the show.
Because she had.
And maybe, that was why we hadn’t won a game at home this season without me first catching a glimpse of her.
Coincidence? Maybe. But I wasn’t about to risk it.
10:30 a.m. meant coffee o’clock.
So, here I was, walking way too fast for a guy not trying to “accidentally” run into someone.
I slowed my pace when the on-site roastery came into view, casually adjusting the fit of my cap and glasses, pretending like I hadn’t just damn near jogged to get there.
To nobody’s surprise, Dani was already at the counter, waiting for her drink.
She had traded out her usual pair of jeans and boots for black leggings—that did incredible things for her ass—and Chuck Taylors to match.
Her windbreaker was half-zipped, and her black and blue hair had been piled into two matching buns on the top of her head that reminded me of cinnamon rolls. Or maybe I was just hungry.
Hungry for a taste of Dani Bernal, that was.
I didn’t say anything, just watched her for a second. She hadn’t seen me yet, and for some reason, that made my chest ache more than I wanted to admit.
The barista looked up, eyes flicking from Dani to me. “Your usual, coach?”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
Dani’s shoulders hunched. She turned to face me slowly, like something out of The Exorcist. She gave a polite nod, not quite meeting my eyes. Not cold, just . . . careful. Like she didn’t know where we stood anymore, and frankly I couldn’t blame her.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
I shrugged. “I needed something to settle my stomach.”
“And you decided on—”
Her eyes narrowed when the barista slid my drink across the counter, then lit up in that way that made my stomach tighten.
“—a triple shot of espresso?”
I took the cup, avoiding her gaze like a damn coward. “Rough morning.”
“You? Coach Broody? No.”
Her teasing should have made me smile, but it had the opposite effect. It gutted me thinking about the fact that at one point not too long ago, she’d teased me while tangled in my sheets, naked, her lips brushing my jaw as she’d whispered something smart-mouthed into my ear.
“Dani, your herbal tea is on the bar.”
That stopped me cold. “Herbal tea?”
She had been a dirty chai latte drinker for as long as I’d known her—they were as much a part of her as her tattoos.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, avoiding my gaze. “I’m fighting a bit of a stomach bug.”
She turned toward the milk and sugar and began doctoring her tea.
I should have walked away right then. Should have taken my cup of espresso sludge and left her in peace the way she’d asked me to.
Because she had asked.
“Please, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Her words echoed through my brain.
It didn’t matter what I wanted. Not when she’d already drawn a line. I wasn’t the kind of asshole who crossed lines with women. I’d been raised better than that—by a mother who’d taught me how to listen and a daughter who reminded me every day why it mattered.
But goddamn, it was getting harder every time I looked at her.
Harder to pretend like I didn’t still feel her under my skin. Harder to remind myself that though we were both adults, we also had different priorities. I had no business falling for someone who made sarcastic comments about my protein powder and had glitter on her cheek half the time.
And yet, here I was.
Rooted in place like a fucking idiot, spending six bucks on a coffee I wasn’t even going to drink, all for a chance to see her.
“By the way, we finally picked a name.”
Her brow furrowed. “For what?”
“The sourdough starter.”
Her expression shifted instantly, and damn if that didn’t make me feel like I’d just hit a walk-off.
“Did you really?” she asked, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her mouth.
I sighed. “Doughy McIntyre.”
That earned me a blink, then a slow grin. “You did not.”
“Carolina insisted, though I’m pretty sure somebody else gave her the idea.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “You’re welcome.”
“New Kids on the Block has become her new background music while baking, and needless to say, her mother is thrilled.”
Dani laughed—soft at first, then full-on, the kind that made the rest of the coffee shop employees glance over. She covered her mouth, still giggling. “That’s honestly incredible.”
I smirked into my cup. “I’m honestly surprised you know who that is.”
“Excuse you,” she said, feigning outrage. “Just because you remember when MTV actually played music videos doesn’t mean I don’t have good taste in ‘80s boy bands.”
“Good taste is debatable,” I grumbled. “But you make a compelling case.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t fight me.
For a second, it felt almost normal between us again, like the weirdness of the last few months had been scrubbed clean by a punny bread name and boy band reference.
Like maybe we could go back to the easy banter and stolen glances that had made this whole thing so impossible to walk away from in the first place.
But the second passed, and reality came back just as fast.
Dani glanced at her phone, then gave a little sigh. “I should get back. We still have a lot to finish up before game time.”
I nodded.
“Besides, you’ve got a game to win.”
“Damn straight.”
She smiled again, smaller this time. Softer. “Give ‘em hell, coach,” she said around a wink. And fuck, that was all it took to have my cock hardening in my warm-ups.
“Always,” I rasped, voice rough.
Her breath hitched just slightly, but I didn’t miss it. The way her lips parted, the way her eyes darted briefly down before she caught herself. A flush bloomed high on her cheeks, and she turned so fast it was like she was afraid of what might happen if she stayed a second longer.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one affected by our conversation.
I waited until she disappeared around the corner before heading back toward the field, trashing my untouched cup of coffee along the way.
One thing was for sure—it was the best six bucks I’d spent all week.