Chapter 10 Dani #2
“The sweater is iconic,” I said, nodding. “Who do you have a question for?”
He nodded toward Soren, who was too busy focusing on the woman in his arms rather than his teammate’s answer. “Ask Sinclair what his favorite yoga position is.”
Soren was an avid yogi—that was common knowledge. But Diaz’s grin told me there might be more to his question. He jogged off toward the dugout to heckle Wes about his question, and I redirected my attention toward the couple canoodling three feet away.
“Clarke, stop sucking face with your boyfriend and make him tell us what his favorite yoga position is.” I held the mini microphone out to him. “And don’t you dare say downward dog.”
Soren tore his gaze from Clarke long enough to glance at me, then back at her, one corner of his mouth curling like he’d just been handed the setup for his favorite joke. Clarke’s eyes narrowed in warning, the faintest flush creeping above the edge of her parka.
“Happy baby,” he said finally, voice low and smug.
Fuck, of course it is.
Clarke groaned, burying her face in his chest while I tried—and failed—not to laugh into the mic.
“What does that look like?”
He winked. “Look it up.”
Later that night, hours after Chicago had cleaned our clocks and the team bus had hauled us back to the hotel, I had just finished demolishing my room-service grilled cheese when there was a knock at the door.
Fuck.
Clarke was spending the night with Soren, nursing his physical and emotional wounds—and then some. The rest of the team had reserved a boat for a late-night cruise on Lake Michigan.
Personally, I had opted for bed rotting.
The heater rattled in the corner of the room, pumping out air just warm enough to thaw the chill that had burrowed into my bones. I was warm, full, and perfectly horizontal. The absolute last thing I wanted was to swing my legs out from under the covers.
But I did it anyway, slipping into my pajama bottoms on the way to the door. I should have known who would be waiting on the other side.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey, yourself.”
Brooks stood in the hallway wearing sweats, a black quarter-zip, and that sheepish, slightly disheveled look he got when he wasn’t sure if I was going to slam the door in his face or not.
I knew better than that, though. This conversation had been a long time coming. I swung the door wide and gestured him inside. His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite let himself. He simply walked past me, carrying the scent of soap and cold night air with him.
“Sorry about the game today,” I said, closing the door behind us.
He shrugged. “We played like crap.”
Finally, something we could both agree on. To say the guys hadn’t played their best would be an understatement. I was pretty sure we had set a season record for the most pop flies to the infield.
I crossed my arms, partly because it was comfortable, partly because it felt safer to keep some space between us. “So, what’s on your mind?”
“I wanted to see how you were. And if we could talk.” His gaze flicked back to mine. “And apologize.”
“I think we both know I’m the one who owes you an apology.”
The words scraped on the way out because letting go of my pride had never been my strong suit.
Stubbornness had been my shield for as long as I could remember—it kept me upright when things got hard, kept people from getting too close.
Kept me safe. And yes, it wasn’t always pretty, but it was familiar.
I swallowed past it, forcing myself to keep going.
“I should have told you sooner, regardless of how I thought you might respond. And finding out like that, in front of everybody, was fucked up, so I’m sorry.”
“I get it,” he said gently. There was no accusation in his voice, just that calm, even tone he used when he was trying to talk someone down from a ledge. “I get why you didn’t tell me right away. And I’m not here to make you feel worse about it.”
My chest loosened just a fraction.
“But I still want to be a part of it.”
I grinned. “Well, you are part of it. You know, biologically.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.
” He unraveled my tangled arms and took my hands in his.
“I want to be involved in all of it. I’m talking doctor appointments, preparing the nursery, the weird ass stuff no one talks about.
” His mouth twitched. “Like whatever the fuck happens with your ankles in the eighth month.”
Hold up.
“Wait, what’s going to happen to my ankles? I haven’t made it to that part of my book.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Let’s save that for another day, yeah?”
I nodded. That was all I could manage when my brain had completely short-circuited from the way his thumbs were dragging lazy circles over my skin. His hands were warm, calloused in the places that came from years of gripping a bat, and the steady pressure against my pulse felt almost hypnotic.
Our tattoos met in the space between our knuckles.
His bold black lines and shaded script tangled with the softer, fine lines inked along my fingers.
In the low hotel light, they looked like they belonged to the same story.
One design bled into the next until I couldn’t tell where his ended and mine began.
“Now it’s my turn to apologize.”
“What? You don’t have—”
“I do. I’m sorry for bombarding you with a million questions. I was . . . trying to wrap my head around everything and forgot you were probably doing the same. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were doing it wrong.”
“I appreciate that.”
He looked away before adding, “I have been through this before, so I do know some things, but there’s also a lot I missed the first time around. Things I didn’t get to be there for with Carolina, and I don’t want to miss them this time. Not if you’ll let me be part of it.”
Something low in my chest tightened, not in a bad way, but in that way that made it hard to find the right words.
For so long, I had filed Brooks under unshakable—gruff, stoic, built out of steel and discipline.
But right now, with his hands still warm around mine and his voice low and steady, I could see past all that armor.
And underneath it all, Brooks was a gentle giant.
“Okay,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “We do this together. Just try to give me some grace while I figure out how to do this with someone else in the equation.”
His shoulders eased, and the smallest smile ghosted over his mouth. “Deal.”
I wasn’t sure if I felt lighter because of his answer or heavier because of what it meant, but for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I was carrying it all alone. And as reluctant as I was to admit it, that felt pretty good.
“I promise not to take over your life,” he added. “But if you need anything—antacids, a midnight snack, one of those massive pregnancy pillows that looks like a pool noodle—just call me, please.”
I shook my head. “You don’t need to do that.”
“But I want to. And I would really appreciate it if you’d let me know when your next appointment is.” He smirked. “I think I owe you another sonogram photo, one without drool and toothmarks.”
There it was. Earnest, not pushy, and infuriatingly hard to resist.
“I’ll text you the date.”
He let out a slow breath, like he’d been holding it since I’d opened the door.
“Thank you,” he said, and then, just before he turned to go, he leaned in—hesitating, checking my expression—and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to my forehead.
“I don’t know if I said it before, but I’m really excited about this.
I, uh, would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about you having my baby once or twice. ”
That stunned me into stillness.
He didn’t linger. Didn’t ask for more. Just gave me one last look—one full of longing and gratitude—and walked back toward the elevator. I must’ve stood there for a full minute, forehead tingling, heart confused, stomach doing Olympic-level flips.
He slowed a step, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and kitten?”
“Hm?” I choked out.
“I love the pajamas.”
His eyes flicked to the cartoon cats in witch hats covering my pants. Kittens. The corner of his mouth curved up before he turned away again, leaving me with an open mouth, racing pulse, and the unsettling feeling that maybe—just maybe—trusting him wouldn’t be as impossible as I had thought.