Chapter 11 Brooks
Brooks
Nongame days were supposed to be quiet, dull, reserved for reviewing scouting reports, analyzing game footage, and catching up on my endless stream of emails. And yet here I was, on my hands and knees, crawling around my office, desperately searching for Mr. Chomp, my daughter’s favorite toy.
When we’d stepped off the plane from Chicago two nights ago, the first thing waiting for me hadn’t been a good night’s sleep, but rather a voicemail from my ex-wife.
Carolina’s stuffed dinosaur was missing.
I had barely made it to the team bus before being informed—in long, grueling detail—that bedtime had been a disaster. I was on strict directives to “locate the blue, one-eyed menace before Friday.”
Because for a six-year-old, losing a stuffed dinosaur wasn’t just an inconvenience.
It was an existential crisis. Mr. Chomp had been with our family since Allie’s baby shower.
He had survived juice spills, airplane turbulence, and one unfortunate run through the dryer that had left him looking like he had been to war and seen some shit.
Which meant if I didn’t find him, I wasn’t just letting my kid down. I was breaking an unspoken father-daughter pact.
“I gotta give it to you, man. This pregnancy stuff isn’t for the faint of heart.”
I looked up from beneath my desk, narrowly avoiding knocking my head against the heavy wood. Brock Heller was parked in a chair across from me, legs crossed as he flipped through one of the pregnancy books I had picked up this week like it was the Guinness Book of World Records.
“Did you know some pregnant people can develop a weird craving to chew ice, clay, or even laundry starch?” he read, eyebrows climbing. “It’s called pica.”
“Sounds like a choking hazard,” I muttered, running a hand along the back edge of the credenza. “In the event that Dani starts eating laundry starch, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
After a trip to the emergency room.
Brock smirked, flipping to another page. “Oh, here’s another one. How many weeks is she?”
I did some quick mental math. “About nineteen.”
“Your baby has fingerprints by the end of the first trimester.”
“Huh,” I said, crouching to check under a filing cabinet. “A tiny, wrinkly criminal.”
“Dude, don’t mock the fetus.”
I grunted in acknowledgment, reaching behind the cabinet, springing up with excitement when my fingers brushed something lumpy and suspiciously fuzzy. One victorious tug later and I emerged holding the battered, one-eyed dinosaur like it was a trophy.
“Mr. Chomp, reporting for duty,” I cheered.
Brock arched a brow at the frayed blue fabric. “That thing looks like it’s been through a woodchipper.”
“Yeah,” I said, dusting him off and setting him on my desk. “And somehow, he’s still the most important member of my household.”
“Does that mean we can go to lunch now?”
I nodded.
To some people, the two of us might have made an unlikely pair.
It wasn’t every day that a head coach bonded with a sports reporter, especially not one like Brock Heller, who chose his words without mercy.
But after a few conversations, we’d realized that we had a lot more in common than our shared love of the game.
We also both ate vegan.
The man could recite pitching stats from memory and debate oat-milk brands in the same breath. The only difference was that Brock wasn’t a purist. The guy had a weakness for cheese that would make a dairy farmer proud.
I shut my laptop and reached for my jacket. “Mediterranean?”
“Works for me.”
“I just need to stop off at the weight room first,” I told him. “Make sure the guys are staying on top of their shit.”
He smiled. “Sounds good.”
Yeah, I bet it does.
Something told me that his eagerness had less to do with my favorite falafel truck and everything to do with his boyfriend. He and my second baseman had gotten together last summer, and they were still going strong nearly a year later.
We took the stairs down to the weight room. The clanking of plates and low hum of friendly trash talk filled the air even before we rounded the final corner.
“That doesn’t count,” one of them complained. “His chest didn’t touch the floor.”
“Oh, quit your bellyaching, fucker.”
That was Matty. There was no mistaking his drawl.
By the time we stepped through the doorway, the picture came into focus.
In the middle of the rubber-matted floor, Bennett, Matty, and Pink were locked in what looked like a push-up death match—palms planted, backs ramrod straight, faces set with that grim, competitive determination usually reserved for the bottom of the ninth.
They had arranged themselves in a loose circle, heads pointing toward the center like some sort of weird athletic sundial, each one trying to outlast the others.
Bennett’s jaw was clenched, sweat dripping down his temples, past his cochlear implants.
Pink, predictably, was running his mouth between reps, tossing out insults like beaded necklaces at Mardi Gras.
Matty looked like he was out to prove a point, eyes narrowed, counting under his breath as if sheer willpower could keep his arms from giving out.
Off to the side, Soren leaned against a weight rack, arms crossed, smirking like he was watching a nature documentary. Tucker was next to him, one hand on the barbell resting across his shoulders, clearly invested in the outcome but too smart to join in.
Brock and I paused just inside the doorway, the air thick with the smell of chalk, sweat, and the fragile male ego.
“Let me guess,” Brock murmured. “Loser has to wash the other guys’ jockstraps?”
“Something like that,” I said, though with this group, it could just as easily end with someone having to wear a ridiculous T-shirt for a week.
Case in point, last week’s squat contest had ended with Bennett having to rock a leopard print thong under his shorts during batting practice—we were all still trying to scrub that mental image from our brains.
And then there was the time that Roman had had to change his walk-up song to Taylor Swift’s “Look What You Made Me Do,” though, in my opinion, he had enjoyed that one a little too much.
Matty took the cake, though. He had lost the homerun contest during spring training and as such, had to host what the guys now referred to as The Most Extra Dinner in Baseball History.
That meant renting out a private dining room at some five-star steakhouse, showing up in a tux, and presenting everyone with personalized menus.
He had even gone the extra mile and hired a Michelin-starred baker to craft bread loaves in the shape of miniature baseball bats.
Tucker peeled himself away from the weight rack and strolled over, a towel draped around his neck. He leaned in toward Brock like he was about to share state secrets.
“This time,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial, “the loser has to get a spray tan. I’m talking Jersey Shore level orange.”
Brock’s brows shot up. “That’s just cruel.”
I glanced over at the push-up circle, where Pink was already starting to wobble but still trash-talking like he was in the lead. “Who are you rooting for?”
Tucker rested his hand on Brock’s shoulder and grinned. “Orange is the new pink.”
Brock snorted.
“Alright, break it up,” I called, stepping farther into the room.
Bennett’s head snapped up mid-rep, sweat dripping onto the mat. “Coach, we were just—”
“Save it,” I said. “I don’t remember this being a part of anybody’s strength training program.”
Pink gave one last grunt, knocked out two shaky push-ups, and collapsed onto his stomach like he’d been shot. Matty lasted three more—purely for the show—before rolling onto his back with a grin.
“Looks like you’re heading to the tanning booth, Pinky boy,” Soren called, smirking.
“Fuck off,” Pink shot back, rolling to his feet and grabbing his water bottle.
While the others continued razzing him about whether he should go with a subtle pumpkin spice latte shade or full-on Oompa-Loompa, I leaned over to Brock. “Give me a few minutes?”
“Sure,” he said easily, slipping an arm around Tucker’s waist without missing a beat. Tucker didn’t even look away from the scene in front of us, just reached up and twirled a finger through Brock’s hair like it was second nature. “I’m in no rush.”
I crossed the room, catching Pink next to the squat racks. “Walk with me.”
He gave me a quick, curious glance but followed as I steered us toward a quieter corner at the opposite end of the room. “Is this about the spray tan? Because I’m already planning to wear long sleeves for the next month.”
I waited until we were out of earshot of the others before laying my cards on the table. “It’s about Dani.”
“In all seriousness, coach, it’s probably best I stay out of whatever’s going on between the two of you.
” He quickly added, “Just so long as you understand that I’m not going anywhere.
Dani is practically family, so that little bun in her oven might as well be my niece or nephew. Treat them right and we’re cool.”
His tone was easy enough, but there was a thread of warning underneath. This wasn’t the first time he’d given me “the talk” about treating his friend right.
When Pink had first found out about us last year, he had spelled out in no uncertain terms what would happen if I hurt her.
No raised voices, no dramatics, just a calm, pointed reminder that Dani deserved nothing less than the world.
Not the best delivery, but it had made me look at him with newfound respect.
Dani was lucky to have someone like Pink in her corner.
“I have no intention of fucking things up with her again.” He nodded. “But you live with her—you have the best read on how she’s really doing.”
He tilted his head, studying me like he was taking my measure. “You want intel.”
“I want to know if there’s anything she needs.” And even though I knew I would probably regret it later, I somehow found myself adding, “I have a feeling that she’s more likely to share that with you than me.”
“That’ll come at a price.”
I folded my arms. “What do you want?”
Pink’s grin tilted.
“Wall sits.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Wall sits,” Pink repeated, like it was the most natural sentence in the world. “It’s like you always say, coach. You gotta make them earn it.”
That was how I ended up with my back flat against the cement wall, knees bent at ninety degrees. Pink dropped down beside me with a little too much confidence for someone who’d just lost a push-up contest.
“Alright, coach. What do you want to know?”
“Cravings,” I said without missing a beat.
“It used to be hot Cheetos and ice cream, but she’s recently moved onto avocados and peanut butter. Oh, and she pretends she’s over pickles, but I caught her drinking straight out of the jar the other night.”
Well, anything was better than laundry starch.
“How about sleep?”
“She’s getting it . . . mostly. But she’s waking up more at night. And when she’s up, she’s raiding the kitchen like a raccoon.”
“Noted,” I said, keeping my breathing even.
He blew out a breath. “Her back’s been bothering her. She won’t admit it, but she’s been stretching more, walking a little slower. Take it from me, though—don’t make a big deal out of it or she’ll bite your head off.”
Another thirty seconds and his legs started to shake.
Mine didn’t. Sucker.
“You’re annoyingly good at this,” he muttered.
“Comes with the job,” I said, settling in. “Anything else I should know?”
Pink’s jaw flexed.
“Is she still jogging?”
“Five miles, nearly every day,” he answered between broken breaths. “I don’t know how she does it.”
We hit the two-minute mark, and Pink’s hands went to his thighs like that would stop the burn.
“Fuck, are you even trying? My quads are on fire.”
“Trying,” I said, “would imply there’s effort involved.”
“Show-off,” he muttered, finally springing up and shaking out his legs. “Fine, you win. But you better use that info wisely.”
I pushed off the wall, barely winded. “Appreciate the tips, Pink. Or should I say, Orange?”
He fixed me with a pointed glare. “I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“That would be a first.”
Pink stalked off toward the showers, muttering under his breath, and I stood there for a second, running over everything he’d just told me.
I had gone into the conversation looking for crumbs, but he’d handed me a full scouting report—cravings, sleep, exercise, the back pain she wouldn’t admit to.
It was all useful information, the kind of details I could act on.
Starting now.
When I stepped back into the hall, Brock was exactly where I’d left him, still tucked under Tucker’s arm and looking entirely unbothered by the wait. “You two done having your little quad contest?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, falling into step beside him. “We need to make a stop on the way back from lunch.”
“For what?”
I let a small smile slip. “I’ve got some shopping to do.”