Chapter 17 Brooks
Brooks
“Ifear I might be having pornographic thoughts about my breakfast.”
Brock’s fork clattered against his plate. “Tuck, baby,” he said softly, resting his hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. Intricate metal rings adorned every finger, catching the light. “You can’t just say that kind of stuff in New Hampshire.”
“They don’t have sexual thoughts about French toast in New Hampshire?” Tucker asked, genuinely curious. Syrup glistened at the corner of his mouth like evidence.
“I don’t think they have sexual thoughts of any kind in New Hampshire,” Soren muttered around his coffee, which he held like it had personally wronged him.
Pink snorted, nearly choking on his omelet.
I cut into my pile of vegan breakfast hash, enjoying the easy banter that ping-ponged around the table like it was a free comedy show. Not that I would ever be caught dead at a comedy show—impromptu crowd work was my biggest nightmare.
A pregame breakfast with my team, on the other hand, that I could manage any day of the week. Matty had picked the place this time, so I knew it meant he was looking for cozy conversation rather than something showy and extravagant.
There was nothing extravagant about Flapjack Fantasy. The barn-to-brunch spot smelled like maple syrup and woodsmoke. Sunlight filtered through tall, stained-glass windows, spilling across mismatched tables that looked like they’d been salvaged from every antique store in the Granite State.
It was a tradition during away series—dining together before our final game on the road. Between tonight’s game and the red-eye flight back to Portland, we had a long day ahead of us—all the more reason to load up on coffee and carbs.
Brock swiped his fork through Tucker’s blueberry French toast and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully before announcing, loud enough for the entire table to hear, “Damn, that is fucking good.”
It was open season after that. Chairs scraped across the floor as half of the team flocked around Tucker like rabid vultures, itching for a chance to snatch a bite of his meal.
“Back off, assholes.” Tucker leaned over his plate, trying to block their synchronized attack. He waved his fork like a dagger, ready to stab the next teammate who tried to steal a bite. “It’s not my fault you didn’t read the Yelp reviews before ordering.”
“Yelp reviews,” Pink said with a snort, plucking a stray blueberry from Tucker’s plate anyway. “Listen to this guy. He’d be lost without the internet holding his hand.”
“I don’t need the internet for that,” Tucker shot back. “Not when I have a hot partner with a huge, pierced—”
Brock stuffed a forkful of his breakfast poutine into Tucker’s mouth.
Unruly laughter broke out amongst our side of the table.
I should’ve known better than to take the seat at the head next to Brock.
His boyfriend clung to him like a fucking barnacle.
Where Brock went, Tucker followed, and where Tucker went, his roommate, Roman, usually wasn’t too far behind.
And so on and so on, until I was seated at a table with the entire Roasters starting roster.
Roman smiled into his coffee. “Now, this is my kind of breakfast talk.”
Matty leaned back, draping an arm around the back of the chair beside him like he owned the place. “Speaking of girlfriends,” he drawled. “Mine’s pissed I didn’t bring her out here this weekend. She’s obsessed with barn weddings, so this place would’ve been like her Super Bowl.”
Pink groaned, and Soren smacked him across the stomach hard enough to knock the wind—and his mouthful of bacon—out of him.
“How are things going with . . . Lila?” Soren asked.
Between the twitch of his jaw and the way he said her name, I had a funny feeling that Soren wasn’t a fan of Matty’s girlfriend.
“Honestly, not great,” Matty answered solemnly. “I think it’s time to end it.”
A round of half-hearted nods circled the table. No one looked particularly surprised—or upset.
“About damn time,” Pink muttered, stabbing at his omelet.
Wes arched a brow. “We were wondering how long it was going to take you to figure that out.”
“This has been a long time coming, dude,” Tucker said. “The real question is how are you going to break the news to your devil dog?”
That drew a round of laughter, though it was the kind that came with a few side-eyes. Nobody said it out loud, but the truth hung in the air—there wasn’t a man at this table mourning Lila’s exit.
Matty leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. No elbows, though—he was a Southern gentleman, through and through. “So, what you’re saying is that none of you liked her?”
“Nope,” Pink said, popping the “p.”
Soren coughed into his napkin. “She was . . . fine.”
“Fine like gas station sushi,” Roman offered, earning a snort from the rest of the table. “No offense, man.”
“We just know you deserve better,” Diaz said flatly.
He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, but not before I caught a flicker of relief in his eyes. Interesting. The kid had been Matty’s shadow since day one, the first to volunteer for fielding drills with him. Hell, the two of them had shared a hotel room for half of last season.
And judging by the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips from the opposite end of the table, I couldn’t help but wonder if there might be something more to their dynamic beyond friendship, at least from Diaz’s perspective.
I made a mental note to keep an eye on that.
Pink leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs under the table. “True love is out there, boys. Nessa’s flying out next month for our Michigan series, and then we’re going to drive to the Upper Peninsula and go blueberry-picking. That’s true love.”
“Clarke’s the same way,” Soren said wistfully. “Last week, she dragged me to this pop-up fashion show. I thought I would be miserable, but it turns out, I kind of liked it.”
Pink smirked. “You liked it because she sucked your dick on the limo ride home.”
“How the fuck did you—”
“Women talk, bro.”
Soren didn’t even bother denying it, just sipped his coffee with that satisfied look of a man who knew he was whipped and didn’t care.
I couldn’t blame him.
The table rippled with a chorus of laughs and mock kissing noises, but none of them meant it.
Beneath the jokes was something quieter, more grounded.
A couple of my guys had found partners who steadied them, who gave them something more than the game.
And as much as I tried not to think about it, I couldn’t help but picture Dani filling that same spot in my life.
We had been “taking it slow” for a couple of weeks now, spending the bulk of our time getting to know each other—beyond our bodies—while also figuring out our parenting style.
She had spent most game-free evenings at my place, making dinner with me, sneaking vegan recipes into the rotation like she was testing out how many things she could do to tofu.
In turn, I had spent hours massaging her swollen feet while watching whatever musical she decided I “needed” to see, starting with Grease and Grease 2—she was still giving me shit for saying I preferred the latter.
She had also found a mini-me in Carolina, who had taken to her like a duck to water. The two of them had bonded quickly over cartoons, 90s boy bands, and a sworn alliance against any vegetable that wasn’t drowned in ketchup.
But it wasn’t just their shared taste in shitty music and condiments that made me smile.
More than once, I had walked in on Dani with her laptop open, quietly watching YouTube tutorials about caring for Black hair—how to detangle, how to protect curls overnight, how to braid without breakage.
She never announced it, never made a show of it, but I still noticed.
And as the father of a biracial daughter, I couldn’t put into words what that meant.
It wasn’t just about hair. It was about Dani seeing my girl fully, honoring every part of her identity.
That extra step, the intention behind it, was proof enough that Dani wasn’t just sliding into my life. She was choosing to love all of it.
It was in those quieter moments, though, when it was just the two of us that we traded pieces of our pasts.
She’d told me about her strained relationship with her mom and the loneliness of raising herself even before she’d passed away.
I’d talked about the regrets I had when it came to my first few years of parenthood, and how I was determined to do better this time around, with her and our baby girl.
We had covered a lot of ground in two weeks.
Every tattoo, every scar—physical and emotional—now had a story.
Slow wasn’t easy, but it was rewarding. It was teaching me what it meant to show up in ways that had nothing to do with sex or grand gestures.
And the more we leaned into that, the more I wanted to find ways to keep proving—to her, to myself—that I was in this for the long haul.
Which was how I ended up sitting at a breakfast table in rural New Hampshire, surrounded by half my damn infield, about to do the unthinkable—ask them for relationship advice.
“Coach.” Soren’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp as always. He gave me a look like he’d been reading my mind for the last ten minutes. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I grunted.
“Oh, you know, that thing where you pretend to listen but you’re actually . . . brooding.” He gestured with his fork. “It’s giving Mr. Darcy.”
Tucker nodded. “Colin Firth or Matthew Macfadyen?”
“Macfadyen,” the entire table echoed without hesitation.
Was that a compliment? Damn, I really need to watch something beyond the Bravo network.
Pink leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. His eyebrows wiggled, and he looked downright giddy. “Oh, shit. Is this about Dani?”
I dragged a hand over my face. Lord help me, I was really doing this. “Fine,” I said, glaring at all three of them in turn. “Yes, it’s about Dani. And yes, I could use some advice.”