Chapter 24 Dani
Dani
All-Star Break
The Roasters had a thousand ways of keeping themselves entertained, and ninety-nine percent of them involved some kind of bet.
Trivia on long bus rides, who could plank the longest with somebody else on their back, whether Tucker could eat seven hot dogs in one sitting—spoiler alert, he couldn’t, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying.
This time, it was Matty who’d lost. Something about sinking the worst shot during a recent golf game.
And that was how the team’s shortstop—all broad shoulders, strawberry blond hair, and southern drawl that could melt butter—ended up sitting two chairs down from me at a nail salon, his feet soaking in bubbles while a technician painted his fingernails neon green.
With glitter.
“I think that might be your color, Matty,” June teased, snapping a picture with her phone.
Matty leaned back in the chair with exaggerated dignity, his voice dripping mock tragedy. “Don’t lie. You know damn good and well that this color was not meant for a man of my complexion.”
“What’s the name of it?” June fired back.
“Sour Apple.”
Beside me, Carolina squealed with delight at the sight of his nails, her own little toes already glowing purple. “You’re so sparkly!” she said, pointing toward his fingers.
Matty winked at her. “Darlin’, real men wear glitter.”
“What about you, Benny boy?” June nodded toward his salmon-colored fingernails. “What bet did you lose?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t. I usually keep them painted anyway to make the calls more visible.”
“That’s a good idea,” Bella added, surprising the rest of us.
She had been quietly flipping through her book for the past hour while a technician finished layering her toes with clear polish.
It was a wonder we had gotten her in the pedicure chair at all, though I had a feeling that had more to do with Bennett than the allure of a spa day.
To her credit, his eyes had barely left her since we’d sat down.
I got it, though. Bennett wasn’t flashy like Matty with his easy grin, or loud and boisterous like Tucker and Roman. No, he had a kind of quiet steadiness that felt . . . magnetic.
Hmm, sounds like somebody else I know.
Long brown hair tucked behind his ears, a trim goatee framing his mouth, bright blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, he looked a little like Keanu Reeves, if Keanu had spent his life behind the plate—thick thighs, sun kissed skin, and forearms strong enough to hold the whole world steady.
Bella didn’t blush, not exactly, but her fingers stilled on her book. And Bennett? He didn’t grin or wink, didn’t do anything to call attention to it. He just looked at her like her words mattered.
Like she mattered.
Something about it tugged at me. I knew what it felt like to have someone’s attention hit that hard. To be seen and wanted at the same time. And god, if Bella felt even half of what I thought she might, she was in trouble.
Before I could linger on it, Matty nearly launched out of his chair, sloshing water all over the tile. “What the hell? That was a clean strike.”
Our entire row turned toward the flat screen mounted above the polish racks, where the All-Star Game blared in high definition. The salon owner had looked at us sideways when we’d asked to put it on, but a little extra cash from Bennett had done the trick.
While the rest of the Roasters spent the break scattered across the greater Portland area—sleeping in, rehabbing sore muscles, or just breathing for the first time in months—three of our guys were on the clock.
Pink, Roman, and Wes had all been tapped for this year’s American League All-Star roster, a well-deserved honor that meant they’d spend the so-called “break” under brighter lights than ever.
The game was being played in Minneapolis this summer, and the broadcast showed a stadium packed to the rafters, a sea of navy, red, and white.
Pink adjusted his cap on the mound and wound up with that smooth, easy delivery that somehow always looked casual even when he was throwing ninety-five miles per hour.
June smirked, sipping her mimosa. “Do you think the cameras will cut to Nessa in the stands?”
“I doubt it,” I said, running a hand over my belly just as my little girl delivered a sharp kick.
She was feisty already—just like her mom—always moving, reminding me she was there.
Brooks and I had been tossing around names for weeks, but so far none of them had stuck.
For now, I just called her BB—short for both Baby Bernal and Baby Bailey-Ward.
We hadn’t even settled on her last name yet. And it wasn’t because Brooks didn’t support her taking mine; he’d told me, in no uncertain terms, that he would back me no matter what.
No, the indecision was all me.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to pass on Bernal with all the baggage that clung to it, all the memories tied up with my mother. Some days, I thought it was important to hang on to it, to keep that piece of myself alive through her. Other days, I wanted a clean slate, free of old ghosts.
Either way, BB kicked again, hard enough that I pressed my palm firmer against the swell. She didn’t care what we decided—she already knew who she belonged to.
The salon erupted with cheers.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Matty shouted, nearly knocking over the bowl of cotton balls beside him.
The nail techs exchanged bewildered looks, muttering to each other under their breaths, but none of us cared. We were too busy cheering for our guys, glitter nails and all.
I bit back a smile. The whole thing felt ridiculous and sweet, like one of those sitcom episodes, “The One Where They All Go to the Spa,” where everyone ended up in side-by-side massage chairs, except this was my life now.
And underneath it, I was still humming with the memory of lazy morning sex in Brooks’s bed.
I squirmed in my chair, heat licking through me at the memory. My body still hadn’t recovered from this past month’s nonstop fuck-fest. He’d been starved for me after weeks apart—and to be fair, the feeling had been mutual—and once he’d had me again, he hadn’t let up.
While the rest of my friends were busy cheering on their teammate, my body was remembering the way Brooks had bent me over my desk last week and fucked me so hard the wood had rattled.
There was also the afternoon he’d found me stretched out, tanning in his backyard.
He hadn’t said a word, just knelt between my legs, tugged my bikini bottoms down, and buried his mouth in my pussy lips.
I’d come with the sun blazing down on me, his tongue relentless, my moans echoing off the fence like I hadn’t cared who heard.
And then, there’d been the dugout.
Holy fucking jinkies.
I’d snuck down there after a particularly grueling game, long after the last stadium worker had gone home for the night, straddled him on that long, narrow bench, and ridden him like my own personal hobby horse.
Every thrust of my hips had had the old wood creaking under us, splinters catching on the backs of my thighs, but I hadn’t cared—I’d been too busy milking his cock.
“Fuck, kitten.” He’d groaned, head tipping back against the cinderblock wall, eyes dark and hungry on me. His hands had gripped my ass hard, guiding me up and down. “Look at you, taking my cock like it was made for you.”
“I love it.” I’d gasped, bouncing on his lap, my nails clawing his shoulders. “God, Brooks, I want you to come in me. I want you to fill me up.”
“Greedy little thing,” he’d rasped, teeth scraping along my jaw as he’d thrust up again. “Take it all. I want you to feel me for days.”
And then I was gone, falling apart on his cock, muffling my cries against his shoulder while he spilled inside me, holding me down on him like he’d never let me go. To this day, he was still pulling splinters out of his ass.
When I’d held up that onesie on the jumbotron—pregnant belly front and center, his name stitched across my back—I’d braced for impact.
It was part of my job to think that way.
As a social media manager, I’d spent my days perfecting angles, crafting captions, drafting responses before the comments had even begun to roll in.
I knew how fast people made up their minds, how quickly an image or a moment could spiral into something bigger than you’d meant it to be.
I must have written—and rewritten—every possible headline in my brain at least a dozen times before holding up that onesie.
All of them had gone away the second Brooks had kissed me.
Thankfully, the fans hadn’t judged me for my grand gesture. They’d freaking loved it.
Within hours, the clip of our kiss had gone viral, set to every romantic ballad and pop anthem under the sun.
We were a fucking GIF. People churned out fan art of me in his jersey, of Brooks cradling my belly, even one that looked suspiciously like a movie poster.
They had even given us a couple hashtag—#CoachKitten—which somehow had managed to stick harder than anything else.
And then there was the fan fiction. Jesus. Some of it was swoony and sweet, painting our story like a fairy tale. But some of it was graphic enough that I’d officially been flagged by the Roasters’ tech team for looking at “pornographic materials” during office hours.
Brooks ate that shit up. When I’d first told him about it, he’d simply laughed, lowered me to my bed, and ordered me to read one of the filthiest ones aloud while he made me come.
Reading was already sexy. Reading erotic fan fiction about me and my baby daddy while he fucked me with his tongue and my favorite vibrator was downright sinful.
And speaking of filthy fanfic—
I glanced down the row at Matty, who was currently trying to pose his glittery nails like they were part of a catalog shoot, eliciting squeals and giggles from Carolina. “You know,” I said, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face, “I found some spicy fan fiction about you the other night.”
Matty’s brows shot up, his drawl thickening with amusement. “About me? How spicy are we talking?”
“The kind of spicy that could make big bucks in Nessa’s bookstore,” I said, savoring the way June immediately leaned in.
“Whole novels’ worth, too. Some between you and women .
. . a lot between you and men. There’s a particularly sticky situation between you, Mr. Clean, and one of the guys from Supernatural. ”
He whistled. “You’re gonna have to send me that one. Although, I’ve always been more of a Pedro Pascal kind of guy.”
We all went still. The silence was sharp enough to hear the bubble jets fizzing at our feet.
Bella looked up from her book, blinking like she was processing the words.
June’s mimosa froze halfway to her mouth.
Bennett tilted his head, studying Matty like he was seeing a new angle of him for the first time.
And Carolina, wholly unbothered, piped up to say, “Mommy likes him, too. She says so all the time.”
We all cracked up at that, even Bella letting out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” I hedged. “You also dip you toes in both ponds?”
Matty’s mouth twitched, and then, almost shyly, he said, “I guess I dip my toes in whatever pond I want to swim in that day. I like ‘em all.”
I smiled. “Good to know.”
“What pond?” Carolina asked.
Before anyone else could stumble for the right words, Bella answered in a precise, even tone. “It means Matty likes boys and girls. Both.” She quickly added, “And that’s okay.”
Carolina blinked, then nodded like Bella had just explained how rainbows worked. “Oh. Cool.” She went back to admiring her glittery toes.
We all cracked up softly at that, the tension breaking. June reached over to pat Matty’s arm. “See? Easiest explanation in the world.”
Matty let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah, well, I don’t really like blasting my personal business everywhere.
And truth be told, I’m still kinda figuring it out myself.
Just . . . what feels right, you know?” He shrugged, shoulders rolling like he was trying to shake off the weight of the admission. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Finally, Bennett spoke, his voice low but carrying. “Your business is your business, man, but don’t ever feel like you have to keep quiet around me. Or the guys.” He tapped the armrest, meeting Matty’s eyes squarely. “You’ve got my back on the field. I’ve got yours off it.”
Matty finally looked up, and for a second the easy grin slipped, replaced by something raw and grateful. He gave Bennett a short nod, and Bennett returned it, simple and certain. The kind of exchange that meant more than a dozen speeches.
I smiled with them, warmth blooming in my chest. I knew what it felt like to hesitate, to wonder who you could tell and when, to weigh every word like it might tip the scales of how people saw you.
For years, I’d tripped over the word bisexual in my own mouth, unsure of when to claim it or whether I even needed to.
Hearing Matty just . . . say it like that—without overexplaining or apologizing—and watching Bella, of all people, hand down acceptance like it was the simplest truth in the world made something inside me loosen.
Maybe we were all braver together than we realized.
The moment hung there, warm and tender, until eventually, Bennett leaned back in his chair and deadpanned, “So where’s my fanfiction, then? Seems like everybody’s getting some but me.”
The whole row cracked up. Even Bella’s lips curved into the faintest smile, and Matty groaned, dragging a green, glittery hand down his face.
“Careful what you wish for,” I warned him. “The internet is feral. You’ll open your phone one day and find yourself in a fifty-chapter omegaverse with dragon shifters.”
June choked on her mimosa. “Jesus, I hope somebody writes that.”
That set us off again, laughter spilling through the salon so loud, even the nail techs started smiling at us.