Chapter 30 Dani
Dani
I’d once written a paper during my first master’s program about the validity of athletic rituals, seemingly silly things that players believed in like wearing a particular brand of briefs on gameday or drawing in the dirt before each at bat.
And much like the sports psychologists who had come before me, I had concluded that these superstitions were, more than anything, a way to help a player feel grounded and focused.
I respected them, even found them fascinating to study, but I’d never really felt the pull of them myself. My brain leaned more toward facts and explanations, hence my obsession with true crime documentaries and horror films, my comfort watches.
Pink had even gotten me a book of children’s ghost stories, which I had taken to reading aloud to my belly at night.
Brooks hadn’t exactly been thrilled about me introducing our baby to tales of haunted lighthouses and vengeful spirits before she was even born, but he put up with it, grumbling every time before settling in beside me anyway .
. . so long as he could follow up whatever story I read with one of his own, lighter in tone.
I had never been the superstitious type myself. Not until Brooks had made me his pregame ritual.
“That’s it,” he growled, breath hot against my ear. “Fuck me back, kitten.”
My palms were flat against the glass wall of my office, hours before the first pitch, the empty field stretched out in front of me.
Rows of seats waiting to be filled, bases gleaming in the afternoon sun—none of it mattered.
Not when Brooks’s body caged mine in, his naked, sweaty chest pressed to my back, his cock driving into me with enough force to make the window shudder under my hands.
“God, kitten, you’re soaked,” he rasped. “Like you’ve been waiting for this all fucking day.”
I had. And he knew it.
I moaned, forehead tipping against the cool glass as he filled me again and again, each stroke deeper than the last. My breasts bounced with every slam of his hips, nipples pebbling in the chilled air.
He reached around, his calloused fingers closing over one tight peak, rolling it between his fingers until I gasped and arched into him.
The shock of pleasure tore through me, raw and sharp, making my pussy clench around him like I couldn’t bear to let him go.
Brooks groaned low, like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get deep enough. “Look out there,” he ordered, voice wrecked, his breath hot against the side of my neck. “Empty seats, empty field. And you’re mine. Before anyone else gets a piece of me tonight, I’m getting all of you.”
I couldn’t even remember when it had started. Maybe that first home game after I’d shown up in his jersey on the jumbotron. Or maybe when he’d started sneaking into my office between batting practice and first pitch. But at some point, it had become routine, unshakable as a lineup card.
Fine by me.
If Brooks needed to fuck me on every surface of the stadium to keep his wits—and hopefully get the win—who was I to complain?
“Look at you,” he ground out, voice rough against my ear. “Tits bouncing, pussy dripping all over me.”
“Yessss,” I choked out, my hips grinding back against him shamelessly, desperate for more. I could feel him everywhere, thick and heavy, filling me until my legs shook. “Harder, Brooks.”
His hand slid up, covering mine against the glass, pinning me in place while the other curved around my front, finding my clit and working me in rough, perfect circles. My cry bounced back at me in the empty office, loud and broken.
“Perfect, kitten,” he growled in my ear. “You’re my favorite goddamn lucky charm.”
My laugh broke into a gasp as he thrust harder, deeper, stealing every ounce of air I had left. “Pretty sure this is more for you than the team.”
His teeth scraped my shoulder. “Win-win.”
He bent me deeper, chest pressed to my back, hips pounding into me so hard my knees nearly buckled. His rhythm turned merciless, grunts punctuating every slap of skin. The pleasure was brutal, overwhelming, curling sharp and hot through my body until I was gasping, teetering right on the edge.
“Come for me, Dani,” he commanded, rubbing my clit harder, faster. “Let the whole damn world know who you belong to.”
If you insist . . .
I shattered around him, crying out as my orgasm tore through me, pleasure detonating so hard my vision went white.
My walls clamped down on him, milking his cock, and his low, guttural groan was pure sin.
He kept thrusting through it, chasing his own release, until he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside me with a ragged curse.
The glass cooled under my forehead as my body went limp. Holy fuck. Who needed spicy foods or long walks? This man was going to send me into labor any day now with the power of his perfect fucking penis. That would be a fun one to explain to our daughter one day.
When my legs finally gave out, Brooks caught me, humming low and steady against my hair as he eased me back.
He straightened my maternity bra back into place and smoothed my shirt down with those big, careful hands, his touch suddenly gentle where moments before it had been rough and raw.
He crouched to tug my leggings back up, pressing a kiss against my hip like an apology and a promise all at once.
And then, he dropped to his knees in front of me, palms sliding over the curve of my belly.
He pressed his forehead to it, voice soft but certain.
“Listen up, baby B. It’s our last game before the playoffs, and Daddy’s gonna go out there and win for you,” he told our daughter.
“But the truth is, you’re the real prize. You and your mama.”
The words hit me harder than any orgasm ever could.
I looked down at him, all six-plus feet of tattooed, muscle-bound Coach Daddy folded onto the office carpet like it was an altar.
His big hands cradled my belly with reverence that made my chest ache.
He’d just fucked me against the glass like I was his dirty little secret—even though we both knew I was anything but—and now here he was, talking to our baby like she was the most sacred thing he’d ever known.
The contrast was dizzying. And devastating.
I pressed a hand to the back of his head, threading my fingers through his hair, watching him soften in a way I hadn’t thought possible.
He wasn’t doing this because he thought he had to or because it looked good.
Brooks meant every word. I could feel it radiating off him, grounding me even as the emotions swelled too big in my chest.
Lately, as the weeks ticked down, closing in on my due date, I’d been thinking about my mom more than usual. Not because I’d suddenly forgiven her, but because I couldn’t help seeing the gaps. The ache of what she’d never had.
She’d never had this.
All those nights she’d worked doubles, stringing us together with grit and exhaustion, she hadn’t had a partner kneeling at her feet, holding her steady.
No one to kiss her swollen belly like it was the most sacred thing in the world, no anchor, no quiet strength to lean on. Just her alone, carrying it all.
And maybe some part of me had always assumed that would be my story too.
But Brooks was rewriting it.
I blinked hard, my throat tight. God, I was lucky, so fucking lucky that he was the one. That this messy, imperfect, beautiful man was the father of my baby. My partner. My love.
He stayed there for another minute or so, murmuring low against my belly, his lips brushing over the curve of me like he was telling our daughter secrets. I didn’t even need to hear the words to know what they were: promises. Fierce and steady vows, the kind he’d keep no matter what.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, the red digits blinking back at me, and sighed.
“Okay, Daddy,” I teased, sliding my hands over his to pull his attention up.
I gave him a flirty, little look over the swell of my belly.
“You have a game to go get ready for. And Mama needs to clean up the mess you made in her c-u-n-t.”
His head snapped up, eyes blazing, and for a second, I thought he really might say screw the game.
His hands tightened on my hips, his cock already hardening again against my thigh.
“Kitten,” he groaned, the word rough enough to scrape over my skin.
“You can’t just say shit like that when I have somewhere to be. ”
“Consider it motivation,” I said sweetly, though my grin gave me away.
He cursed under his breath, kissing me like he wanted to drag me right back down to the floor. And god, what I wouldn’t give to get lost in him all over again. But just then, my stomach tightened, a low cramp rolling through me that had me sucking in a sharp breath.
Brooks froze instantly. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, straightening, forcing a smile. “Just one of those Braxton Hicks things. Practice runs. Dr. Kong warned me they’d get stronger the closer we get to the big day.”
His jaw worked, worry flickering across his face even as he searched mine.
I kissed his chin, softer this time. “Go. I promise, if it turns into something, you’ll be the first to know, but right now? You’ve got a game to win.”
He didn’t move. Not right away, at least. It looked like he was trying to decide whether to believe me or whisk me away to the emergency room. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and pressed his forehead to mine. “You scare the hell out of me, kitten,” he murmured.
“Good,” I whispered back, brushing my lips to his. “Means you’ll come running.”
“Always.”
By the top of the seventh inning, I knew I was in labor.
I’d been telling myself it was nothing for the past hour, just stronger Braxton Hicks, my body gearing up for the real thing that was still two weeks out. The truth hit me with every wave that rolled through my belly, sharp enough to steal my breath.
I clenched my tablet a little harder, forcing my focus on the half-finished caption glowing back at me. Just a few more innings, BB. I smoothed a hand over my stomach, willing my baby girl to be patient, a fruitless endeavor considering who her mother was.
“Are you okay?” Clarke asked, her eyes bouncing between me and the field. The game was tied at three, and the entire stadium was on edge because of it. “You’re breathing kind of weird.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, though my nails dug crescents into my thigh. Another contraction gripped me, hot and merciless, and this time I had to fold forward with a muffled groan.
Clarke gasped. “Oh, my stars! You’re in labor.”
“No, I’m—” A curse tore out of me, startling a kid in a Roasters jersey at the end of a nearby row. “Okay, fine. I’m in labor.”
Clarke went pale, fumbling for her phone. “I’m calling Brooks.”
“He’s not going to answer,” I snapped, forcing myself upright. “He doesn’t keep his phone on him during games.”
“Why would he do that?” she shot back. “You’re having a baby!”
“Clarke.” I panted, a cramp knocking the air out of me. “I can wait. Just . . . let him finish. I can manage another inning or two.”
She stared at me like I’d lost my mind. And maybe I had because another contraction ripped through me, sharper than the last, and I yelped, clutching my belly.
This was not how this was supposed to go.
Brooks and I had a plan—a hospital bag packed to the gills, a carefully mapped route, the “Push it” labor playlist loaded onto my phone that we’d argued over for hours because Brooks refused to accept that he had horrendous taste in music.
And yet, here I was, doubled over between Clarke and section 112, my birth plan unraveling like cheap twine.
But I would be damned if this baby was born six feet from the cotton candy cart.
“Fuck this,” Clarke said, already yanking me to my feet. “We’re not waiting.”
Even through the pain, a startled laugh tore out of me. Clarke hardly ever swore. She was all sweet tea and Southern manners, the kind of woman who said shoot instead of shit. Hearing her drop an F-bomb was almost enough to distract me from the fire ripping through my belly.
We hobbled down the stairs, me half-bent over her arm, both of us weaving through the narrow tunnel. The dugout wasn’t far, but the bullpen was closer. And Clarke was single-minded, dragging me along like her life depended on it.
“Hang on, Dani.” My legs shook, sweat dampening the back of my neck. “We’re almost there.”
By the time we stumbled into the bullpen, the guys sitting there shot to their feet, eyes wide. And right in the middle of them—Jared Pink.
He took one look at me doubled over, one arm wrapped tight around my belly, and his face went white. “Holy shit. Dani? Are you—”
“In labor,” Clarke snapped, practically shoving me into the nearest chair. “And we need Brooks. Now.”
Pink froze, mouth opening and closing like he’d just been asked to solve advanced calculus. “Wait, like labor labor? The baby is coming?”
“Yes, Jared!” Clarke barked. “Get Brooks on the line now.”
That shook him out of it. “Oh, fuck. Right, phone!”
He skidded to the wall, grabbing the bullpen receiver like it might explode in his hands. His long legs tangled in the cord as he fumbled, nearly tripping over his own cleats. “Coach? Uh, yeah, don’t freak out, but also, you might actually freak out—”
“Give me the phone, Sir Pink-a-lot.” I panted, staggering up enough to snatch the receiver right out of his hand.
Pink yelped and threw his arms up. “Oh, thank God.”
I pressed the phone hard to my ear, another contraction gripping me so tight it felt like my spine might snap in half. My voice came out raw, uneven. “Brooks?”
There was a pause, the crackle of dugout noise bleeding through the line, and then his voice, low and edged with alarm. “Kitten, what’s wrong? Where are you—”
My free hand lifted, weak but certain, and I waved toward the dugout.
Across the diamond, I saw him. Brooks stood at the very edge of the dugout steps, the bullpen phone pressed to his ear, his other hand braced hard against the rail.
Our eyes locked across the field—him in his jersey, me doubled over in the bullpen—and the noise of the game, the crowd, everything fell away.
My eyes squeezed shut. “It’s time.”
The line went dead.