Chapter 6 Bennett
Bennett
Coach Ward ran a tight meeting.
And he did it with a three-month-old baby strapped to his chest like a motherfucking boss.
Little Bailey was front and center, tucked into one of those ergonomic carriers like she was the most important piece of equipment on the roster—hell, these days, she was.
She wore a pair of tiny pink headphones that were comically oversized on her head, and her eyes were round with wonder as she stared out at the room full of pro-ballers, all of whom were scared shitless of her doting daddy.
Ward bounced slightly as he talked, one hand gesturing toward the rigorous training schedule on the whiteboard behind him, the other clasped tight around his baby.
“Spring training’s about showing up prepared,” he said, Bailey bobbing gently with each step he took. “Mentally, physically, emotionally.”
Keith, the team’s ASL interpreter, stood off to the side of the room, hands moving smoothly, translating every word for me. His motions were crisp and practiced, and I watched them out of the corner of my eye, making sure nothing slipped past me.
If there was one thing that set the Roasters organization apart, it was this.
From the start, they hadn’t treated my disability like a complication to manage or a favor to grant.
Having an interpreter on staff wasn’t something I’d had to fight for or justify; it had been written into my contract before I’d even asked, their idea, nonnegotiable.
Even better, the rest of the guys had never made it a thing.
Nobody questioned or side-eyed his presence.
Nobody thought of him as unnecessary or “extra,” at least not in that way.
Between his long, blond hair, which rivaled most cartoon princesses’, and the rainbow swirls of ink on his neck and arms, he would be the first to admit that he enjoyed being a little “extra.”
To us, he was just another guy on the team.
“We’re not going to wait until April to decide who we are,” Ward continued. “That happens here and now with the habits you set in this room. If you want to be a team that finishes strong, you start acting like one before the season even begins.”
A few heads nodded.
Someone—probably Roman, who had never been great at keeping his mouth shut—murmured a low, “Fuck yes,” under their breath.
My attention skirted over Soren a few rows over, elbows braced on his knees, jaw set the way it got when something landed square. He didn’t nod or clap, but rather stared at the floor like he was already making a list in his head. If our captain was locked in like that, the rest of us would follow.
Beside him, Matty sat back, one leg crossed over his knee, twisting the ring on his middle finger like he did when he was thinking too hard.
“I know what you want,” Ward said, eyes narrowing behind his signature square, black frames. I had heard Dani call them his “slutty little glasses,” but from where I was sitting, there was nothing slutty about them.
Intimidating, though? Abso-fucking-lutely.
He stopped pacing and planted his feet. Bailey let out a small squeal, like she’d sensed the change in energy.
That made two of us.
“You don’t have to say it. Every single one of you came back here thinking about how close we were. And how we let it slip.”
Keith signed the word choked with measured clarity. Coach Ward never minced his words, and neither did Keith.
“We had it,” Ward said. “We had the talent and the momentum. And then, when it mattered most, we choked. We tried to play not to lose instead of playing to win.”
I couldn’t help but nod.
I’d spent the past few months replaying that final series more than I cared to admit. Catchers liked to pretend we were immune to pressure because we touched the ball every play, but the truth was, we felt it more than most. We just hid it better.
And that had stuck with me long after the season had ended. Not the loss itself, but the knowledge that I had played it safe rather than brave, that I had tried to control the outcome instead of trusting the work we had put in all season.
“Now, you can’t erase that or pretend it didn’t happen,” Ward went on, softening his tone when the baby against his chest fussed. “But what you can do is not let it own you.”
A few guys shifted in their seats.
“I know you all want this bad, but wanting it doesn’t mean shit if you’re not willing to do the work when nobody’s watching. If you don’t show up early. If you don’t recover the right way. If you don’t talk to each other when things get hard.”
Keith signed talk with emphasis, his eyes flicking briefly toward me before returning to Ward.
“You will get tired,” Ward continued. “You will lose games you shouldn’t, and when that happens, I want to know what kind of team you’re going to be.”
He let the silence sit for a beat, eyes moving across the room.
“Because I’ve seen what you can be. I’ve seen a team that competes for every inch, that trusts each other, that doesn’t panic when things get loud or messy.
I’ve seen a group that plays loose because they’ve earned the right to.
One that can work hard and still laugh. That holds each other accountable and still shows up for each other every fucking day. ”
A few shoulders around the room eased.
“That’s the team I expect,” Ward said. “Not perfect or robotic. Just connected.”
He adjusted the baby again when she squirmed, her tiny fist popping out of the carrier.
“And if you do it right,” Ward added, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “This kid of mine might grow up thinking a room full of grown ass men arguing about sunflower seeds and Chris Evans movies is what family looks like.”
“Aw, hell, coach,” Matty said. At the same time, Pink deadpanned, “She’s doomed.”
Ward clapped his hands once. “Alright. That’s enough motivational bullshit for one morning.”
Chairs scraped back. Some of the guys stood, stretching their arms overhead, already mentally on route to the weight room.
Bailey yawned wide, tiny mouth stretching as the room began to shift around her. Roman, never one to miss an opportunity, bent down as he passed Coach Ward, crouching just enough to get into the baby’s line of sight.
“Same, girl,” he whispered conspiratorially.
Ward shot him a look without missing a beat. “Garcia,” he said flatly. “There’s only space for one sleep-deprived baby in this room, and she outranks you.”
Laughter rippled through the team.
Bailey blinked at all of us, unfazed, then stuffed her fist into her mouth like the whole exchange had been beneath her notice.
I shook my head and smiled. There was something grounding about being back in this space—the familiar weight of routine, the cadence of Coach Ward’s voice, the low hum of my teammates shifting in their seats.
The offseason always felt too quiet—aside from the time spent with my family—which meant too much space with my own thoughts.
This felt like home clicking back into place.
“Hold up,” Ward said, just as a few guys started drifting toward the aisle. “Before you head out, the social-media team has a few quick announcements for you.”
Dani popped up from her seat immediately, grinning like she’d just been handed a live microphone at a wedding reception. She caught Ward’s eye as she stood, and something soft passed between them.
“Thank you, Coach,” she said brightly, then added without missing a beat, “Daddy.”
The room erupted.
“Oooooh,” voices teased from the back. A few of the guys made exaggerated kissing noises like we were back in the schoolyard.
Ward groaned, but there was no hiding the smile he tried to suppress. He bent over Dani and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Not funny,” he grumbled.
She beamed. “We both know I’m hilarious.”
Clarke stood beside her, tablet in hand, her expression perfectly neutral but eyes sparkling with amusement. As Soren’s girlfriend—scratch that, his fiancée—she was immune to our nonsense by association.
Ward straightened, the smile gone in a blink. He clapped once, sharp and loud. “That’s enough,” he announced.
The teasing ceased.
Dani cleared her throat, still smiling. “Boys, you’re all looking especially . . . tall.”
Clarke’s nails clicked at her tablet. “We’re here to talk about the charity calendar photoshoot. As y’all know, the team has partnered with the Rose City Dog Rescue and Pawsitive Vibes cat café for the first ever official Roasters calendar.”
A low murmur rolled through the room.
“Shirtless calendar,” Dani added. “With adoptable cats and dogs.”
That earned a few cheers.
“And before anyone asks, yes, you all volunteered.”
“I would’ve remembered that,” Pink said.
Dani’s smile turned lethal. “You signed the team agreement, Pinkalicious. Page twelve, paragraph three, asterisk at the bottom.”
He groaned. “Fucking asterisks.”
“Watch it,” Ward growled.
Bailey gurgled, blissfully unaware that her future college fund might be padded by shirtless baseball players holding puppies.
Clarke didn’t even look up as she kept tapping through her notes. “Demand for the calendar has been . . . substantial. Which is why, after two straight seasons of people asking loudly for more—”
“Very loudly,” Dani echoed.
“—we’ve decided to give the fans what they want,” Clarke finished.
Wes buried his face in his hands. “Why does that sound like a threat?” he asked through his fingers. Our centerfielder wasn’t exactly a people person.
Soren crossed his arms. “How many photos are we talking?”
“Enough,” Dani said cheerfully. “You’ll each be scheduled for a two-hour shoot. We’ll talk about exact dates later, but plan for late-April or early-May.”
Matty raised his hand tentatively. “Do we have to be shirtless?”
Dani turned toward him, eyes lighting up like she’d been waiting for that one. “Matty. Think of Mo.”
The room watched the internal battle play out on Matty’s freckled face for exactly two seconds.
“Fine,” he muttered. “For Mo.”
Pink clapped him on the shoulder.