3. Dakota
DAKOTA
SEPTEMBER
“Holy shit.”
“Everything okay?” I ask, focused on the list in front of me.
Chef Marcus doesn’t answer, so I glance up from the meal counts spread across the stainless-steel counter. He’s standing beside the prep table with a knife in one hand, staring past me at the television mounted in the corner of the kitchen.
The Titans are playing the final game of a road series in Baltimore. I’ve kept the broadcast on while we prepare tomorrow’s meals, but I haven’t looked at the screen in several minutes. When I turn, three Titans players are racing across home plate while Luis Hernández slides into third.
“What just happened?”
“Bases-loaded triple.” Marcus sets down the knife and points toward the screen. “They were down by two.”
Now they’re ahead by one in the eighth inning.
The replay shows Luis driving the ball deep between center and right. Both outfielders dive for it, neither comes up with the ball, and it rolls far enough for all three runners to score. The camera cuts to the Titans dugout, where every player is crowded against the railing.
I find Brendan immediately.
He’s grinning beneath his cap, one arm thrown around a teammate as he shouts toward the field. Even through a television screen, the sight of him sends a warm flutter through my stomach.
Marcus lets out a low whistle. “That’s eleven wins in thirteen games.”
“I know.”
“They’re going to move into a wild-card spot if they hold this lead.”
“Exactly.”
Marcus glances at me, and the curiosity in his expression makes me turn back to the paperwork. “You seem very informed.”
“I work for the team. It would be strange if I wasn’t.”
“Right.” He smirks as he returns to the cutting board. “Professional interest.”
I ignore him and check the meal count again, although I already know the number is correct.
The Titans’ sudden hot streak has changed the entire atmosphere around the organization. Now the players arrive with more energy, the coaches linger over conversations, and everyone knows exactly how many games separate us from the teams ahead.
I’m thrilled for them. I want the Titans to make the postseason, and I want Brendan to have the chance to pitch in October.
I also haven’t forgotten the deal he proposed last month.
It seemed harmless when I agreed to it. The team was struggling, and the postseason felt distant enough that I could agree without facing what the answer revealed.
I wanted to go. The frightening part was that Brendan might realize how much.
All these months after meeting Brendan, I still get butterflies whenever he approaches me. I still notice how large he is, especially when he leans over a counter or stands close to me. I still feel the pull of his attention when it settles entirely on me.
Brendan jokes with everyone, but he pays attention in ways most people don’t.
He knows when a rookie needs encouragement after a bad game.
He remembers the names of staff members’ children and asks about them.
When one of the players’ wives had complications late in her pregnancy, Brendan arranged for meals to be delivered to their house.
He also steals strawberries before I finish setting out the trays, argues with me about fried food on travel days, and asks me out often enough that the rest of the clubhouse starts watching us whenever he starts smiling at me.
I always turn him down.
He always acts devastated.
For most of the season, that routine gave us a boundary. Brendan could flirt, I could laugh, and neither of us had to acknowledge the real tension beneath it.
The idea of going on a real date with him is exciting enough to scare me.
He’s Brendan Kelso. Women approach him everywhere we go, and he knows how attractive he is. I’ve watched him charm reporters, fans, and strangers without appearing to make any effort at all.
Part of me is terrified of what happens when the flirting stops being a joke. The other part of me wants him badly enough to risk it.
The remaining weeks of the regular season are a roller coaster of narrow wins, painful losses, and daily changes in the standings. The Titans claim the final wild-card position, lose it two days later, then fight their way back.
Every game feels critical. Staff members gather around televisions whenever the team is on the road, and the clubhouse stays tense until the last out.
Brendan keeps finding me in the middle of it.
After one win, he asks whether I’ve started deciding what to wear on our date. In Boston, he wants to know whether I prefer candlelight or a skyline view. After pitching seven scoreless innings in New York, he walks past three reporters to ask whether I’m impressed.
By the final weekend of the regular season, the Titans need one win to secure their spot in the playoffs. They lose Friday, which leaves Brendan starting Saturday with the season resting heavily on his shoulders.
I watch from the staff area behind the clubhouse. He gives up a run in the first inning, then shuts the other team down through seven. When he leaves the mound, the Titans lead three to one.
The bullpen holds.
The final strike sends the stadium into chaos. Players race onto the field while staff members hurry toward the clubhouse. By the time the team comes through the tunnel, music is blasting and champagne is spraying across the room.
Chef Marcus and I exchange a joyful hug. Luis nearly knocks both of us over before spinning away to celebrate with someone else. I’m laughing and trying to protect my eyes when I see Brendan across the room.
He sees me at the same moment.
His grin brightens as he starts toward me. Two teammates try to stop him along the way, but he breaks free and keeps coming until he’s standing in front of me, soaked with champagne and flushed from the game.
“We did it,” he says over the music.
I beam at him. “I’m happy for you.”
“For the team?” He steps closer. The front of his shirt, wet with champagne, clings to his chest. “Or for me?”
“For all of you.”
Brendan’s gaze stays fixed on mine. “There are still several rounds left. You sure you want us to keep winning?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
Satisfaction fills his expression. “Good answer.”
I laugh, and suddenly, it feels like he might kiss me right here and now. In that moment, we’re the only two people in the room. His body nearly surrounds mine without touching me, every part of me anticipating what comes next.
Then a teammate dumps a bottle of champagne over Brendan’s head.
He swears and turns, and the moment breaks. I step back as he grabs the nearest bottle and goes after the man responsible, disappearing into the celebration.