Jared cleared his throat loudly, clearly uncomfortable with the lack of attention. “Are yousurewe can’t get married on a boat, angel?” he asked Nessa, waggling his brows dramatically.
She flicked his forehead. “Positive. I am not getting trapped on a floating crime scene.”
While the rest of them launched into a passionate debate about the merits of boat weddings, I sat back in my chair, grateful the spotlight had shifted off my painfully earnest woodland brunch fantasy.
“There’s one problem with your dream wedding, Arabella.”
I hadn’t even heard him approach—an impressive feat considering Bennett King was built like a walking oak tree—but when I glanced over my shoulder, he was standing right behind me, towering over my lawn chair like he’d been there the whole time.
“And what’s that?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “French toast is better than pancakes.”
I huffed a soft laugh. “Bold claim for someone who’s objectively wrong.”
His smile deepened. “You might have to prove it to me one day.”
My pulse tripped.
“You, um, never said whatyourdream wedding would be,” I told him.
He looked out toward the group, where Pink was now arguing passionately about boat safety statistics, then back at me. His expression was thoughtful, almost shy.
It was refreshing to see him like that, quiet and uncertain. That bashful side of him did more to me than any cocky grin ever could.
“I’ve never given it much thought,” he said honestly.
My heart dipped, just a little.
And just when I thought the butterflies had finally settled, he went and said something I knew I’d be thinking about for weeks to come. After I added it to yetanotherlist in my phone’s Notes app, the one titledThings Bennett King Has Said/Done That Ruined Me.
“But your idea sounds pretty perfect to me.”
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 orjustify; 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 inthatway. 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.
