This was the life I used to be afraid of missing, and now nothing could tear me away. No missed flights, no excuses.
I took a breath, rolled up my sleeves, and braced myself.
“Alright, chef,” I called out toward the kitchen. “Let’s name this blob.”
Dani
“I’m just saying,” Clarke said, flipping her pen between her fingers like she was about to chuck it at me. “If we don’t add Mic’d Mondays back into the weekly rotation, the fans might fly off the handle.”
“The fans are chaotic gremlins,” I told her. “If it were up to them, we would livestream Pink taking a shit.”
She paused. “Do you think he would?”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the giant wall calendar we had spent the morning filling in with color-coded sticky notes, half-baked ideas, and at least one slightly pornographic sketch of River, the team’s hipster barista mascot.
“Although, now that you mention it, let’s talk to J.P. in digital media about having him do a series of gardening videos for YouTube.”
She twirled her pen excitedly, as though it were a magic wand. “Andwe can use the rooftop garden for it, emphasize the sustainability of the stadium’s facilities, and tie it into—”
“—the farm-to-table events,” I finished for her, already scribbling out a reminder for myself. “I love it.”
The Roasters’ stadium was one of the few in Major League Baseball that had integrated an edible garden into its design. Nearly eight thousand square feet of the roof over the press box had been converted to an organically maintained rooftop farm that grew seasonal herbs and vegetables year-round.
In fact, there were already plans to add a greenhouse in the next couple of years and begin growing our own coffee beans. We already had an in-house coffee roastery, which meant fans could take home a fresh bag of Rose City Roast on game days, subscribe to the monthly coffee club, and attend latte art classes with guaranteed “guest barista” appearances by some of the players.
“Speaking of, we also need to lock in a date for the Farmers Market Feast.”
Just one more thing to add to my seemingly never-ending to-do list.
The last couple of weeks had flown by, and it was like all I could do was hang on for the ride. I hadn’t felt this kind of bone-deep exhaustion since my first year of grad school, when I’d been running on cold coffee and cortisol, praying that my Wi-Fi would hold out until I’d submitted a paper at 11:59 p.m.
What could I say? Last-minute deadlines made me horny.
There had always been something oddly addictive about them—the chaos of a looming deadline, that strange mix of adrenaline and dread humming just beneath my skin.
Pregnancy, as it turned out, wasn’t all that different.
I was closing in on my second trimester, and everything had already started shifting—physically, mentally, and emotionally.My favorite jeans no longer buttoned without the help of some higher power, and my skin, which had been reliably low maintenance my entire adult life, had turned against me overnight.
And then there were the dreams.
Absolutely. Fucking. Unhinged.
Just last night, I’d dreamed I gave birth to a baguette and cried because the crust was too hard. Needless to say, Pink had been horrified when he’d come downstairs for breakfast and found me sobbing into my toast.
But the work didn’t stop. I was still booking photoshoots, still hoofing it up and down the stadium to engage with fans and sponsors, still smiling at my friends and coworkers, who had no idea that beneath the ripped-to-shit denim and pleather jacket, I was quietly building a human being from scratch.
“I’m okay with adding Mic’d Monday into the mix.” I held up my hand to cut off her response. “But if Diaz goes on another ten-minute rant about how characters never finish their food in shows or movies, then I hurl myself over the side of the stadium.”
“Fair enough,” she said without missing a beat. The entire team, plus most of the staff, was used to my dark sense of humor. “Just be sure to do it on the third-base side. There’s better lighting, and I already know which lens I’d use for the slow-motion fall.”
I shook my head. “Remind me to never give you a performance review.”
The two of us were camped out in what we fondly referred to as the “fishbowl”—a small office space in the corner of right field with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the diamond. It had taken us a year, but we had finally upgraded from a couple of old clubhouse chairs that smelled vaguely like sunflower seeds, anda mini fridge full of energy drinks to a plush sectional and fully stocked kitchenette.
Was it glamorous? No. Functional? Barely.
