He didn’t pace, didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at his teammates like he saw every one of them for exactly who they were.
“This is our house,” he said.
A couple of heads nodded. Damn, he was going to make one hell of a coach one day.
“We’ve worked our asses off to get here. We’ve trained for hours, rain or shine, played through injuries, sacrificed time with friends and family, and it’s all led to here. Whatever they bring tonight, is nothing we can’t handle.”
He glanced toward tonight’s starting pitcher, Jared Pink, and gave him the smallest grin. The two had become somewhat of an unlikely dynamic duo during our first season, and even though they fucked with each other at every turn, I knew it was done with love and admiration.
“Pink’s throwing gas,” Soren continued. “We’ve got heavy hitters stacked all the way down the lineup. And our fielders? Best in the fucking league.”
That got a few shoulder bumps and low mutters of agreement.
“But none of that matters if we don’t play like a unit. Not just nine guys on a field—oneteam. Start strong. Stay locked in. And no matter what happens out there, don’t stop swinging.”
He set his sights on Matty Miller, our starting shortstop. “Unless you’re swinging at balls four feet outside the zone.”
The room cracked up. Matty flipped him off half-heartedly, grinning through it.
I still hadn’t quite figured Matty out just yet. He was all Southern charm on the surface—always smiling, always polite, the kind of guy who brought his own tea and sugar packets on road trips because nobody made sweet tea the way he liked it, and whose All-American boy looks drove the fans wild—but something about him felt just out of reach. Like there was a closed door in that laid-back exterior he didn’t plan on opening for anyone. Not even his coach.
“Play hard,” Soren continued. “Play clean. Play for the guy sitting next to you. Let’s go win this thing the way we know how.”
Then he paused, looking around the room with that calm, level stare of his.
“And don’t forget, the faster we finish this, the faster we get to postgame tacos.”
Roman pumped a fist in the air. “Let’s fucking go.”
I shook my head. The room erupted in applause, chairs scraping back as the guys stood, hooting and clapping each otheron the back. There was no denying that this group was food motivated. And hell, I couldn’t blame them.
Tacos were delicious as fuck.
I let the pandemonium ride for a few more seconds, then clapped my hands twice. “All right, that’s enough taco talk. Get loose, get your heads on straight. BP starts in twenty.”
“Coach,” Tucker said as he passed me. “I’m gonna hit one into the upper deck for you tonight.”
“Appreciate that. Try not to strike out twice before you get there.”
He laughed, tossed his warm-up hoodie onto the bench, and jogged off.
One by one, the guys filtered out of the meeting room, jogging out toward the field with that pregame swagger that always made me feel part-proud, part-anxious. I checked my watch.
10:25.
If I was going to make it in time, I had to gonow.
Athletes lived and died by their pregame routines and superstitions, and coaches were no exception. For some guys, it was a specific brand of sunflower seeds—my assistant coach scoffed at anything other than Vlasic Dill Pickle. For others, it was a lucky headband or pair of sweat-soaked socks—our centerfielder, Wesley Nuñez, received at least two complaints per week.
I had a different kind of lucky charm, though—a pint-sized sexpot in denim who just so happened to have a thing for soy chai lattes.
I cut through the weight room, past the tunnel to the field and toward the main concourse, taking the steps two at a time. I didn’t need a calendar invite to know that Dani would be there. Same as she was every home game, just before the players hit the field for warmups.
We hadn’t talked in a few days. Not since Carolina’s disappearing act last week, which, yeah,mighthave taken ten years off my life. Dani had handled it like a pro, though—calm, cool, and collected. In fact, Carolina hadn’t stopped talking about her all weekend, or the list of sourdough starter names they had come up with together.
Since then, my interactions with Dani had been few and far between. No sarcasm or flirtatious smirks. No smartass jabs about my whey protein bars tasting like chalk.
It was official; she was dodging me.
