According to the pregnancy app on my phone, my baby was officially the size of a Pop-Tart.
Which felt vaguely . . . threatening.
Maybe it was the sharp corners. Or the frosting that never quite reached the edges. Or the fact that until the last few days, I hadn’t been able to look at my second favorite pantry pastry—because nothing beat Entenmann’s iced honey buns—without feeling like I needed to hurl since finding out I was pregnant. Thankfully, the constant bouts of nausea had finally started to subside.
Now, I was just hungry, horny, or some combination of the two at all times.
Biology was wild.
Even more wild was trying to pretend like I still had complete control of my hormones while mic’d up at a baseball stadium full of thousands of rabid fans. Fortunately, distraction came in theform of controlled chaos, which was basically my professional love language.
“Your turn, Wes,” I called out, motioning our centerfielder over to the sidelines as the rest of the team wrapped up warm-ups. “Your question is, would you rather fight a hundred goose-sized horses or one horse-sized goose?”
He blinked. “Acho, puñeta! What kind of psycho came up with that one?”
I nailed him with a look. “Who do you think?”
His eyes roved the field. It only took him a second to spot Pink not-so-subtly waving to him from the bullpen. Wes flipped him off.
“Put me down for the horses,” he said, dead serious. “You ever seen a goose up close? Like achupacabrawith feathers.”
From behind the camera, Clarke snorted. “Does that mean you don’t want to volunteer for the Swing for the Fences event at the petting zoo?”
Swing for the Fences, the team’s nonprofit organization, aimed to provide opportunities and resources for youth baseball and softball teams in the Pacific Northwest. That included monthly outings with the kids where our players traded batting gloves for picnic baskets, a fishing trip to Tillamook where the kids out-fished the pros, and the infamous sleepover at the stadium that we were all still going to therapy for. Nonetheless, these little snapshots of joy stuck around longer than any final score.
And the guyslovedthe kids. Truly, it was a wonder that none of them had any of their own yet.
Wes shook his head. “Not if geese are involved.”
I bit back a smile. “Fair enough. Who do you want us to talk to next, and what do you want us to ask?”
“Diaz. Ask him to pick his favorite Chris Evans movie.”
Clarke gasped at the same time I groaned. It was no secret that Diaz worshipped at the altar of Chris Evans. Literally—the guy had a prayer candle with his favorite cable-knit sweater wearing icon and everything. Asking him to choose his favorite Chris Evans flick was like asking a parent to pick their favorite child. Except in this case, the “children” wereCaptain America: The First Avenger,Knives Out, and a surprisingly passionate defense ofNot Another Teen Movie.
“Bold choice,” I said, shooting Clarke a look that promised chaos. “You’re really trying to cook something up before the first pitch.”
Wes grinned, unapologetic. “That’s me. Chef Nuñez.”
Chefwas putting it lightly, more like agod.
Wes’s authentic Puerto Rican cooking was a staple at most team functions, so it went without saying that I envied the woman who would nab a permanent seat at his table.
I blew a few hot puffs of air into my palms when he jogged off.
Chicago in April was a cruel joke. Wind like razor blades, clouds thicker than last night’s cream of cauliflower soup. And I was doing my best impression of a fleece-wrapped marshmallow, layered in thermals, a hoodie,andmy well-worn pleather bomber jacket.
It was nothing compared to my partner in crime, though. In fact, the only visible part of her was her face, pinkened from the cold. Her ankle-length team parka had been thoughtfully adorned with two glittery pins—one shaped like lipstick and another that read “Bless your heart.”
“You look like a Jawa,” I teased, tugging on the strings of her fur-lined hood.
“A what?”
“You know, one of those guys fromStar Wars.” Curse me and my random knowledge of nerdy fandoms. “The little dudes with the dark cloaks and glowing eyes.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I hate that this weather exists,” she grumbled.
