I chuckled under my breath. She even sounded like a Jawa. “You say that at every away game that dips below fifty degrees.”
“And you better believe I’m gonna keep on saying it.” She lowered her voice before adding, “I could dial a rotary phone with my nipples.”
Hm, that’s a new one.
Movement at the edge of the visiting dugout caught my eye. Diaz jogged over, his jacket half unzipped and his face already bright with curiosity. Much like his celebrity crush, Diaz had the build of a superhero and the disposition of an actual puppy. Soren came running up behind him, his cheeks flushed from warm-ups, batting gloves tucked into his back pocket.
“Just a few more,” I told her. “I promise, your nipples will be fine.”
“What’s wrong with your nipples, blondie?” Soren greeted, sliding in beside Clarke like he’d been summoned by the sheer force of her grumpiness. Without missing a beat, he unzipped the top of her parka and wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her against his chest. “Do you need me to take a look at them?”
Clarke made a noise that was half-protest, half-purr. “You’re warm.”
“Perks of hitting grounders for twenty minutes straight,” he said, rubbing his hands over her sides in a way that definitely wasn’t workplace appropriate. “Now, back to your nipples—”
“That’s enough of that,” I interrupted. “Save the nipple talk for somewhere, literallyanywhere, that’s not in front of forty-thousand fans.”
I wedged myself between Clarke and the camera set-up. I was desperately in need of a snack, but first, we needed to finish filming our pregame segment for the team’s social channels.Today’s was a fun trend that had been circulating around the MLB circuit—just a quickfire Q&A with the guys as they jogged off the field during batting practice. The twist was that each player decided on the question for me to ask thenextplayer. Some were softballs, and some were chaos. Some were about creepy, hypothetical farm animals.
Diaz was already grinning like he knew what was coming. “All right, Diaz. Wes wants to know your favorite Chris Evans movie.”
His eyes widened in mock betrayal. “You really want to get into this?”
I rolled my shoulders, twisted my neck, and pressed record. If we were going to open Pandora’s box, we might as well smash the whole bitch to smithereens.
“Let’s have it.”
Diaz threw up his hands. “You asked for this. First things first, we need to outline the six different eras of Evans. Starting with—”
I tried to stay focused. I really did. Truly, there was almost nothing more entertaining than a verbal dissertation about A-list celebrities.
But my gaze kept pulling toward the dugout like a magnet I didn’t remember pocketing.
I didn’t see him at first.
Usually, Brooks was one of the easiest guys to spot—tall enough to tower over most guys, black frames catching the light, tattoos snaking down both arms. Plenty of the team had the ink, and a few even had the height, but none of them carried the same quiet, coiled energy he did.
An aura you could feel even when he wasn’t looking at you.
And right now, he was looking at a group of kids like they were his own.
He was crouched low, pen in hand, signing a baseball for a boy in an oversized jersey that nearly swallowed him whole. Another two kids were waiting beside him, all wide-eyed and jittery, clutching caps and jerseys.
And Brooks . . . was smiling.
Fucking smiling.
Not the polite, tight-lipped press smile he broke out for photo ops or the half-smirk he used when he thought one of his players was being an idiot. No, this was a real, full-on smile. The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look like someone I barely recognized.
I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen that in real life and still have fingers left over.
He looked younger, more at ease—a stark contrast from the man who just last weekend had looked like he might rip out his salt-and-pepper hair when he’d found out he was going to be a daddy again.
Not that I could blame him. That wasn’t exactly the pregnancy reveal I had envisioned, and it certainly wasn’t the one either of us deserved. I was still trying to figure out how to make it up to him.
“—and then there’s the ‘lovable fuckboi’ era. Starting withScott Pilgrim vs. the World—
We hadn’t spoken since Matty’s party.
