Partly because our schedules had been a mess, and partly because . . . we were both scared of what came next.
I should have known that he would want to be involved. That was just who Brooks was—steady, dependable, the guy who was always there to lend a listening ear to any of his players and who remembered the name of every employee in the clubhouse, even the ones he had only met once. He was a good man, and an even better father.
But knowing that andtrustingit were two different things.
I had spent the past two decades taking care of myself, counting on nobody but me, and that kind of wiring didn’t just switch off. Letting someone in—letting them carry even part of the weight—felt like stepping off a ledge without checking if there was ground underneath.
And I had never been a fan of heights.
I glanced toward the dugout again and froze. This time, Brooks was looking straight at me. No smirk, no frown. Just a steady, unreadable gaze that sent something low and sharp through my chest . . . and made me want to rip my thermal underwear off.
Thankfully, Diaz’s voice cut back through the fog.
“—and that’s why if Ihaveto pick, it’s got to beKnives Out.”
“The sweater is iconic,” I said, nodding. “Who do you have a question for?”
He nodded toward Soren, who was too busy focusing on the woman in his arms rather than his teammate’s answer. “Ask Sinclair what his favorite yoga position is.”
Soren was an avid yogi—that was common knowledge. But Diaz’s grin told me there might be more to his question. He jogged off toward the dugout to heckle Wes about his question, and I redirected my attention toward the couple canoodling three feet away.
“Clarke, stop sucking face with your boyfriend and make him tell us what his favorite yoga position is.” I held the mini microphone out to him. “And don’t you dare say downward dog.”
Soren tore his gaze from Clarke long enough to glance at me, then back at her, one corner of his mouth curling like he’d just been handed the setup for his favorite joke. Clarke’s eyes narrowed in warning, the faintest flush creeping above the edge of her parka.
“Happy baby,” he said finally, voice low and smug.
Fuck, of course it is.
Clarke groaned, burying her face in his chest while I tried—and failed—not to laugh into the mic.
“What does that look like?”
He winked. “Look it up.”
Later that night, hours after Chicago had cleaned our clocks and the team bus had hauled us back to the hotel, I had just finished demolishing my room-service grilled cheese when there was a knock at the door.
Fuck.
Clarke was spending the night with Soren, nursing his physical and emotional wounds—and then some. The rest of the team had reserved a boat for a late-night cruise on Lake Michigan.
Personally, I had opted for bed rotting.
The heater rattled in the corner of the room, pumping out air just warm enough to thaw the chill that had burrowed into my bones. I was warm, full, and perfectly horizontal. The absolute last thing I wanted was to swing my legs out from under the covers.
But I did it anyway, slipping into my pajama bottoms on the way to the door. I should have known who would be waiting on the other side.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey, yourself.”
Brooks stood in the hallway wearing sweats, a black quarter-zip, and that sheepish, slightly disheveled look he got when he wasn’t sure if I was going to slam the door in his face or not.
I knew better than that, though. This conversation had been a long time coming. I swung the door wide and gestured himinside. His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite let himself. He simply walked past me, carrying the scent of soap and cold night air with him.
“Sorry about the game today,” I said, closing the door behind us.
He shrugged. “We played like crap.”
