“Yeah,” I said, dusting him off and setting him on my desk. “And somehow, he’s still the most important member of my household.”
“Does that mean we can go to lunch now?”
I nodded.
To some people, the two of us might have made an unlikely pair. It wasn’t every day that a head coach bonded with a sports reporter, especially not one like Brock Heller, who chose his words without mercy. But after a few conversations, we’d realized that we had a lot more in common than our shared love of the game.
We also both ate vegan.
The man could recite pitching stats from memory and debate oat-milk brands in the same breath. The only difference was that Brock wasn’t a purist. The guy had a weakness for cheese that would make a dairy farmer proud.
I shut my laptop and reached for my jacket. “Mediterranean?”
“Works for me.”
“I just need to stop off at the weight room first,” I told him. “Make sure the guys are staying on top of their shit.”
He smiled. “Sounds good.”
Yeah, I bet it does.
Something told me that his eagerness had less to do with my favorite falafel truck and everything to do with his boyfriend. He and my second baseman had gotten together last summer, and they were still going strong nearly a year later.
We took the stairs down to the weight room. The clanking of plates and low hum of friendly trash talk filled the air even before we rounded the final corner.
“That doesn’t count,” one of them complained. “His chest didn’t touch the floor.”
“Oh, quit your bellyaching, fucker.”
That was Matty. There was no mistaking his drawl.
By the time we stepped through the doorway, the picture came into focus. In the middle of the rubber-matted floor, Bennett, Matty, and Pink were locked in what looked like a push-up death match—palms planted, backs ramrod straight, faces set with that grim, competitive determination usually reserved for the bottom of the ninth.
They had arranged themselves in a loose circle, heads pointing toward the center like some sort of weird athletic sundial, each one trying to outlast the others.
Bennett’s jaw was clenched, sweat dripping down his temples, past his cochlear implants. Pink, predictably, was running his mouth between reps, tossing out insults like beaded necklaces at Mardi Gras. Matty looked like he was out to prove a point, eyes narrowed, counting under his breath as if sheer willpower could keep his arms from giving out.
Off to the side, Soren leaned against a weight rack, arms crossed, smirking like he was watching a nature documentary. Tucker was next to him, one hand on the barbell resting across his shoulders, clearly invested in the outcome but too smart to join in.
Brock and I paused just inside the doorway, the air thick with the smell of chalk, sweat, and the fragile male ego.
“Let me guess,” Brock murmured. “Loser has to wash the other guys’ jockstraps?”
“Something like that,” I said, though with this group, it could just as easily end with someone having to wear a ridiculous T-shirt for a week.
Case in point, last week’s squat contest had ended with Bennett having to rock a leopard print thong under his shorts during batting practice—we were all still trying to scrub that mental image from our brains. And then there was the time that Roman had had to change his walk-up song to Taylor Swift’s“Look What You Made Me Do,” though, in my opinion, he had enjoyed that one a little too much.
Matty took the cake, though. He had lost the homerun contest during spring training and as such, had to host what the guys now referred to asThe Most Extra Dinner in Baseball History. That meant renting out a private dining room at some five-star steakhouse, showing up in a tux, and presenting everyone with personalized menus. He had even gone the extra mile and hired a Michelin-starred baker to craft bread loaves in the shape of miniature baseball bats.
Tucker peeled himself away from the weight rack and strolled over, a towel draped around his neck. He leaned in toward Brock like he was about to share state secrets.
“This time,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial, “the loser has to get a spray tan. I’m talkingJersey Shorelevel orange.”
Brock’s brows shot up. “That’s just cruel.”
I glanced over at the push-up circle, where Pink was already starting to wobble but still trash-talking like he was in the lead. “Who are you rooting for?”
Tucker rested his hand on Brock’s shoulder and grinned. “Orange is the new pink.”
