We had been “taking it slow” for a couple of weeks now, spending the bulk of our time getting to know each other—beyond our bodies—while also figuring out our parenting style. She had spent most game-free evenings at my place, making dinner with me, sneaking vegan recipes into the rotation like she was testing out how many things she could do to tofu. In turn, I had spent hours massaging her swollen feet while watching whatever musical she decided I “needed” to see, starting withGreaseandGrease2—she was still giving me shit for saying I preferred the latter.
She had also found a mini-me in Carolina, who had taken to her like a duck to water. The two of them had bonded quickly over cartoons, 90s boy bands, and a sworn alliance against any vegetable that wasn’t drowned in ketchup.
But it wasn’t just their shared taste in shitty music and condiments that made me smile. More than once, I had walked in on Dani with her laptop open, quietly watching YouTube tutorials about caring for Black hair—how to detangle, how to protect curls overnight, how to braid without breakage. She never announced it, never made a show of it, but I still noticed.
And as the father of a biracial daughter, I couldn’t put into words what that meant. It wasn’t just about hair. It was about Dani seeing my girl fully, honoring every part of her identity. That extra step, the intention behind it, was proof enough that Dani wasn’t just sliding into my life. She was choosing to love all of it.
It was in those quieter moments, though, when it was just the two of us that we traded pieces of our pasts. She’d told me about her strained relationship with her mom and the loneliness of raising herself even before she’d passed away. I’d talked about the regrets I had when it came to my first few years of parenthood, and how I was determined to do better this time around, with herandour baby girl.
We had covered a lot of ground in two weeks. Every tattoo, every scar—physicalandemotional—now had a story. Slow wasn’t easy, but it was rewarding. It was teaching me what it meant to show up in ways that had nothing to do with sex or grand gestures. And the more we leaned into that, the more I wanted to find ways to keep proving—to her, to myself—that I was in this for the long haul.
Which was how I ended up sitting at a breakfast table in rural New Hampshire, surrounded by half my damn infield, about to do the unthinkable—ask them for relationship advice.
“Coach.” Soren’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp as always. He gave me a look like he’d been reading my mind for the last ten minutes. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I grunted.
“Oh, you know, that thing where you pretend to listen but you’re actually . . . brooding.” He gestured with his fork. “It’s giving Mr. Darcy.”
Tucker nodded. “Colin Firth or Matthew Macfadyen?”
“Macfadyen,” the entire table echoed without hesitation.
Was that a compliment?Damn, I really need to watch something beyond the Bravo network.
Pink leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. His eyebrows wiggled, and he looked downright giddy. “Oh, shit. Is this about Dani?”
I dragged a hand over my face. Lord help me, I was really doing this. “Fine,” I said, glaring at all three of them in turn. “Yes, it’s about Dani. And yes, I could use some advice.”
Eight heads swiveled toward me in unison. Tucker even set down his fork, leaving room for Brock to snag the last bite of his French toast.
Soren chuckled low, clearly enjoying the show. “Well, damn. I didn’t have that on this season’s bingo card.”
Normally, I’d have shut down their teasing.
I wasn’t in the business of letting my guys poke into my personal life, but the thing was, I was stuck. Dani was special, and if I wanted to keep her, if I wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t going anywhere, I needed some tips. And as much as I hated to admit it, the three knuckleheads closest to me—Soren, Pink, and Tucker—were the only men in my clubhouse who knew what being in a real relationship looked like.
“Cut the shit,” I muttered, though I didn’t push them away. “Things are good—better than good—but I need to show her I’m in this for the long haul and I don’t know where to start.”
“But you’re having a baby together,” Tucker said, as if it were new information.
“I’m well aware.” I spoke through gritted teeth.
They waited, forks poised, expressions expectant.What do I have to lose?
“I’ve told her shit I’ve never told anyone else, not even my ex-wife,” I started, keeping an even tone. “I’ve bought out half the baby stores in Portland because apparently, babies need a fuck ton of stuff. She gets along with my daughter like they’ve known each other forever. We cook together, we do bedtime together, and we even made it through putting a changing table together without wanting to kill each other.”
“Sounds like you’re already halfway down the aisle,” Tucker said, resting his hand over Brock’s.
“Yeah,” Pink added. “Building furniture together is definitely a cornerstone of every healthy relationship.”
Soren smirked, eyes gleaming. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“When was the last time you took her out on a date?”
I swallowed hard. “What?”
