Later that night, I lay staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above me. The bed felt too big, the silence too sharp. I reached for the other side of the mattress before I could stop myself, my fingers brushing cool fabric where Brooks’s warmth should’ve been.
I hated how much I missed him already. Which was ridiculous because I’d always loved sleeping alone. Probably a byproduct of being an only child—my space wasmyspace, and God help anyone who tried to share it. I used to roll my eyes at people who complained they couldn’t sleep without their partner beside them. Needy, I’d thought. Codependent.
And now here I was, staring at the empty pillow next to me and wishing it were dented by his broad shoulders, his steady breathing filling the room. As it turned out, once I’d had Brooks’s arms wrapped around me, his chest warm against my back, his low murmurs pulling me under, it was impossible to go back to empty sheets.
He left for Miami tomorrow. Normally, I traveled with the team, but this time around, Clarke was running the show while I stayed behind. It was a test run for when I went on parental leave in October. I should’ve been grateful for the break, but instead all it did was make me restless.
No sidelong glances across the dugout, no stolen kisses between stadium tunnels, no cuddling during the bus rides thattypically made me nauseous, but which had become somewhat comforting when I spent them next to Brooks.
This time, it was just me, alone, wishing he were here.
I curled tighter under the covers, pressing my face into the bougie Tempur-Pedic pillow he kept at my place, breathing in what was left of him.
The team would be back in ten days, just in time for the big Father’s Day game. And sure, that wasn’t long, but tonight it stretched out ahead of me, endless and heavy. Lying there in the quiet, watching the fan blades turn, feeling that ache hollow out my chest, I realized something else that made my pulse trip.
I didn’t want to keep us quiet anymore.
The team already knew. All of my friends did, too. Hell, anyone with eyes could probably figure it out pretty easily.
But I wanted more.
I wanted to be public.
To stand next to Brooks, not just behind him. To let the world see that he was mine and I was his, no shame, no hiding.
For the first time, I wasn’t scared of that truth. I was ready to show Brooks that I was all in. The only question that kept me awake, long after the sheets cooled, washow.
Brooks
Roasters 45–32
The roar of the stadium was a living thing, louder than any plane engine, steadier than any heartbeat.
It was Father’s Day at the Roasters’ ballpark, which meant dads and kids running the bases, special jersey giveaways, and sentimental jumbotron content nearly every inning. This year, the noise pressed harder against my ribs than usual. Partly because I was only a few months out from becoming a dad again, and also because I’d been running on nothing but falafel, hotel sheets, and late-night calls with Dani for the past week.
“Make it count, Matty!” Soren hollered from the bench, voice cracking over the noise.
Wes leaned over the rail, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Drive it deep!”
“That’s what she said,” Tucker added, earning him a gentle smack from the men on either side of him.
We were down by one in the sixth, which meant there was still a lot of game left to play. Matty adjusted his gloves at the plateand relaxed his grip, just the way he’d been coached. I caught his eye and touched my hand to my cap before giving the sign to take the first pitch. Their starter had been pounding the zone early all afternoon, and if he missed his spot now, Matty would be ready. He wasn’t a heavy hitter, but he was a patient one.
I watched the pitcher wind up, my pulse ticking in rhythm with the ballgame, with the weight of a thousand small decisions that made the difference between winning and watching it slip away.
And we needed a win after a four-game losing streak.
Miami had been good to us, but our luck had dried up in Charleston with a three-game shutout. The guys were glad to be home, and frankly, I couldn’t blame them—the humidity had nearly killed me, too. Ten days on the road had dragged like ten years, and by the time our plane had touched down last night, it had been well past midnight.
I’d walked through my front door and had dragged my ass straight to bed, when what I’d really wanted was to kick Dani’s door open, throw her down, and eat her pussy until she was shaking apart under me.
Again.
The truth was, I’d jerked off more times than I cared to count, chasing the memory of Dani shattering on my tongue. Every night in some faceless hotel room, I’d fist my cock and picture her—head tipped back, body trembling, hands clawing at the shower tiles while I ate her pussy until she begged for mercy. I had stroked myself fucking raw replaying the way she’d come apart for me in her shower, every gasp and shudder burned into me so deep I couldn’t get free of it.
The sharp crack of a bat snapped me back to reality, and the crowd came to life as the ball soared over the infield. I tracked it automatically, eyes on the arc, already calculating before the left fielder even broke into a sprint.
Routine fly. Out number three.
