I bit back a smile. The whole thing felt ridiculous and sweet, like one of those sitcom episodes, “The One Where They All Go to the Spa,” where everyone ended up in side-by-side massage chairs, except this was my life now.
And underneath it, I was still humming with the memory of lazy morning sex in Brooks’s bed.
I squirmed in my chair, heat licking through me at the memory. My body still hadn’t recovered from this past month’s nonstop fuck-fest. He’d been starved for me after weeks apart—and to be fair, the feeling had been mutual—and once he’d had me again, he hadn’t let up.
While the rest of my friends were busy cheering on their teammate, my body was remembering the way Brooks had bentme over my desk last week and fucked me so hard the wood had rattled. There was also the afternoon he’d found me stretched out, tanning in his backyard. He hadn’t said a word, just knelt between my legs, tugged my bikini bottoms down, and buried his mouth in my pussy lips. I’d come with the sun blazing down on me, his tongue relentless, my moans echoing off the fence like I hadn’t cared who heard.
And then, there’d been the dugout.
Holy fucking jinkies.
I’d snuck down there after a particularly grueling game, long after the last stadium worker had gone home for the night, straddled him on that long, narrow bench, and ridden him like my own personal hobby horse.
Every thrust of my hips had had the old wood creaking under us, splinters catching on the backs of my thighs, but I hadn’t cared—I’d been too busy milking his cock.
“Fuck, kitten.” He’d groaned, head tipping back against the cinderblock wall, eyes dark and hungry on me. His hands had gripped my ass hard, guiding me up and down. “Look at you, taking my cock like it was made for you.”
“I love it.” I’d gasped, bouncing on his lap, my nails clawing his shoulders. “God, Brooks, I want you to come in me. I want you to fill me up.”
“Greedy little thing,” he’d rasped, teeth scraping along my jaw as he’d thrust up again. “Take it all. I want you to feel me for days.”
And then I was gone, falling apart on his cock, muffling my cries against his shoulder while he spilled inside me, holding me down on him like he’d never let me go. To this day, he was still pulling splinters out of his ass.
When I’d held up that onesie on the jumbotron—pregnant belly front and center, his name stitched across my back—I’d braced for impact. It was part of my job to think that way. Asa social media manager, I’d spent my days perfecting angles, crafting captions, drafting responses before the comments had even begun to roll in. I knew how fast people made up their minds, how quickly an image or a moment could spiral into something bigger than you’d meant it to be. I must have written—and rewritten—every possible headline in my brain at least a dozen times before holding up that onesie.
All of them had gone away the second Brooks had kissed me.
Thankfully, the fans hadn’t judged me for my grand gesture. They’d freaking loved it.
Within hours, the clip of our kiss had gone viral, set to every romantic ballad and pop anthem under the sun. We were a fucking GIF. People churned out fan art of me in his jersey, of Brooks cradling my belly, even one that looked suspiciously like a movie poster. They had even given us a couple hashtag—#CoachKitten—which somehow had managed to stick harder than anything else.
And then there was the fan fiction.Jesus.Some of it was swoony and sweet, painting our story like a fairy tale. But some of it was graphic enough that I’d officially been flagged by the Roasters’ tech team for looking at “pornographic materials” during office hours.
Brooks ate that shit up. When I’d first told him about it, he’d simply laughed, lowered me to my bed, and ordered me to read one of the filthiest ones aloud while he made me come.
Reading was already sexy. Reading erotic fan fiction about me and my baby daddy while he fucked me with his tongue and my favorite vibrator was downright sinful.
And speaking of filthy fanfic—
I glanced down the row at Matty, who was currently trying to pose his glittery nails like they were part of a catalog shoot, eliciting squeals and giggles from Carolina. “You know,” I said,unable to stop the grin spreading across my face, “I found some spicy fan fiction about you the other night.”
Matty’s brows shot up, his drawl thickening with amusement. “About me? How spicy are we talking?”
“The kind of spicy that could make big bucks in Nessa’s bookstore,” I said, savoring the way June immediately leaned in. “Whole novels’ worth, too. Some between you and women . . . a lot between you and men. There’s a particularly sticky situation between you, Mr. Clean, and one of the guys fromSupernatural.”
He whistled. “You’re gonna have to send me that one. Although, I’ve always been more of a Pedro Pascal kind of guy.”
We all went still. The silence was sharp enough to hear the bubble jets fizzing at our feet. Bella looked up from her book, blinking like she was processing the words. June’s mimosa froze halfway to her mouth. Bennett tilted his head, studying Matty like he was seeing a new angle of him for the first time.
And Carolina, wholly unbothered, piped up to say, “Mommy likes him, too. She says so all the time.”
We all cracked up at that, even Bella letting out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” I hedged. “You also dip you toes in both ponds?”
Matty’s mouth twitched, and then, almost shyly, he said, “I guess I dip my toes in whatever pond I want to swim in that day. I like ‘em all.”
I smiled. “Good to know.”
