I shook my head, but damn if my chest didn’t ache a little at the sight. These grown men—loud, messy, impossible—had built me a baby shower in the middle of a ballpark.
Scratch that, a dadchelor party.
By the time the first game kicked off, half of the guys were already well beyond buzzed. Roman cheated immediately, unscrewing the top of his baby bottle and pouring it straight down his throat before taking off around the bases. Pink was the next to finish, chasing after him while shouting something about violating the sacred “dadchelor code.”
I laughed so hard, I nearly spit out my beer.
When I slipped into the dugout to catch my breath, still chuckling, Brock was already there, leaning over the fence with a bottle of cider in hand, watching the chaos unfold.
“Your man’s out there committing war crimes,” I said, jerking my chin toward the mess.
Tucker was hauling himself out of the kiddie pool after Diaz had tackled him straight into it, both of them shrieking like kids at summer camp. He still clutched his beer bottle triumphantly, water and foam streaming off him as he climbed out like some kind of half-drunk Poseidon.
Brock snorted. “Yeah, well. I knew what I was signing up for. He doesn’t exactly do things halfway.”
His eyes lit up as he tracked the water sluicing down Tucker’s burly arms and chest.
Yup, my friend was head over heels.
We stood there for a moment, the noise of the guys echoing through the empty stadium, laughter bouncing off steel and concrete.
Finally, Brock said, softer, “The crazy thing is, I used to think my life was already full. Good job, great friends, a steady routine. And then Tucker came barreling in, and suddenly everything felt . . . more. Like someone turned on the lights.”
I felt something pull in my chest because I totally got it. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Before Dani, I’d thought my life was set. Coaching, raising Carolina, keeping my head down—that had been enough. Atleast, that was what I’d told myself. But then she’d crashed into my world, all sharp wit, softer edges, and fucking socks, and suddenly everything looked different. Lighter, brighter. Like I’d been living in black and white and she’d handed me a box of crayons. She made home feel like more than just four walls.
“I didn’t even realize some of the shit I had been carrying around until Dani came along,” I told him. “She just . . . makes me better.”
Brock smiled into his beer, eyes still on the field where Tucker was now flexing like a WWE star. “Guess we’re both lucky bastards.”
“The luckiest,” I agreed, tipping my beer toward him.
We clinked our bottles together, a quiet moment between two men surrounded by pandemonium, bonded by the people who’d cracked our hearts open and let light in.
And love. Because there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I loved Dani Bernal.
Even if I hadn’t told her yet.
Out on the field, the guys were already moving into the next phase of chaos—the diaper changing relay, which looked more like a demolition derby. Pink and Roman, the designated captains of the relay teams, shouted instructions like drill sergeants, pacing the foul line with all the seriousness of a playoff game.
“Tabs first,thenwipe!” Pink barked, pointing at Wes, who looked like he was trying to hogtie the baby doll instead of diaper it.
Roman was no better. “Tuck and fold, fuckers!” he shouted like he’d been studying swaddling tutorials all week.
For all I knew, he might have.
The dolls littered the infield like casualties, diapers dangling, wipes fluttering in the breeze. At least a few of them were already missing limbs, and one had lost its head completely. Tuckermanaged to get his doll into a diaper—backwards, but still. He hoisted it into the air like Simba on Pride Rock, making Bennett double over with a laugh so powerful, his implants might’ve shorted out from the noise.
“Time,” Wes yelled, blowing a whistle he’d stolen from the bullpen.
The guys collapsed in a heap of laughter, no one entirely sure who had won—they were all too drunk to care. I shook my head, biting back a laugh of my own.
“Lord help us all if any of these idiots ever have real children.”
“Coach,” Pink called out, pointing a dripping finger in my direction. “You’re up next. No excuses.”
I shook my head immediately. “I’m good. Somebody’s got to supervise before one of you breaks an ankle.”
