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The resounding rumor in the Hawkins Little League baseball program—more specifically, among the women who occupy the third row of bleachers at Elm Street Ballpark every Tuesday and Thursday—is that Coach Steve Harrington is single.
Very single.
“There’s just no way,” Sharon McIntyre sighs for the third time this inning. She squints toward the field, shading her eyes with one hand like she might be able to spot a wedding ring from home plate. “I mean, look at him. Nobody looks like that coaching a little league team.”
“I’m telling you, Shar,” Kelly Dunlop chimes in, iced coffee rattling in her hand. “My sister works mornings at the diner. She says he comes in all the time. Always alone. No ring, no girlfriend, nothing. If he had someone, she’d know.”
Across the field, practice is in full swing. Kids swarm the infield, shouting over one another, cleats kicking up clouds of dust. A bright, metallic clang rings through the air, signaling a clean hit. The whole team erupts into cheers as little Johnny Peters takes off for first, freckles flashing beneath his helmet.
You smile, eyes following the chaos fondly.
“God,” Sharon mutters, gaze fixed entirely elsewhere, “I know he’s young, but does he really have to look like that?”
“How old is he, anyway? Twenty?” another mom asks.
“Twenty-two,” Sharon corrects promptly. “I asked.”
Kelly snorts. “Of course you did.”
“Huh. And he’s not seeing anyone?”
“Apparently not.”
You take a slow sip of your coffee, keeping your expression neutral. You’ve gotten very good at that lately.
“It’s the whole authority thing, right?” Kelly says after a pause. “Give a guy a whistle and suddenly—"
“—suddenly he’s attractive,” another mom finishes.
“Well,” Sharon adds, “I think it’s a little more than the whistle.”
A soft ripple of laughter moves down the row.
Just then, the sharp blast of a whistle cuts through the air.
The effect is instantaneous.
It’s like Pavlovian conditioning, the sudden hush that settles over the stands. Conversations drop off mid-sentence. Heads lift in near-perfect unison. Like suburban meerkats sensing a storm, all eyes snap toward the field.
Every mom here knows exactly what that whistle means.
Coach Steve Harrington steps out from the dugout, lips still wrapped around the whistle, hands signaling a time-out as he jogs toward the pitcher’s mound. His cap is pulled low, shades perched on the bridge of his nose. The top two buttons of his Dodger-blue jersey are undone—as usual—revealing tanned collarbones and just the faintest tuft of chest hair.
He calls out a few pointers to the team, then leans over the plate to demonstrate a perfect, controlled swing.
The pivoting motion tugs his shirt upward, flashing a patch of sun-warmed skin at his stomach. It also strains the fabric of his pants, those khakis clinging to his ass in a way that’s a little snug for a public park.
A very un-subtle sigh rolls through the bleachers.
“Jesus,” Sharon mutters. “I mean, that’s just unnecessary.”
“He’s gotta know, right? There’s no way he doesn’t.”
“That shirt’s always like that. Never fully buttoned.”
A chorus of murmured agreement follows.
You press your lips together, managing to school your expression just as you hear a pair of little cleats pounding toward you.
“Mom! Mom!”
Toby skids to a stop in front of you, panting with effort, helmet crooked, knees grass-stained. He wedges himself between your legs and you reach up instinctively, straightening his helmet before it tips again.
“Mom, did ya see me? Did ya see that throw?”
“‘Course I did, honey! You were amazing!”
His grin goes blinding. “Coach Steve said I got way better this week. He said I’m really fast. Like, like, maybe fast enough to be a pro!”
“Yeah?” you smile, brushing a smear of dirt from his cheek. “You’ve been working so hard. I’m so proud of you.”
Toby nods so vigorously his helmet nearly slips again. He takes a quick gulp from the water bottle you hand him, then darts back to the dugout.
Across the field, Steve is crouched near home plate, murmuring low encouragements as he adjusts another kid’s grip on the bat.
After a moment, he straightens.
Flicks his cap off, rolls his shoulders, then lets his eyes roam over the bleachers.
When he finds what he’s looking for, he flashes a quick, casual smile.
From this distance, it’s broad enough to be meant for no one in particular.
And yet.
You look away immediately, pretending to study the condensation sliding down your coffee cup.
“Oh my god,” Kelly whispers beside you. “I think he looked over here. Sharon, was that at you?”
Sharon scoffs, though the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Please. He smiles at everyone.”
“Mm, not like that.”
You keep your gaze fixed firmly on the cup.
⚾︎
“Alright, Cubs! Awesome job today! Make sure to grab all your stuff. I’ll see you back here Tuesday, yeah?”
A chorus of okay, Coach! and bye, Coach Steve! follows.
The bleachers wake up all at once. Moms rise in unison, purses scraping against aluminum, lipstick caps popping open for quick, totally casual touch-ups meant for no one in particular. Kids spill off the field in excited clumps, chatter overlapping as they relive every hit, every near-catch. Toby’s voice cuts through it all, loud and proud as he recounts a grounder he almost snagged.
You’re stuffing a water bottle into your tote when a voice behind you makes you freeze.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
You turn.
Steve stands there, casual as ever, bat slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His jersey’s still hanging half-open, collar darkened with sweat.
“Hi.”
You purse your lips, stifling a smile. “Hi.”
He stares for a beat too long before he shakes himself, clearing his throat.
“Uh—I just wanted to say Toby did really great today. Kid’s a natural. Solid throw, great hustle. And..." his eyes flick briefly toward the chaos of children behind him, voice dropping a notch, “...he actually listens.”
You laugh softly. “That last part’s news to me.”
Steve grins. Takes a step closer.
His voice slides into a familiar cadence you’ve come to recognize, warm and teasing. “So... I heard you might be on snack duty next week.”
You raise a brow. “You did, huh?”
“Yep. And, you know, I run a pretty serious operation here. Snack’s are a very important part of team morale. So I thought maybe we should… discuss our options.”
You can’t hide the smile this time. “Oh? And what exactly were you thinking, Coach?”
“Well…” he leans closer, eyes glinting. “We might need to talk details. You know… what kind of chips to get, how many… make sure everything’s perfect.”
“Mm,” you nod solemnly. “Sounds important. Why don’t I—”
“Mom! Mom!”
Toby barrels toward you, juice box clenched in his hand like a trophy, still buzzing with post-practice adrenaline.
“Mom, can I sleep over at Jackson’s tonight?”
You blink. “Tonight?”
“Yeah! He’s got the new Super Mario game! And, and, he said we can have pizza while we play!”
You glance up to see Jackson’s mom waving from a few yards away, already herding kids toward her van.
“You sure, baby? I made that lasagna you like.”
“Nooo, Mom, please? Everyone’s going.”
You give in with a smile, smoothing his hair back. “Okay. You want me to bring your stuff over?”
“Nope, he’s got extras!”
“Alright. Be good at Mrs. Miller’s, okay? And say thank you.”
“I will!” He vibrates in place just long enough for you to bend down and kiss his cheek.
“Okay, bye Mom! Love you! Bye, Coach Steve! See you next week!”
“Bye, buddy,” Steve waves. “Great job today. Let me know how that game goes, yeah?”
Toby nods furiously before sprinting off.
When you turn back, Steve’s grinning at you.
Hand shoved in his pocket, rocking lightly on his heels.
He's more boyish than ever, looks downright fucking pleased.
“Well,” he starts, tilting his head, “I don’t know about Toby, but…”
He shrugs, eyes flicking to you with warmth and something unmistakably like intent.
“I could definitely go for some lasagna.”
⚾︎
“You know all the—mmph—the moms are... t-talking about you, right?”
Even with your face shoved into the pillow, words muffled, jaw slack and drooling, you know exactly the kind of shit-eating grin that’s hovering behind you.
“Yeah?” His voice comes perfectly level, lazy with a familiar taunt. Like he’s not ramming you within an inch of your life. “What’re they saying?”
“Mm, Shar... Sharon thinks you’re—fuck, Steve!”
There’s no warning, just the sudden crush of his weight shoving you flat onto the mattress, pinning your stomach against the sheets. His hips snap forward, driving all the way to the hilt in one, long thrust, your body jolting up the bed from the sheer force of it.
You let out a strangled yelp, hands flailing back instinctively, scrabbling at his arms, his hips. You squirm desperately for leverage, clawing at the Dodger-blue fabric bunched around his waist, but he pins you easily, weight sinking down like an anchor. A thick forearm comes around to hook under your chin, wrapping around your neck to hold you there.
“She thinks I’m what?” he breathes, lips pressed to your temple.
“She... she...”
He allows you a moment of merciful reprieve, thrusts slowing to a teasing grind, hips rolling in deep, languid circles against your ass.
“Into her,” you manage. “S-she thinks you’re into her.”
“Huh,” he pants, thoughtful. “Mrs. McIntyre?”
You nod weakly as he adjusts his grip around your neck, pressing up until you can feel your own pulse thundering along the column of your throat.
Then, before you can find your next breath, the weight over you lifts, the pressure around your neck releasing. You suck in a long, trembling gulp of air—the first real one in what feels like forever—just as you feel a pair of hands wrap around your hips, flipping you swiftly onto your back.
You hit the pillows with a startled gasp, chest heaving, legs splaying open instinctively.
Your cunt glistens between your thighs, weeping a slow, sticky trail into the sheets. It’s twitching uselessly, clenching around open air as if it could pull him closer.
From between your knees, your man watches.
The late-afternoon sun cuts through the room in slanted gold, draping his body in warmth and shadow. You take him in helplessly, all the familiar lines of him—the sloped planes of his shoulders, thick biceps and a toned chest that melts into the soft curve of his stomach. The pale-white scars that shimmer along his sides, stark and beautiful against flushed skin.
He’s naked except for that blue jersey. Hanging open at the front, hem brushing over his hips. The last two buttons are gone, thanks to your handiwork.
It’s a miracle his shirt’s stayed intact at all, what with the way you were climbing over each other the moment the door slammed shut.
Savage, open-mouthed kisses giving way to ragged gasps as you staggered through your living room, tripping over the ottoman, narrowly avoiding a vase as you dragged each other toward the bed. His dirt-stained khakis discarded mid-stride, he barely managed to tear your clothes off before hauling you onto the mattress.
Predatory.
It’s the only word to describe the way he’s looking at you now, honey-brown eyes darkened with intent, burning hotter than the molten orange sunset bleeding through the curtains behind him.
He takes his sweet time.
Holds your gaze, unblinking, as he shrugs the jersey the rest of the way off, letting it drop away. He raises a hand up to his chest, palm flat, and drags it slow across his skin. Slides it over his ribs, his stomach, the trail of coarse hair running below his navel, reaching down, down, down, until his fingers brush against the sticky patch of curls at his base.
A pleased, knowing smile spreads across his face as he drinks in your reaction.
“Mrs. McIntyre, huh? I had no idea.”
And even this fucked up—dazed and boneless from the way he’s been drilling his cock inside you for the better part of an hour, buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach—a tiny part of you can’t resist pushing back.
Just enough to test him, to see how far he’ll let you go.
“Don’t act like you’re surprised…” you murmur, words slurring. “You were smiling at her today.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then a low, incredulous laugh.
“At her?”
The hand on his stomach moves lower, thumb and four fingers splayed to form a wide ‘V’ as he cradles the imposing monument he calls a cock. The head of it’s all swollen, leaking, skin flushed from friction and glossed all over with your arousal.
“Huh,” he intones mildly, gaze flicking down between your legs, tongue gliding slow across his bottom lip. “Did I make my girl jealous?”
You scoff, pushing weakly against his shoulders as he makes his way back down, boxing you in between his elbows. “You wish, Harrington.”
He laughs under his breath, soft and playful, before he slams his lips against yours in a filthy kiss, tongues clashing until you’re left panting for breath.
Pulls back with a wet smack, eyes hooded, blazing with amusement.
“Sorry, honey,” he breathes, head tipped in mock sympathy. “Had no idea.”
You roll your eyes, instantly betrayed by the tremor in your voice. “I don’t care.”
“Mm,” he smiles, dipping his head to nuzzle your cheek, mouthing along your jaw while he reaches a hand down without looking. “I think you do.”
His cock drags against your inner thigh as he positions himself against your opening.
“And I think,” he adds softly, “you mean Coach Harrington.”
You laugh despite yourself, breathless, feeling him bury a smile of his own against your neck.
“Nice try... ‘m not calling you that in bed.”
“Worth a shot.”
“Uh-huh.”
Your amusement quickly dies on a moan when he nudges the head of his cock against your swollen clit, dragging it down in a slow, wet schlick to your entrance. The pressure makes you clench, whining when he rubs insistently against your folds without pushing in.
“Steve—"
“Shh, I know, baby,” He smooth a warm palm up the inside of your thigh, pushing it back, spreading you wider. “I got you.”
In and in and in, he bottoms out in one stroke, stretching you endlessly until his pelvis is flush against yours. You take him well—pussy warm and slick from earlier rounds—but the weight of him, the sheer girth pressing into you, draws a low whimper from your throat.
“Yeah?” he breathes. “Is that good?
His lips trail soft, lingering kisses across your neck, one hand coming up to smooth your hair back, cradling the top of your head to shield it from bumping against the headboard.
It all runs so counter to the way he’s thrusting—slamming inside in quick, deep thrusts, hitting your g-spot with such merciless accuracy that your eyes prick with tears.
“God,” he huffs, brow furrowed in pleasure, jaw going slack as he starts hitting that rhythm proper, “You have any idea how hard it was to behave today? Couldn’t stop fucking staring at you. Couldn’t... couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
His eyes roam greedily over the fresh trail of bruises he’s already mapped across your body: deep wine-reds that bloom just underneath the skin, running down your neck, your collarbone, the soft underside of your tits.
“You were looking at me too, huh?” he murmurs, already knowing.
Head lolling back against the pillow, you can only nod, too dizzy and breathless to do more.
“Yeah, baby, I know you were,” he coos, dropping his forehead to yours, lips brushing in a slow, teasing ghost of a kiss. “Sitting up there… looking so pretty. Bet you were making a mess out of the bleachers, huh? Getting yourself all wet.”
You groan, arching against him. “Steve—”
“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with need. “Tell me how good this feels. Tell me how much you need this cock.”
“I—fuck—I need it. I’s so good. Feels... feels so good.”
He lets out a guttural groan, pressing down harder, pulling you closer.
“Drives me… drives me fucking insane, you know that? Acting all polite out there, ‘Yes, ma’am…’ ‘Oh, he did just great today...’ When all I want—” He draws his hips back, slamming back inside to punctuate his next words “—is this.”
“Fuck, Steve—!”
The pleasure is blinding, a violent flash-bang to the senses that knocks the breath straight out of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping onto his shoulders for dear life as you tip into your third orgasm of the day. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise, hips pistoning so hard it makes the mattress squeak, the headboard rattle.
And even as the high fades, he doesn’t relent. Light, shallow thrusts that leave you whining, twitching, your clit jolting each time he brushes against your tender g-spot.
“Mm…” you squirm, legs trembling against your will. “Steve...”
“Hm?”
“Can’t... ‘s too... too sensitive...”
“Just one more, baby.” He pants, lifting himself up on his hands. The playful edge in his eyes replaced by a look that’s all earnest now, all intent. “Want you to come one more time for me.”
You groan weakly, shaking your head. “I can’t.”
“You can,” he leans in close, nudging his nose against yours, pressing a soft peck to the tip. “Just one more. One more, baby. For me?”
Your response breaks into a loud groan when his hand slides down to your clit, middle and ring finger pressing slow, firm circles across the sensitive nub, making your cunt spasm around him with each pass.
“Come on, honey,” he whispers, voice soft but insistent, almost petulant in its coaxing. “I never get to take my time with you. Never get to have you like this.”
And even in this state, you can’t stop the wet, fucked-out laugh that escapes you. “You... you had me like this two days ago.”
The memory hits in a dizzying haze. He’d invited you over to his place before practice on Tuesday. Fed you a surprisingly excellent omelet first, then wasted no time bending you over the counter, and then the couch, and eventually his bed—both of you panting and laughing by the end of it, scrambling to get dressed once you realized how much time had passed.
“But we were still rushing then,” he counters, and you can’t muster the energy to argue that three and a half rounds don't exactly count as ‘rushing,’ but maybe for Steve Harrington they do.
“Please, baby,” he murmurs, still thrusting gently. “We’ve got all night today. Wanna see how many times I can make you come.”
“Fuck...” you sigh, head tipping back as another shudder rolls through you. You were convinced you’d come up against a wall, but the moment he angles his thrusts upward, fingers continuing their precise, coaxing swipes over your clit, the smoldering tension in your stomach catches kindling.
The high starts climbing back, somehow, sharper and brighter than ever.
“God, you’re so pretty... so fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, driving in a little harder. “Can’t believe you think I’d look at anyone else when I’ve got you.”
You whine weakly at his words, at the way his voice dips on the words I’ve got you, unmistakably possessive yet so bruisingly tender.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he mumbles against your lips. “No one gives it to you like this, hm?”
Your response is a trembling, breathless gasp, mouth brushing against his on every thrust, pressed so close it’s impossible to tell when you’re not kissing.
“Yeah? Say it, then. Tell me.”
“Yours, yours, ’m yours... fuck, don’t stop... mmph—"
Long, slow, filthy passes of his tongue as he pries your lips open, gliding into your mouth; he craves this point of connection, always. Every sound you make is swallowed eagerly, turned into something shared.
He breaks easiest when you’re this close, when the air between you disappears and his control gives way to raw, aching need. Instinct pulling him toward a singular desire to stay close, to share breath and spit and praise while he takes you.
“Oh... oh my god—Steve, I’m—"
“Yeah, that’s it, honey. Let go, I’ve got you.”
It almost hurts, this time around.
The slow, exquisite, endless pull of pleasure, cruel hands of a thousand little deaths come to strangle you off. Every nerve in your body feels raw and frayed, tears leaking freely when you shut your eyes tight. You bury your face into his shoulder, nails pressing hard enough to break skin, clinging desperately to his words for some fragment of relief.
“Good girl... ah, shit, s-squeezing me so tight. That’s it. Keep coming, baby. There you go.”
Your cunt spasms uncontrollably around him—long, drawn-out pulses that keep him from pulling back out. He ruts the last few inches inside before spilling deep, groaning against your neck.
“Fuck, yes, just like that. God, baby....”
He always stays inside you afterward, for as long as he can. Kissing, kissing, always kissing, like he just can’t help himself, lips roaming over any patch of skin he can reach. When he finally draws his hips back, he does so carefully, softening the distance with more kisses when you whine at the loss of him.
“C’mere,” he pants, breath still ragged as he rolls onto his side, tugging you in until you fit flush against him. “I’ve got you.”
Warm, gentle strokes against the curve of your back as you level out together, syncing your breaths. The window’s cracked just enough to let the evening air roll in, cooling against heated, buzzing skin.
“You okay?” he murmurs after a while.
You hum in response, nodding once as you tuck your nose closer to his chest, breathing him in. Citrus cologne. Sweat. Steve.
“Wow,” he exhales, half a laugh caught in his throat. “What was that, three times?”
“Four,” you mumble, words muffled against his skin.
“Oh my god,” he laughs fully now, warm and boyish, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dips his head to press a quick kiss to your temple. “We’ll do five next time. Promise.”
You groan softly and shove at his shoulder, rolling away to hide your face in the pillow.
You hear him chuckle behind you as he slides off the bed. The soft pad of bare feet follows, sliding across hardwood, then the click of the bathroom light. Water trickles quietly from the sink.
You’re still catching your breath when the mattress dips again.
His fingers brush the backs of your legs, gently coaxing you to turn onto your back. You do, cheeks burning as he carefully swipes the warm, damp towel between your thighs, focused and attentive.
It’s something he’s done countless times before.
And still, it’s the part that always makes your chest tighten.
You push yourself upright once he’s done, settling against the headboard. He tucks the sheets around your waist, smoothing the fabric over your hips before reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand.
Brings it to your lips.
“Steve,” you laugh softly, still flushed, “I don’t need you to hold it.”
“Ssh,” he murmurs, lips quirking. “Small sips.”
You narrow your eyes at him but drink anyway, hands folded uselessly in your lap while he keeps the glass steady. When you’re done, he takes a long drink himself before setting it aside.
He turns back, catches you staring.
“What?”
You shake your head, smile faint. “Nothing.”
He studies you for a beat longer, searching your face, but doesn’t push. Instead, he stretches with a low groan, shoulders rolling until something pops.
“God,” he mutters. “You hungry?”
“Sure. I could eat.”
“You said there’s lasagna, right?”
“Uh-huh.” You start to scoot toward the edge of the bed, but his hand lands firmly on your arm.
“Woah, hey. Where are you going?”
“To... get the lasagna?”
He shakes his head, already moving away. “Nope. Just tell me where it is.”
“Steve, it’s fine, I can—”
“Not happening.” He nudges you back against the pillows, then tucks another one behind your back for good measure. “I got it.”
You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already pulling his boxers on.
“Is it in the oven?” he calls over his shoulder.
“...Yeah.”
“'Kay. Be right back.” He leans in for a quick kiss, lifting a finger at you as he backs toward the door. “Don’t move, alright?”
You purse your lips, watching him go.
He’s back not ten minutes later, balancing two plates in his hands. Steam curls from the lasagna, edges crisp and bubbling.
“You gonna feed it to me too?” you ask dryly as he settles beside you.
He doesn’t even blink. Just picks up a fork and starts cutting into one of the slices.
“Jesus, Steve,” you laugh, grabbing the plate from him. “I was kidding.”
He hands it over with a grin, watching you take the first bite before digging into his own.
“Oh, hey,” he asks after a while, swallowing around a mouthful. “Did Toby like the new glove? Didn’t see him with it today.”
“Yeah,” you nod. “He loves it. I think he’s saving it for when the old one gives out.” You hesitate before adding, quieter, “Thank you, by the way. You really didn’t have to do that.”
Steve pauses mid-bite, fork hovering for half a second before he lowers it, lips pressing together.
“Yeah,” he nods softly. “Of course.”
You glance down at your plate, tracing a smear of sauce with the tip of your fork. “You know… if he knew it was from you, he’d probably never use it. He’d want to put it on a shelf or frame it or something.”
He snorts quietly. “Guess it’ll be our secret then.”
“Hm,” you nod, the sound coming out thin.
You don’t eat much after that. Staring at nothing, just pushing the food around, lost in thoughts much heavier than hunger.
Steve notices.
He looks up from his plate, cheeks full, a smudge of tomato sauce at the corner of his mouth. He chews slowly, studying you over the rim of his fork.
“Hey,” he says once he swallows. “You okay?”
You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
He watches you for another beat, then sets his plate aside and slides closer. His hand settles on your knee, rubbing small circles.
“Did I, uh…” He glances down, then back up, eyes sheepish. “Wear you out too much?”
You nudge his ankle with your foot, managing a small smile despite the ache blooming in your chest. “No. It’s not that.”
“Okay,” he says softly, not quite smiling back. “Then what is it?”
“It’s... it’s nothing. Stupid.”
“Baby,” he reaches for your hand before you can pull away, fingers threading through yours. He shuffles closer until your knees press together. “Talk to me.”
You close your eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath, then another. Your chest tightens on the exhale.
“Is... is this about…?” His voice trails off, gentle, circling the truth carefully.
You sigh and turn your head, but he follows, refusing to let the space grow.
“’Cause if it is,” he rushes on, urgency bleeding into his tone, “I’m ready. Whenever you are. I mean it. I want to—”
“Steve, stop,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You can’t.”
He freezes, lips parting like he wants to argue. The light in his face shifts: eyes drooping, brows pulling together. So young, stripped of his usual bravado, it hurts to him look at him like this.
“Why... why not?”
“Because I can’t ask you to do that.”
He shakes his head, grip tightening as he pulls your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart.
“Ask me to do what? Be part of your life? Be around your kid?” He shifts closer, trying to catch your eyes. “I… I wouldn’t—look, I care about Toby. I really do. And I care about you. I lov—”
His voice falters. He swallows hard, throat working around the word.
“I love you.”
You stare at a spot on the sheets, blinking hard, vision going blurry at the edges.
“Baby,” he murmurs, thumb sliding gently under your chin. “Look at me. Please.”
You do. Lashes heavy, eyes shining despite your efforts. He smiles at you then, soft and steady, certainty radiating in a way that makes your chest ache.
“I love you,” he repeats. “I want… I want to be with you. Wake up next to you, go to sleep next to you. Take you places.” He lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, that old caravan I bought is a total mess, but... I thought we could fix it up together. Travel a little. Go see the country.”
His smile softens, expression sobering a bit. “And I want to be there for Toby. I know what it’s like to have a shitty dad. I would never do that to him. Ever.”
You make a small, broken sound and turn away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb keeps tracing the same soothing path over your knuckles.
“And I’m not saying we should get married or—or move in or anything. Just… maybe a couple nights a week? I could come over, help with homework, hang out with him, just be there however you need m—”
You surge forward, pressing your lips to his in a desperate, trembling kiss. He freezes for a heartbeat, then melts into it, arms winding around your waist and lifting you onto his lap with careful, fluid strength.
You cling to each other, kissing in a messy, gasping rhythm, until the salt of your own tears brushes against his lips.
“Hey,” he whispers, pulling back, gently drawing your face into his chest. “It’s okay, it's okay."
You let yourself fold into him, cheek pressed against his bare skin.
"We’ll figure it out. We'll be okay, I promise."
You melt against him, surrendering to his warmth, letting the steady, gentle strokes of his hand calm the storm of thoughts in your head.
Eventually, a small, wet laugh slips out.
“Toby’s gonna lose his mind.”
Steve pulls back a little, meeting your eyes. “You think he’d be weirded out by it?”
You shake your head, a smile breaking through. “No, he’d love it. He already worships you. And then you two would just… gang up on me every day.”
Steve laughs, thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, soft and intent as he lingers over the lines of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling. “I’m pretty sure I’ll always be on his mom’s side.”
epilogue
Toby sits at the very end of the dugout bench, where no one else is sitting.
He’s six and a half years old, not a baby anymore, but his legs still don’t touch the ground when he sits. They just kick the air, swinging back and forth, back and forth, cleats cutting little half-circles in the air. He scoots down an inch so the tips of them can scrape the dirt, and he finds a small pebble near the bench post. He nudges it with his toe, then nudges it back, careful not to kick it too far.
Everyone else is out on the field.
There’s the loud crack of a bat, and all the kids start shouting at once: “Mine!” “Run!” “Heads up!” The ball pops straight up into the air, and bonks Nathan Foster on the head when he tries to catch it. Everyone laughs. Even Nathan laughs, rubbing the back of his head like it didn’t hurt, even though it probably did.
Coach Steve says that kind of thing is okay. Messing up is how you learn.
Coach Steve knows a lot of things.
He knows how to line your fingers up on the bat, and how to breathe out when you throw so the ball goes straighter. He says baseball is supposed to be fun, even when you strike out, even when you’re not the best player on the field.
But Toby isn’t having fun.
He keeps his glove in his lap, hugging it tight with both arms like it might slide off if he lets go. It’s new. It's the one Coach Steve bought for him, even though his mom said his old one still worked fine. This one is stiff and smooth and smells good—like a store, or like the inside of Coach Steve’s car. Toby presses his fingers into the leather and traces the thick stitches with his thumb, over and over.
It helps a little.
There’s a worry sitting in his chest. Heavy and squishy, like when you step in mud and it won't let go of your foot right away.
He hasn’t told anyone about it. Not Miss Collins from art class. Not his mom. He didn’t even whisper it to his glove, even though sometimes he tells the glove things—like how fast pitchers make him freeze, or how scared he was on his first day of school.
Today, the worry stays stuck inside, pressing down.
A part of Toby thinks maybe he shouldn’t be worried at all.
Coach Steve said that everything would stay the same. Normal. And most of the things Coach Steve says turn out to be true. So maybe this will be too.
But Jeremy Miller said something different.
Jeremy knows stuff. His dad’s a doctor, and doctors are smart. They do important things.
Toby kicks the pebble a little harder than he means to. It skitters across the dirt floor and disappears under the bat rack with a soft clack.
“Hey, buddy.”
Toby looks up.
Coach Steve is standing at the opening of the dugout, blocking out part of the sun. His whistle hangs from his neck like always, bumping softly against his chest when he steps closer.
“You hiding from me?” he asks, grinning. “’Cause if you are, this is kind of a bad spot.”
Toby shrugs and drags the toe of his cleat through the dirt, making a crooked line. He sort of misses the pebble he kicked away. “I’m not hiding.”
Coach Steve comes in and sits down beside him, the bench creaking under his weight. His knee bounces once, then goes still.
“So,” he says, leaning his elbows on his thighs, looking out at the field. “I was kinda thinkin’ today might be the day you show off that rocket arm.”
The heavy feeling in Toby’s chest squishes tighter.
The words fall out before he can stop them.
“Are you and Mom gonna get married?”
Coach Steve freezes.
Just for a second, but Toby notices. His grin fades, and he blinks like he forgot what he was about to say. His hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck.
“Uh…” he clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, we are, buddy.”
Toby nods. He already knew that. Mom had told him. Coach Steve had told him. Grandma cried a little on the phone when they both told her together. Still, hearing it out loud again makes his stomach feel all twisty.
“Is that…” Coach Steve says, then stops. He presses his lips together. “Is that still okay with you?”
Toby sighs and draws another line in the dirt next to the first one, pressing hard so they match.
“I guess.”
Coach Steve moves a little closer, his arm brushing Toby’s. He rests a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, thumb rubbing slow circles like he does when Toby’s nervous before a game.
“Hey, if you’re feeling weird about me and your mom, that’s okay to say.”
Toby swallows. His throat feels tight, like when he’s about to cry but doesn’t want to.
“No, it’s just—” He stops, frowning. “I just want you to be my coach, still.”
Coach Steve turns his head sideways, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I still be your coach?”
Toby’s shoulders curl in. “’Cause Jeremy said that if you’re family, sometimes you can’t do stuff for each other.”
“Jeremy Miller?”
Toby nods. “Yeah. His dad’s a doctor. Jeremy had to have surgery ’cause his ap-pen-di-sigh-tis was broken, and his dad couldn’t do it. They didn’t let him.”
Coach Steve lets out a slow breath through his nose. “Oh.”
Toby grips his glove tighter. “So, if you’re my family… you can’t be my coach anymore, right?”
Coach Steve’s face goes a little funny. His eyebrows pull together, and his mouth does this wobbly thing, like he’s trying to smile and can’t figure out how. He reaches out and gently pushes Toby’s hair back, his thumb brushing across his forehead.
“Toby,” he says softly, “that’s not how that works.”
Toby frowns. “But Jeremy said so.”
“I know, bud. And sometimes grown-up rules are really confusing.” He lets out a small huff of a laugh. “Doctors have rules like that. Coaching’s a little different.”
He waits until Toby’s looking at him.
“I’m always gonna be your coach, Toby.”
Toby wants to believe him. He really does.
“…You promise?” he whispers.
Coach Steve’s face scrunches up more, eyes shiny like maybe some dust blew in from the field. “Yeah, buddy. I promise.”
Toby sticks out his pinky. He doesn’t do that at school anymore, because he’s a big first-grader now, but he still knows it’s the strongest kind of promise there is.
Coach Steve smiles, hooking his pinky around Toby’s, giving it a firm shake.
Satisfied, Toby launches forward. It’s all of him at once, knocking the air right out of Coach Steve.
“Oof, okay—” Coach Steve laughs, arms coming up to catch him. He pats Toby’s back, holding him closer as he rocks him side to side.
Toby squeezes back just as tight. The heavy feeling in his chest lifts, like taking off his backpack full of books at the end of the day.
He pulls back, smiling now, and says the thing he's been scared to say since the day he talked to Jeremy.
“Love you, Dad.”
Coach Steve goes very still. Then he clears his throat and quickly blinks up at the sky, like he definitely got some dirt in his eyes that time.
When he looks back at Toby, that funny, wobbling smile is back.
“I love you too, buddy.”
Toby grabs his glove and hops off the bench. His feet hit the ground, solid and steady.
Coach Steve stands too, quickly scrubbing the dirt from his eyes before turning back to him.
“So. You wanna go show your mom that throw we’ve been practicing?”
Toby smiles, then breaks into a run.