The Dugout(71)

“I mean . . .” I bite my lip and then gush. “It’s incredible. Do you know the kind of draft class you guys have this year? We’re talking first-round picks for everyone. Scouts have been saying this is by far the most talented and impressive draft class they’ve seen in years.”

Chuckling, he wraps his arms around me and says, “You’re such a baseball nerd, and I fucking love it.”

He leans down to kiss me when his door opens wide and Jason stands in the doorway, an apron draped over his large shoulders and a wooden spoon in the other hand. “Dude, the potato salad is ready. No sexuals before you eat.”

“Don’t fucking say sexuals,” Carson responds before moving us back into the living room.

The gawking men have dispersed, as they’re all grabbing plates of food around the kitchen island and I have to admit, I’m impressed.

For some reason, when Carson said they were grilling out, I expected a bunch of burgers stacked on a plate and some potato salad in a tub, but they have proven me wrong. To the right of the kitchen is a burger bar, full of fixings like bacon, lettuce, tomato, onion rings, and every condiment you could think of with a variety of buns as well. On the island, there is a large bowl of potato salad, fruit salad, four different kinds of chips, a pickle platter—what—and a giant bowl of . . .

“Is that a vat of M&M’s?”

Carson presses a kiss to my head and says, “That was my contribution. Mostly caramel, but I threw in some other flavors for the guys.”

“You’re too cute. And what’s with the pickle platter?” There are at least ten jars of pickles sorted and fanned out on a giant platter, the prettiest thing on the island for sure—my apologies to Jason’s potato salad.

He rolls his eyes and grabs plates for us. “Pickles are a serious thing on the team. There’s an ongoing argument about what kind of pickle is best. We are usually a cohesive unit but when it comes to pickles, we’re divided. I’m a sweet pickle kind of guy, but then you have the dills, the bread and butters, and the Polish kosher. So instead of fighting, we always make a giant platter so everyone is happy. Freshman are always in charge of the pickles and there must be equal representation of every kind.”

I can’t help it, I laugh out loud. “I think that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Trust me, I agree, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more passionate fight on the team than when we start talking about pickles. It’s best you just take a sweet pickle and be done with it.”

“A sweet pickle? Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s my favorite,” he says, picking one up and putting it on my plate.

“But I don’t like sweet pickles.”

The room falls silent and Carson squeezes his eyes shut before mumbling something under his breath.

Out of nowhere, Romeo pokes his head around us and says, “Did I just hear that right, Stone? Your girl doesn’t like sweet pickles?”

Jason pops up from across the island. Was he lying on the floor? Where the hell did he come from?

“Did you hear that, boys?” he shouts. “Milly doesn’t like sweet pickles.”

From the corner of his mouth, Carson asks, “What have you done?”

I just opened a can of worms for Carson and even though I try hard, I can’t tamp down the smile that crosses my face.

Gunner hops up on the counter and holds a large serving spoon and quiets down the ruckus that was created from Jason and Romeo. “Boys, listen up. We have a new pickle opinion, and looks like there’s trouble in paradise because it doesn’t match the betrothed.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Carson says, dragging his hand down his face.

I snort, very unattractively but oh my God, I think Carson is in for a world of teasing pain.

Jason and Romeo hop up on the counter with Gunner and they loop their arms over each other’s shoulders, a band of brothers, who I’m going to assume all like the same kind of pickle.

“Milly, coach of THE Carson Stone, the only lover of sweet pickles in the loft, please step up on a chair,” Gunner says, motioning to one of the stools next to the island.

“Fuck off, she’s not getting on—”

I step up onto the stool as all the guys hoot and holler their appreciation. Clearly, I want to gain their approval. I have brothers, I know how this works.

“Milly.” Carson tugs on my arm, but I ignore him.

“Look at this fine specimen,” Gunner continues. “Well-educated in the art of baseball, has the prettiest head of hair in this here space.” I blush. “Legs for days, a chest that—”

“Get the fuck on with it,” Carson snarls next to me.

Gunner clears his throat. “Milly, with pride and emotion, please puff your gorgeous chest—”

“I will murder you.”

The guys all laugh and Gunner continues, “Please puff your chest and announce to the room your favorite kind of pickle.”

Carson tugs on my hand again and says, “You don’t have to do this.”

I bend down, cup his cheek, and give him a chaste kiss. “Oh, but I want to.” I stand back up, flip my braids over my shoulders and with a loud, boisterous voice—my umpire voice—I shout, “Polish dill.”