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.”
The room erupts in laughter, I hear a few cries of “Yes, Polish dill”, and Carson brings his head to his hands. The guys playfully push him around, rag on him, and give me high-fives as I get down off the stool.
I wrap my arms around Carson’s waist and press a kiss to his chest. Thankfully, he doesn’t take my announcement to heart and brings his strong arms around me.
Whispering in my ear he says, “That was sexy as shit, but I’m going to make you pay for that later.”
I can’t wait.
The baseball players have it made. They’ve created a legacy here at Brentwood, which has led to pretty impressive digs. It’s why I’m sitting on a comfy outdoor couch on the rooftop of the loft, swaddled in Carson’s embrace with a giant bowl of M&M’s split between Carson, Romeo, Jason, and me. Gunner has a final tomorrow and chose to stay in his room for the rest of his night. Responsible.
There’s a light breeze coming from the nearby lake and faint music of today’s hits playing in the background. Currently Billie Eilish’s “Bad Guy” is bumping through the wireless speaker. Twinkle lights hang above us, and the conversation of baseball surrounds us.
“Sorry, we must be boring you,” Jason says, after they ran through the competition for the upcoming run for the college baseball World Series. The college baseball season is an odd one and extends past the school year, the regular season not ending until the end of May with regionals picking up at the beginning of June.
Carson chuckles. “Are you kidding me, she’s probably