Page 99 of Breakaway Daddies

God, that word.Stay.

My stomach flips. Not in fear this time, but in the dizzy way you feel at the top of a rollercoaster.

“I think,” I say slowly, brushing a hand over Rowan’s chest, then Bruno’s arm, then looping my fingers through Thomas’s, “you shouldn’t get too far ahead of yourselves. But…”

They all lean in a little.

“…I might be convinced if things go well.”

Thomas grins like he just scored another hat trick. Rowan’s whole body relaxes, the way he only does when he’s in the place he’s meant to be. And Bruno leans down and kisses my forehead, soft and reverent.

We group hug again, tighter this time, warm and real and so stupidlyus.

Then the locker room door swings open, and Coach sticks his head in, looking both amused and vaguely horrified.

“Alright, lovebirds,” he drawls. “You’ve had your Hallmark moment. Nowout, Anderson. Let the boys shower before they infect the building.”

I salute, stepping back with a mock military nod. “Yes, sir.”

Coach waits for me just outside the locker room, arms crossed, mouth twitching like he’s trying really hard not to look like a softie. Spoiler: he’s not succeeding.

“So,” he says, voice gruff but eyes kind, “you gonna make it official?”

I tilt my head. “What, the relationship or the job?”

He rolls his eyes. “Thejob, Anderson. Though…” his lips twitch again, “I don’t think I want to know how you plan on rehabbing three of my top players and dating them at the same time.”

I smirk. “Very carefully.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “We still haven’t found anyone who gets those guys like you do. The locker room’s been off ever since you left. So if you’re in, really in, we’d be glad to have you back.”

My heart gives this happy little lurch. Like it’s jumping up and down yelling, “Yes, yes, yes!”

“I’m in,” I say, and I mean it with every bone in my slightly chaotic, snake-owning body.

Coach nods once, solid. “Good.”

I pause as I start to walk past him, then glance back. “Hey, uh… I’m gonna head out… unless maybe a couple of your players need a little help?” I raise a brow. “Nothing too serious. Just, you know, the usual post-game wear and tear.”

He gives me a look that’s pure amusement now. “I’ll send them to your office.”

My office.

“Thanks, Coach.”

I make my way down the familiar hall, sneakers echoing on the tile, past the nameplates and framed jerseys and the old bulletin board that still has half a flyer about flu shots from last season.

My office door is still marked with “Anderson,” peeling at the edges but still clinging on like it was waiting for me to come back.

Inside, it smells like disinfectant and eucalyptus. There’s a stack of folded towels in the corner and a pair of crutches leaning against the wall like they’ve missed me.

I flick on the light, grab a bottle of massage oil, and start pulling supplies out of drawers with muscle memory I didn’t even know I still had.

The table squeaks the same way it always did when I adjust it. The cabinets still stick a little on the left side. And me?

I smile as I wipe down the table and prep for the post-game rush.

Feels good to be back.

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