Avery

T wo months later

The kitchen smells like vanilla frosting and birthday candles as I watch Benji unwrap presents at my grandmother’s vintage dining table, surrounded by all the people who have somehow become the center of our world.

It’s strange how little has changed since the summer started—same house, same job, same stubborn little brother. And yet everything is different now that I’m officially dating a brutally handsome billionaire.

A billionaire who insists on doing the dishes when he stays over and knows exactly how I take my coffee. One who looks at me like he’s the lucky one.

Nash was right. The tabloids had a field day with us for about two weeks, then moved on to the next juicy piece of gossip like he and I taking our relationship public never happened.

I’ll admit, as much as I hated being in the spotlight, it was nice knowing there were women out there who wished they were me for a change.

“Open mine next!” Summer pushes a small envelope toward Benji, who tears into it like a hungry raccoon on trash day.

His eyes widen as he pulls out the card and opens it. “Fifty bucks? Seriously?”

“And,” Summer adds with a flourish, “your first issue of Sports Illustrated should arrive any day now. Full-year subscription.”

“Let’s hope it’s the swimsuit edition.” Nash’s joke lands him a threatening look, and he playfully ducks behind Benji.

Summer holds up her hands. “Relax, mama bear. I made sure it was the kid’s edition before I ordered.”

“Aw, man,” Benji whines, tucking the money into his pocket carefully before reaching for Nash’s gift—a large, square box wrapped in silver paper. He glances at me with a sheepish grin, and I wonder if he has any clue what’s inside.

When the wrapping paper comes off and the box opens, Benji’s mouth forms a perfect O.

It’s a new glove, but not just any new glove.

It’s the professional model from the display case that I’d deemed ridiculously overpriced at $400.

The same one Nash and I had privately discussed last week when he asked my permission to buy it for Benji.

“No. Way.” Benji lifts it in the air and slides his hand inside like he’s Thanos and it’s the Infinity Gauntlet. “This is it! The Wilson A2000!”

“Happy birthday, Champ,” Nash says, ruffling Benji’s hair.

A few months ago, I would have seen this as an extravagant display meant to upstage me. But now? Let’s just say Nash isn’t the only one who’s changed for the better.

I know the look on Benji’s face isn’t just about being gifted something this expensive.

It’s about believing it’s okay for families like ours to want more for ourselves.

After years of teaching Benji that we make do with what we have, I’m learning there’s also value in showing him how hard work can lead to good things and that it’s okay to reach higher.

“My turn,” I say, handing over a package wrapped in baseball-patterned paper.

Benji tears into this one more carefully than the others, revealing a leather-bound scrapbook I spent weeks assembling.

Every baseball card with Benji’s picture and stats, every ribbon, every ticket stub, and even the years of team photos he’s kept shoved in random shoeboxes under his bed—all now carefully arranged and preserved with plenty of empty pages to fill as he grows.

He goes quiet as he turns the pages, tracing his fingers over each memento. When he reaches the last page, his eyes shine with tears at a photo of him with Nash at his first Street Sweepers game.

“Avery...” His voice cracks. “This is the best gift ever. Thank you.”

He launches himself into my arms and I hold him tight, remembering the scared seven-year-old he was when our parents left. Looking at him now, you’d hardly know he was the same person.

“I’m really glad you’re my sister,” he whispers in my ear.

My eyes fill with tears. “I’m really glad you’re my brother.”

Over Benji’s shoulder, I catch Nash watching us with an expression so full of affection that it makes my heart ache in the best possible way.

I finally pull away from Benji’s hug and wipe my eyes with a sniffle. “I think it’s cake time.”

Nash helps me light the thirteen candles while Summer dims the lights, and a warm glow lights Benji’s face as we sing “Happy Birthday” with varying degrees of musical talent.

“Make a wish,” I say when the song is over.

Benji closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and blows out all thirteen candles in one go. Nash and I cheer and clap as Summer removes the melted candles, then starts cutting.

“What did you wish for?” Nash asks.

Summer smacks Nash on the arm. “Don’t ask him that! It’s bad luck.”

“It’s okay,” Benji shrugs, taking the plate with the biggest slice. “I don’t mind telling. Besides, I’ve got all the luck I need already.”

He looks up at Nash, and before he takes his first bite, says, “I wished to start the seventh grade as a Shooting Star.”

My smile falls. Here we go again. The prestigious St. Sebastian’s Preparatory Academy and their elite “Shooting Star” program.

It was everything I could do to scrape together the rest of Benji’s tuition money these past six months, but even when I did, it still wasn’t enough.

The waitlist letter that arrived a few weeks ago was a major slap in the face for all my efforts.

“Benji,” I start gently, “I know you think there’s still a chance, but I don’t want you getting your hopes up if things don’t work out.”

“Actually, there’s a second part of my gift that I didn’t tell you about,” Nash says.

I turn to him, confused. “What?”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and gives a nervous smile. “I was going to wait until after cake, but... Benji, I think your wish just might come true.”

“What do you mean?” Benji says, spitting bits of vanilla cake as he talks with a full mouth.

“Well… my dad may have written a letter of recommendation to the headmaster at St. Sebastian’s.” Nash looks up, his gaze meeting mine before it returns to Benji. “The paperwork isn’t final yet, but he told me last week that they’ve secured you a spot for the upcoming semester.”

Summer and I go silent, and Benji’s eyes grow impossibly wide.

“No way! Seriously!?” Benji squeals.

“Yeah, Nash... Are you serious?“ I say, placing my hand on the table to steady me.

He nods. “Dead serious. Dad’s been helping out with The Diamond in the Rough Initiative, and he’s gotten to know Benji pretty well. So, when I mentioned the waitlist situation, he said it was the least he could do to help.”

I can hardly believe it. Nash’s parents—especially his father—had been so dismissive when we first met.

But everything changed the day Nash announced his initiative.

His father started flying in to help with the business side of things, and after a few weekends of Benji tagging along to their meetings, Will Fontaine fell under the same spell as everyone else who spent time with my brother had.

I flash back to a conversation I’d had with Mr. Fontaine last Monday when he stopped by to drop off some contracts for Nash to sign.

“Avery,” he’d said, “I want you to know I’ve been speaking to Elizabeth about you and Benjamin. It might take some time, but let me handle my wife. She’ll come around, eventually.”

“Let me handle my parents.” The echo of Nash’s words from a few months back wasn’t entirely lost on me at that moment. And if it weren’t for Mr. Fontaine’s kind words that day, I’m not sure I ever would’ve believed having their approval was possible.

“Thank you,” I say, blinking back another round of tears. “This means everything to him. And to me, too.”

Nash takes my hand and squeezes it. “To all of us.”

I smile as Summer and Benji argue about who gets the last corner piece of cake, taking a moment to appreciate how much I’ve grown.

Six months ago, I was certain my carefully constructed life was falling apart because I didn’t have it all figured out.

Now, watching the people I love most gathered around my kitchen table, I realize it wasn’t falling apart. It was falling into place.

Nash catches me staring and winks, sending a flutter through my chest that I hope never gets old.

Sometimes I have to remind myself this is real—that Chicago’s star shortstop just signed a three-year, eighty-seven million dollar contract extension but still chooses to spend his free time with me and Benji in our modest, Blue Island home.

That number—eighty-seven million—still makes my head spin. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to comprehend what that kind of money means. But Nash treats it like it’s just another detail, less important than remembering how I take my coffee or which of Benji’s games he can make between road trips.

The Diamond in the Rough Initiative has taken off beyond anyone’s expectations.

Sponsors are practically beating down Nash’s door with endorsement deals now that word has spread about the program.

The first equipment drive is scheduled for next month, and Nash insists Benji and I should be front and center when they cut the ribbon.

And I still can’t believe I kept my job after that rainy night at the stadium. When those reporters turned their cameras on me, I was certain my management career was over. But instead of firing me, Salvatore seemed almost amused by the whole situation. At least, that’s what I thought.

It turns out Nash had visited him the very next day, inviting The Dugout Club to become one of the initiative’s first ever corporate partners.

I’m pretty sure that’s why Salvatore suddenly had no problem with me dating a player, but I don’t care.

Even though balancing my late hours with Nash’s crazy schedule sometimes feels like we’re both trying to juggle flaming torches, our jobs are the cherry on top of the life we’d always hoped for.

And, as an added bonus, I still get to see Summer every day—even though she’s been relentless about me and Nash fixing her up with one of his teammates.

Just last Sunday, she cornered us over breakfast with social media profiles of her top three picks, as if we were running some sort of dating service.

“Earth to Avery.” Nash’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Where’d you go just now?”

“Just thinking about how lucky I am,” I admit, leaning into his side as he slips an arm around my waist.

It’s still strange watching Nash with Benji and how naturally they’ve fallen into a brotherly relationship.

Initially, I was afraid Benji would see Nash as some sort of replacement father figure, but instead, they’ve formed a bond that’s uniquely it’s own.

I still catch them in surprising moments of tenderness with Nash explaining fielding strategies or Benji showing off his latest school project.

Even their secret handshakes are getting more elaborate by the week.

As for me, I’m slowly getting used to Nash’s insistence on showering me with lavish gifts, while the idea of us moving in together comes up more frequently in conversation—even though neither of us is rushing.

And if I’ve noticed him casually asking Summer about my ring preferences, I simply pretend not to notice.

We still have plenty to figure out. His world of luxury and mine of careful budgeting sometimes collide in ways that leave us both frustrated. But after everything we’ve overcome to be together, we’re both convinced that a love like ours is one worth fighting for.

In the world of Fontaine fangirls, I may be the most unlikely candidate. But I’m certainly Nash’s biggest fan—and always will be.

The End

I hope you fell in love with Nash and Avery. I had so much fun writing their story!

Don’t miss out on the rest of the Sweet Sports Kisses Series!

You can find all eight standalone kisses-only romance stories on Amazon…