I love that I can give him what he needs. He’s given me so much. His love is never qualified; it never has a price tag. He loves hard and big, and he supports me in ways I didn’t know I needed but now can never go without.
As I hold him close, all I can think is these are couple goals.
Five years later, I have them. I have him. I have everything.
That evening, I have a job to do, and a boyfriend who’s going to be in the stands rooting for me.
The only issue is he’s going to need to hold his applause till after the game. “Now, don’t go all crazy wearing a Steele jersey, okay?” I instruct as I head down the stairs.
“As if I’d do that,” he scoffs.
“Maybe I can get you some Rafe Rodmans with my number on them. Custom-made.”
“I’d wear the hell out of them,” Grant says. He tosses me the keys to his Tesla from the entryway table. He insisted I take his car tonight, so I kiss him goodbye and leave for work.
Even though I’ve been playing for ten years, switching to a new team—my third team—dredges up those old high school nerves. Will they like me? Will I fit in? Will I do a good job?
I can only control one of those things, so I focus on that. On playing the game.
I punch up my playlist. My 90s rockers help me get in the zone, so I turn to Eddie Vedder, Kurt Cobain, and Axl Rose as I drive familiar roads through the city that was once my home and now is again, in a new and better way.
The music centers me, wipes away the lingering worries as I pull into the players’ lot and the stadium and park my boyfriend’s car.
That makes me smile.
I’m driving Grant Blackwood’s car to work.
I head into the ballpark through the players’ entrance, where the team’s general manager waits for me with a big, welcoming grin. We chat along the way to the locker room, and she tells me the Dragons have number eighteen already stitched on my jersey.
“Hopefully, you’ll feel at home here right away,” she says.
“I already do,” I tell her.
I go into the locker room, say hi to the team’s PR guy, a cool dude named Owen. We spoke on the phone yesterday as he was prepping the news about my trade. “Anything you need, any time of day, just let me know,” Owen says.
"I will,” I tell him.
Then he introduces me to my new coach—a former minor leaguer named Edward Thompson—and after that I say hi to my new teammates.
Holden stretches his arms out wide. “Lucky us! Who would have thought? A couple weeks ago you were doling out wisdom, and now you’re my double-play partner,” he booms, the first to greet me, with a clap on the back.
“Life works in mysterious ways,” I remark, then I say hi to Gunnar, the team’s third baseman, to Dante, the starting pitcher, and to the rest of the guys.
“Let’s do this,” Holden says. He seems poised to become a team leader. I’ll have to tell Grant later that I’ve got a good feeling about his best friend’s guy.
We head to the field, stretch, and take batting practice. A reporter calls me over, so I give a comment to the media about the trade, then we make our way to the dugout before the start of the game.
As I go, I walk along the first baseline, my gaze straying to the second row.
I stop in my tracks.
Grant told me he was lining up everyone, but I am surprised by the strength of the emotions hitting me all at once.
My man sits on the first baseline, along with my mom, Tyler, River, Reese, Chance, Sierra, Crosby, Sullivan, and Miguel. So many friendly faces. So many people from different parts of my life. My mother, who guided me when I needed her most, and her husband, who’s the best man she’s ever known. My baseball friends, who were my crew once upon a time, and who I hope will be again.
Grant’s sister is here too, and I recognize her from the picture Grant showed me once upon a time. There’s my boyfriend’s best friend, Reese—his rock, and I’m damn glad he’s had her by his side for his whole life. Then, there’s River, the outgoing bar owner who was the first person to witness the intensity of my feelings for Grant Blackwood.
Most of all, there’s Grant.
The man I love wholeheartedly.
He tries to rein in a smile for me, but it’s futile. He grins big and wide. Crosby gives a loud hoot, Chance joining in too. Sullivan and Miguel do some kind of dance. Mom shouts at the top of her lungs, “Go Dragons!”
Maybe I’ll make a Dragons fan out of her after all.