Play ball.
So that’s what we do.
After the game,I rise, willing feeling back into my legs. Midway through the fourth inning, I set my phone to airplane mode. When I turn it back on, a flood of notifications greets me: reporters and randos DMing me on Instagram, a few people posting threats creative enough that I flag them to report to team personnel later.If the team still wants to talk to any of us.
Most are about how I stole Asher from them, a few about how I led Brayden down a path paved with sin.
But a lot—alot—are telling me to live my best life.
She really booked her ticket to the Eiffel Tower??
I’d let those two patrol my outfield…and my infield…and my backfield.
DP doesn’t just stand for double-play.
My face goes hot. I need to get out of here to process all of this. Part of me wants to flee back to San Diego. Part of me doesn’t want anyone to let them think they got to me. I’m considering what to ask Asher and Brayden—Are we back together? Did the team change its mind?—when the stadiumscoreboard changes from the final game summary to an on-field camera broadcasting the post-game interview: Brayden, talking with the sideline reporter in the foul grounds near the Peaches’ dugout, as she asks him about his hit in the first inning that scored the winning run.
“We couldn’t have won this one without Asher in the lineup,” he says. A clear shot at the team, given how he grins into the mic as he says it.
“Yes, it’s great to have you both back!” the reporter says. But before she can get to her next question, Brayden interrupts.
“I actually have a question…” He pauses, drinking in the attention of the fans who haven’t yet left the stadium, many of whom pause where they’re halfway up the aisles. “For someone here tonight.”
Brayden reaches into his jersey, pulls out a necklace. Unhooks it and holds it up to the camera. My pendant. He must have worn that all game. “The first time I tried to do this, I don’t think I did it right.” He walks—the camera follows him—until he’s right in front of where I’m sitting, the two of us separated by the netting they use to protect the crowd from foul balls.
Slowly, he sinks down until he’s on one knee in the grass between the backstop and home plate. “Savannah Marie Burke—” he begins, then stops. “Wait, hold on.” He gestures over to the dugout.
Asher jogs out, his game jersey still on. “Hey, princess,” he calls to me. “Glad you got our letter.” Then he looks at Brayden. “Hope it’s okay, but I wanted to ask your wife to marry me.”
Brayden laughs. “Good, ’cause I was about to ask her the same thing.” He looks up at me, smiling, happier than I’ve ever seen him, gray eyes for once calm. “Savannah Marie Burke, I promise to love, honor, and cherish you as best as I know how, so long as you want me in your life. Would you allow me the privilege of being your husband?”
I’m crying. I can’t stop myself, tears of joy streaking down my face. I nod, barely able to speak. “Yes. Yes, I will.”
Brayden rises from the dirt, yanks up the netting enough that he can duck under it, so we can kiss while the stadium cheers. “Now,” Brayden says, “about the forsaking all others part…”
He looks back at Asher, who sidles up to us, shoulder jostling Brayden’s. “Hey, Mrs. Forsyth.”
“Didn’t you read your own jersey?” I say. “It’s Savannah Forsyth-Burke-Adler.”
He studies me, eyes dark, then leans toward me and whispers, low, so it won’t be picked up by the cameras. “I was thinking about making it easier on the team seamstress and droppingAdler.”
“Is that who you talked into doing this?” I ask.
Brayden grins. “She said he and her wife needed to do the same thing for their softball jerseys.”
I laugh. “Well, Asher Forsyth-Burke does have a nice ring to it.”
“It really does.” We’re still being broadcast over the stadium scoreboard, but Asher doesn’t so much as spare a look around. Just takes my hand in his, threading our fingers together. “I don’t have much to offer you. After today, I don’t know if I’ll even be playing baseball anymore and I don’t know what comes next. So I just have myself.”
“Yourself is enough,” I say, eyes teary.
Asher frowns. “You don’t know that.”
“You took a risk when you drove all night just for someone to give you a chance?” I say, and he nods. “So why are you surprised when other people are willing to take a risk on you?”
Asher doesn’t answer, not in words. Just pulls me to him, kisses me, deep, like he’s making a point.
A few people up in the stands who clearly didn’t get what was happening gasp. A few more shout encouragement. More clap, though some of it sounds slightly bewildered.
