The jumbotron flickered. The crowd screamed louder as the Kissing Cam rolled across the stands.
I glanced up. And exhaled. Because there she was.
Natasha.
Center frame. Solo. Curls tucked behind one ear. Her skin glowed under the lights.
In her hands—firm but shaky—was a sign. Black Sharpie. Plain white cardboard. The words in Gaelic read,Only you.
She held it high, no embarrassment, no hesitation. Placing her palm over her heart, she pointed at me and mouthed,Only you.
My body heaved from the run, adrenaline pounding, but in that moment, everything in me stilled.
It was always her.
Had always been her.
Helmet in hand, I pressed it against my chest and stared at her like she was the only person in the world—because she was.
She mouthed,I’m yours.
The locker room was chaos.
Reporters shouted. Cameras flashed. Ice chests dumped. Champagne popped.
But I barely heard any of it.
Even when Montana passed me a bottle and shouted, “You’re a legend, MacKenzie!” I nodded, handing the bottle off.
His chuckle was all I noticed before tunnel vision took over. She didn’t seem confused. Not a woman stuck in limbo between two men.
I barely remembered throwing on fresh clothes. Jeans. My team-issued hoodie. Hair wet, cleats swapped out for sneakers, I passed the press tunnel like a ghost and ducked out a side entrance where security buzzed around the crowd outside.
Past the inner gates, Natasha leaned against my McLaren in the player lot, arms folded, guarding something fragile inside her. That elusive heart she claimed to give to me and tore from my hands. The brim of her Dodger cap dipped low, but I’d know her silhouette anywhere. A thick, curvy frame. A quiet stillness surrounded her, as if the city had gone silent for this moment.
I slowed my steps. Not because I was tired. I wasn’t. Seeing her had brought me back to life. More adrenaline rushed through my veins than blood. But something about her presence demanded I not rush this.
I just walked—slow, like if I moved too fast, I might break the magnetic field pulling us together.
Then she looked up.
Not a word. Not a smile. Just eyes—soft, searching, locked on mine like gravity had its own rules when it came to us. I stopped in front of her, pulse thudding behind my ribs.
“You came,” I said, rough, yet lower than I expected.Damn. My voice always dropped a little when I set eyes on her. I sorta figured my mind had to reacclimate itself with her beauty.
My fingers brushed hers. She didn’t pull away.
“You hit that home run,” she whispered, “and something in me cracked open. Something I’d tried to bury.”
“Don’t.” My voice came out strangled. “Don’t bury anything with me, Tash.” I moved in slowly, letting the heat between us build. “Not pain. Not past. Please don’t close yourself off to me anymore.”
Her lips parted. She didn’t speak.
I cupped her jaw, my thumb brushing under her cheekbone.
“Natasha,” I murmured, “if I kiss you right now …”
She leaned in before I could finish. “Then kiss me.”
