“We did it!”
“Champions!”
“Fireballs! Fireballs! Fireballs!”
Holy fuck.
We did it.
I join in the whooping and screaming and hugging, sparing a look up at the owners’ suite, which has cleared out.
What feels like seconds later, all of our families stream onto the field too. Management. Coaches. Parents and siblings and nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles and grandparents and friends.
I grab Mackenzie when Brooks has let her go. “You did it, Mac!”
“I can’t stop crying!”
“Don’t talk to me about crying,” Tanesha sobs.
I hug her too.
Then Henri. Marisol. Tillie Jean.
“I’m so proud of you, you big pain in the ass,” she says through tears.
Max growls and steals her back.
He gets the win for tonight.
My mom’s suddenly there, hugging me tight, and not for the first time, my throat goes tight.
“Thanks for believing in me,” I choke out.
“You’re a winner to me no matter how many trophies you do or don’t have.”
“Where’s Waverly?”
“Hiding in the dugout.”
Thought so.
I make my way through the massive crowd of the entire Fireballs organization, family, and friends—getting stopped every single step of the way.
Tripp Wilson hugs me.
Lila hugs me.
Levi Wilson hugs me. “Why the fuck isn’t anyone making a fuss overyoustealing the spotlight out here?” I grunt to him.
“People are asses. Need Giselle to get you through?”
“I’m Cooper Fucking Rock. World Series champion, thank you very much. I can do anything.”
Except get to my girlfriend quickly.
But when I finally sneak down the stairs of the dugout and find her hovering beyond the door to the locker room, it’s all completely and totally worth it.
“Oh my god, I thought you hurt yourself.” She flings herself into my arms, peppering my face with kisses. “Hey, are you okay? For real? Do I need to kiss any booboos?”
