I try to swallow my nerves as what sounds like the entirety of Oracle Park seems to be cheering…for me.
Everything about the last three weeks has been surreal. I’d hardly gotten my paperwork signed in Iowa, passed my physical, and taken a few days of batting practice, when I started in a triple-A game against the Toledo Mud Hens. We won. After the game, the coach said, “Nice work tonight, Blake. Too bad we won’t get to keep you with us.” I thought I was getting cut again, that my second chance was just a few long plane rides and triple RBI.
But I can’t lie, the first thing I thought was that I could go back to Sophie. That I could try to convince her we were more than friends with benefits, more than a summer fling. To try to tell her I had wanted more from the day we woke up in Cal’s bed together, but I was too stubborn or scared to admit it. Then my coach continued. “Do that same thing at the plate in San Franciscotomorrow.”
So here I am. In a Cubs uniform, in a Major League Baseball park, taking a few practice swings, trying to delay walking to the plate for as long as I could.
“You’ve got this, Blake,” the batting coach says from the dugout. I walk onto the diamond and glance up at the stands, but the stadium lights blind me from seeing anything. I know my mom is up there. And I’d sent a ticket to Coach Bill. Cal and his parents, too. He and I talked a few days ago. I confessed everything before he’d even said hello. He just laughed and said, “It’s about fucking time you two realized you’re perfect for each other.”
But it was too late.
I hadn’t told Sophie how I felt—instead, I told her I had to leave. I’d tried to call her a million times in the past three weeks, but her avoidance was pretty clear. Whatever I felt, whatevermoreI wanted for us, was not what she wanted. She was clear from the beginning; no one gets attached.
I’m the idiot who did.
“Now up to bat for the Chicago Cubs, Liam Blake.”
The crowd goes wild.
The camera on the cable system zips past as I step up to the batter’s box. I wonder if she’s watching from home? Had Cal told her?
I knew she cared. I had to believe she did. Maybe she didn’t want more than sex, but all those nights we stayed up just talking, holding each other. All those quiet mornings drinking coffee or the chatty walks home from Bar None.
I knock my cleats with my bat and kiss my fist—something I’d been doing since high school after I saw an MLB player do it—and step into the box.
The pitcher’s first pitch whizzes past me.
“Strike one!” the ump calls from behind me, and my pulse speeds up. I need to get my head in the game.
The next ball sails a little outside.
“Ball!”
I take a deep breath. Sophie’s face flashes in my mind—her coy smile, those bouncy curls, the way she believes in me. And right then, I decide: no matter what happens, no matter how she responds, I’m going to tell her exactly how I feel. I’m going to tell her I love her.
The pitcher narrows his eyes and lets the ball fly.
I know it’s my pitch—the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life. My chance to swing for the fences.
Crack.
I make my way to the players’ parking lot. It’s hours after the game. Hours after my first big league home run. Hours after we won. After I showered off the champagne the guys sprayed me with in the locker room. And after I asked Cal to take my mom home, so I could use her car. The team flies out tomorrow afternoon, and I have something I need to do before we leave for Cincinnati.
But as I walk towards the old Civic, someone is sitting on the hood of the car—someone with bouncy curls and perfect curves and the biggest smile.
“Soph?” I say, but I’m already running towards her.
She jumps off the car and launches herself into my arms.
“Liam,” she gasps as I spin her off the ground. “I’m so proud of you, and I should have told you that three weeks ago, and I am so fucking sorry. You deserve all of this. And I don’t care if you won tonight or ever, but oh my god you hit a home run and…”
I cut her off with a kiss.
She melts into my arms and kisses me back. For a long moment, we are just lost in each other, but then she pushes against my chest and I reluctantly separate.
“What is this?” I ask, as I take in her Cubs jersey over my favorite cut-off shorts. She spins around to reveal my name spelled out in hand-glued rhinestones, with hearts on either side, on the back of the jersey.
“I needed something to wear to your game.”
