We both laugh. The whole stadium laughs. I’m sure the video of this is going to go viral, and Molly will be thrilled.
The officiant hands me a matching, even bigger baseball ring.
“Now, Coach, we have it on good authoritythat you’re a bachelor man. Married to baseball, they say.”
They do say that. I shrug, vaguely uncomfortable. After Sinclaire’s mom and I broke up a long time ago, I accepted that I wasn’t built for relationships, not when I gave everything I had to the game. I focused on being a better father and the best coach I could be.
But now… now it itches at me to hear it that way. I’m notproudthat I’ve never remarried. I think about how happy Sinclaire and Trick are, and there’s a part of me that wants that for myself—with the right woman.
With someone fearless and bold like Molly. Someone who would challenge me to be a good husband, to love her with my whole heart, to laugh and fight andlive.
She’s half my age, but God, I’d be so good to her if I had the chance. Which I won’t. I can’t.
“Time to turn over a new leaf,” I mutter to the officiant. “Even if it’s against my will.”
My words crackle through the whole ballpark.
The mascot costume shakes with silent laughter.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. In for a penny… I lean in so the microphone picks up my next words clearly. “No, I’m happy to be doing this. I’m proud of our fans for choosing our ballpark for their big day. We’re going to have a great season, Outlaws!”
There’s a cheer.
Now I lean away from the officiant and whisper to the mascot, “Is that better?”
“That’s great,” she whispers back. “You’re a lot of fun when you aren’t growling.”
The teasing words are muffled a bit by the crowd noise and the screened mask, but I’d recognize the bright notes of that voice anywhere. “Molly?”
She doesn’t reply.
My heart pounds as the officiant puts our hands together.
“Coach, repeat after me…”
I stare at the too young, too sweet, too bright woman of my dreams hiding inside a costume she’s wearing because she wants to help my team climb back to the success it knew only two years earlier. And I hear myself say a wedding vow that will haunt me forever. “I, Jeff Rosehill, also known as Rosie and Coach, take you, Captain Citrus…”
The crowd roars again, and the mascot’s hands squeeze mine.
“Molly,” I repeat again under my breath.
I take you, Molly…
How I wish that could be true.
“I take you to be my outlawfully wedded spouse…”
Another rousing cheer.
I take you to be my lawfully wedded wife…
“In sickness and in health, in good times and in bad. With all that I am and all that I have, I give you this ring.”
It’s a bit of a mangle of the real vows I would say in another lifetime, but it still feels profound to even hold her hand and say it as part of a charade.
I work the baseball ring onto her hand, then sweep her into a dip that I know will play well for the cameras.
Afterward, we pose for a photo with the officiants, and then I step aside as the real couples to get married file onto the field, the organ once again playing the “Wedding March” for them.
