Two outs.
We’re up by one run.
The stadium lights feel hotter tonight. Brighter. Like the entire world is watching.
Because they are.
I stand on the mound, dirt pressed beneath my cleats, the Diamond League trophy sitting somewhere behind home plate waiting for someone to claim it.
I want to bring it home.
Back to Rebel Stadium.
Back to New York.
Back to her.
I roll the ball in my hand, leather familiar, grounding.
I lift my eyes.
And there she is.
Front row behind the dugout. Rebel blue wrapped around her shoulders. Hair down. Eyes locked on me.
Amelia.
My fiancée-in-my-head-but-not-yet-out-loud Amelia.
She smiles.
And just like she always has, she steadies me.
The last year flashes through my mind in pieces.
The fight.
The meeting.
The long nights proving ourselves.
The way she refused to let anyone determine her future.
The way she built her position with grit and brilliance.
She’s not just the intern anymore.
She’s full-time staff.
Respected.
Feared in the best way.
The league learned quickly that she doesn’t bend.
Kamden crouches behind the plate.
My best friend.
