prologue
I’ve always dreamed ofmy wedding day.
Not so much the decor or guest list, but the quiet moments in between the madness with my new husband.
Sneaking kisses during the endless toasts. Making funny faces when the photographer wasn’t looking. Or whispering inappropriate jokes under our breath.
And at the end of the night, I’d get to stare at him while he ditched his tie as we left our wedding venue to start the rest of our lives together.
I look over to the man next to me in time to catch the silky noose around his neck loosening and a small smile threatening to break free.
His dark brown beard has been tamed for the occasion, and his wavy hair seems to have gotten a trim.
My dress is a comical white poof around me, leaving minimal room for movement. In search of comfort, I dig the veil out of my hair and release a sigh of relief.
This should be what I imagined when I dreamed about my wedding day.
Except… I’ve deviated from the plan in a few crucial ways.
Because the man beaming down at me as he grabs my discarded veil and tosses it out his open windowis not my husband.
And instead of a limo, I’m in what many may consider a getaway car.
Because I, Daisy Stonehaven, am officially a runaway bride.
No, this is not what I dreamed of when I thought of my wedding day.
And it’s clear as day, that my life as I know it has officially gone up in flames.
one
THREE DAYS, TWO HOURS, AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES BEFORE
I FORCE MYSELF TO look away from my watch and focus on my men warming up on the field.
The incessant countdown has taken over every crevice of my mind lately. I need to figure out how to shut it down before I end up doing something reckless.
Speaking of… I groan as I see the incoming call on my phone. Three poop emoji’s stare back at me. I should have known better than to spill my guts to the one person who is like a dog with a bone. Especially when it comes to me talking about my feelings.
But I don’t have time for this, especially right before a game. So I send the call straight to voicemail. Let it be a problem for another day.
I look up, intending to focus on work, but instead zero in on our team photographer as he makes a beeline toward me.
I silently curse as I pull down my baseball cap. Looks like it’s going to be one of those days.
“Is today the day I’ll finally get to photograph that dazzling smile you’re hiding under that unruly beard,Home Runner?”
I cross my arms over my chest and grunt as I scan the field, making sure my guys are looking healthy and ready to go and ignoring the nickname I was given in little league, the one that somehow followed me throughout my major league career.
I may have grown to enjoy the limelight at the height of my playing career, but as a kid, I was easily overwhelmed by the attention that came after I hit a home run. To the point where I would continue running tomyhome after making sure to swing by home plate first. It was a funny story my mom told reporters after I got drafted to the MLB, but it stuck.
And it’s not lost on me how little has changed. Because when that spotlight feels too harsh and blinding, I know exactly where to run and hide.
“Oh, c’mon,Skipper. Show off those pearly whites. Give the people what they want,” he goads as he starts snapping away.
I pin him with a glare that has him straightening while dropping his camera to his side. “S-sorry about that. I forget you’re not a fan of the term of endearment,Coach,” he amends.
I sigh as I attempt to seem less surly and lift an unenthusiastic thumbs-up at Tom. He takes the photo quickly, although I’d be surprised if I was even in the frame since he didn’t bother to bring the camera back up to his face.
