"You're Clarke?" She turned to her daughters. "TheClarke?"
They nodded. Had Shelby told the whole family about me? I wasn't sure what to expect after that, but it certainly hadn't been a bone-crushing hug from the pint-sized woman.
"Honey, it is so great to meet you." When she pulled back, I couldn't help but see so much of Soren in her, especially in the eyes. "Soren's told us all so much about you."
"He has?"
"For weeks now. In fact, I'd love for you to sit with us today."
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I could already feel my eyes beginning to well. How could this woman welcome me into her arms, into her family's life, so easily when we'd only exchanged a few words? I couldn't even get my own mother to return my phone calls.
"Mom," Shelby said, nudging her mother's arm. "How about we let Clarke do her job?"
"Oh, that's right! I'm sorry, Clarke."
"No, you're fine." I blinked back the moisture in my eyes, adding, "And thank you for the offer. You'll definitely see me around your section a lot today."
A genuine smile stretched across her cheeks. "Wonderful."
The first half of the inning flew by before we knew it. I was finishing up a video message with Tuck's sister—that would play during the seventh inning stretch—when it was Soren's turn to bat.
That was when I heard it.
The band we had seen in Tucson.
The song that I had made my ringtone weeks ago.
"Did he change his walk-up song?" Shelby asked her mom. Mrs. Sinclair just shrugged.
"Sin City" had been Soren's walk-up song for years, even in the minor league. It was his own subtle way of saying he didn't give a fuck what they wrote or said about him—even though we both knew that he did.
But that wasn't AC/DC playing; that was Lawrence.
"Don't Lose Sight."
That was the name of the song, but it was so much more than that for Soren and me.
As the brother and sister duo sang about not giving in, even when the world gives up on you, I tried to stop the tears fromstreaming down my cheeks or the smile that split between them. If this was an apology, it was a damn good one.
The blend of emotions washing over me was overwhelming, to say the least. I thought I might be able to dry my eyes and get back to work without too many people noticing my tearful interlude, but then I saw the jersey.
And I absolutely lost it.
Embroidered across the back of his jersey, just above the number four, were two words: Clarke's Boyfriend.
Heavens to Betsy. He still loves me.
There was no stopping the waterworks after that. Not when Mrs. Sinclair—the entire Sinclair brood, in fact—turned around in their seats to find me with something between shock and awe on their faces. Then, there were the guys. The dozen or so familiar faces that popped out of the dugout to see my reaction. The shit-eating grins on all of their faces told me that they probably had something to do with this, too.
But none of that compared to the man staring back at me from the batter's box. The one who held my heart in his hands and had my name on his back.
My name, not his.
He'd given me another first.
If the song had been an apology, the jersey had been a promise.
And much to my pleasure—and the surprise of some forty-thousand fans at the ballpark that day—he wore that promise for the rest of the game.
