Their leadoff guy drew a walk. The next two struck out.Only one more to go.Their cleanup hitter, a mean fucker I had playedwith in the minors, worked the count full and then slapped a line drive to right-center.
Wes charged it, barehanded the hop, and fired home. Just as the runner rounded third. Hard.
Bring it on, fucker.
I planted myself in front of the plate, bracing for impact. The runner was a freight train—six-three, two-eighty, and eyes full of determination. He came in spikes-high, classic slide-by-contact bullshit. His left leg kicked up, metal cleats flashing under the lights, aiming straight for my left knee like he wanted to take it home with him.
I didn’t flinch.
The ball slapped into my mitt a half-step before he arrived. I dropped the tag fast, right on his shoulder. It drove into my sternum like a battering ram, punching the air out of my lungs. My legs buckled for a split second, but I stayed upright, twisting to keep the tag on him while the force shoved me back two steps.
None of that mattered, not when the ump fisted his hand.
“Out!”
The stadium exploded. But I barely heard it.
Because from the stands came a sharp, furious scream. “Getoff him, you . . . fucking dick muffin!”
Hm, that’s a new one.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bella yelled. “Spikes up? Really? Are you playing dirty, or is being a cheap-ass asshole just your whole personality?”
My sweet, quiet Bella, the woman who flinched at loud noises and apologized to furniture when she bumped it, had one hand cupped around her mouth, yelling at a two-hundred-eighty-pound base runner like she was ready to vault the fence and fight him herself.
Bailey startled at the sound, then giggled like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Clarke’s mouth dropped open, and Dani looked downright impressed. She didn’t scoldBellafor swearing in front of the baby.
The ump lifted his mask just enough to squint up at her, eyebrows raised. “Your wife?” he asked, one corner of his mouth twitching.
I was still catching my breath, but I managed a crooked grin.
“Not yet,” I said. “But maybe someday.”
The image hit me fast and hard.
Bella.My wife.Pregnant with our baby. Holding a miniature version of us on her hip at games. Yelling at umpires. Kissing me after wins. Coming home with me every night.
Fuck.
I was hard under my cup before I even registered the thought.
The team mobbed me with high fives and back slaps, but I barely felt them. My eyes stayed locked on hers.
I stripped off my catcher’s gear right there on the field, passing them off to the bat boy without looking. Then, I jogged straight for the low wall behind home plate. The family section was close enough. I planted one cleat on the padded barrier, vaulted it clean, and landed in the aisle right in front of her.
She startled, eyes wide. Bailey reached for me with both hands, babbling with excitement.
That didn’t stop me. I cupped Bella’s face with both dirt-streaked hands and kissed her. Claimed her. Right there in front of everyone—the team, the fans, the press. Mine.
She made a surprised sound against my mouth, then melted into it, free hand fisting my jersey, the other still supporting Bailey.
When I finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, eyes dazed.
“Bennett—”
“Get your stuff,” I said, voice firm.
She blinked. “What?”
