“What? Really? That’s amazing! This never happens. We might actually have to wait in line for a beer since there could be a crowd.” I laugh at the possibility.
“I know, but don’t worry, I thought ahead and got us the best seats in the house.”
His forward thinking takes me aback. I am usually the planner in the relationship, and I take my job seriously. But to have nights like he has given me, where I just have to show up and have fun, they mean everything. Turning off my brain is a luxury I don’t get often.
I run back inside to grab the hat, and then we head out.
The Cascadia Bucks stadium is an older, beloved ballpark just outside the main stretch of town. The seats are chipped metal bleachers, and the scent of damp earth and grilled onions hangs in the air. The scoreboard is a simple, hand-operated affair, with each number hand-placed with every run.
Usually, the seats are first-come, first-served, but Sam ushers us to the section of the stadium reserved for local special guests like the teacher of the year or visiting former teammates.
We take our seats, a few rows behind home plate. Sam always told me that “purists” prefer this view so they have optimal viewing of the entire field, which, sitting here for the first time, I can understand.
“I feel like we’re celebrities right now. How in the world did you get us these seats?”
Sam leans in, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers in my ear, “They saw I had the most beautiful woman in the world with me and wanted to make sure everyone knew it.”
I lean back giggling, swatting his chest, “Stop it, you charmer. But seriously, why the VIP treatment?”
Before Sam can answer, an announcer kicks on, thanking the sponsors and announcing we will begin shortly. “I’ll be right back, baby,” Sam says, giving me aquick kiss before walking away to use the restroom, I presume.
I can’t get over how packed the stadium is tonight. I look off in the distance on the first base line and squint … is that Phoenix? I look next to her, and sure enough, there is Nessa, along with Mack, Reece, and Jared. And one row behind them I see Holly, Grammy, and Grandad. What is going on? Before I can pick up my phone and ask, I see a familiar figure run out onto the field.
Sam jogs to the pitcher's mound and clears his throat as he holds up a microphone.
“Hello Bucks fans! Sorry for the interruption. I won’t keep you long, I know we are all anxious to see the Bucks take home a victory tonight!”
The crowd cheers in agreement.
“Most of you are here for baseball tonight, and not a love story. But some stories don’t wait until the ninth inning. There’s a woman here tonight—Becca—and I owe her something I should’ve said a long time ago. Hell, I should’ve lived it.”
Sam locks eyes with me for the first time, and I feel the audience’s tension growing with mine.
“I messed up. I made choices that hurt someone I love. That’s on me. And while most of you don’t know the details, you know what it means to screw up something good and want to earn it back.”
The stadium goes silent as Sam continues. "I didn't come up here to grovel—" He pauses, scratching the back of his neck "Okay, well, maybe a little."
The crowd laughs along good-naturedly. “And I’m fully aware this is probably the most over-the-top thing I’ve ever done …”
Sam smiles, pulling lightly at the collar of his shirt withnerves. “I’m not here to pretend this fixes everything. I know it doesn’t. I came here to make something clear: Becca, you deserve the kind of love that shows up, even like this.”
He pauses, thinking about his next words. “The kind that shows up in front of everybody. And I should’ve been the first one to give it to you. You deserve to be made a fuss over. So here I am. On the field. Owning it. Waiting.”
Oh no … no … he isn’t, is he recreating the scene fromNever Been Kissed?Is he crazy?
“If there’s a part of you—any part—that still wants this … that still wants us …Then meet me here in five minutes. And kiss me like it’s the first time. Make me the happiest man alive.”
On cue, a handmade sign gets dropped just in front of the scoreboard, and a portable digital clock is brought out from the commentators' booth, reading “five minutes.” The clock starts ticking down. Fans murmur in confusion at first, and cell phones are brought out everywhere to record the scene.
I look over to the crowd of my friends and see they are all holding up signs with a variety of phrases, like “Kiss Him Like You Mean It” and “#TeamBecca.”
My breath catches. I’m already crying, and I didn’t even feel it start.He planned all of these details, even down to the countdown?
The clock on the scoreboard reads 3:00, glowing bright and merciless when I finally come to my senses.
I hear Nessa screaming somewhere, “GO!” or “RUN!” or something equally dramatic, but it’s all a blur. I’m stuck, frozen between two rows of strangers who are slowly catching on.
Someone says, “That’s her!” And the points andwhispers increase from there with good-natured smilesas if I’m someone worth making a scene for.
