Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Against the Cougars.
It’s a Bay Area match-up, pitting two husbands against each other. The sports press goes wild. They milk the hell out of the story of Grant Blackwood and Declan Steele vying for one trophy.
We trade leads over the series, with the Cougars starting hot and fast and winning game one. The Dragons win games two and three, but Grant’s team snags four and five. The Dragons win game six.
When game seven rolls around, I have one mission, a single point of focus.
Beat my husband’s team.
Saturday night at the Dragons ballpark, the scoreboard is full of zeroes for five innings. The game moves quickly, and it’s a pitcher’s duel until I get on base in the sixth then attempt to steal second, sliding into the bag right as Grant throws hard to the infielder.
But I arrive a nanosecond ahead of the ball.
I wipe off the dirt on my uniform, enjoying an extra thrill at having stolen a base off my man. My blinders go back on, then, as Holden takes a swing at the next pitch, hitting a sharp single to center, and I move like I have wings, scoring the first run of the game.
I don’t look at Grant as I cross the plate. Don’t want to make eye contact. Don’t want to get out of the zone.
A few innings later, that’s still the only run in the game.
At the top of the ninth, I run out to the infield, Holden by my side, and we knock gloves. “Let’s do this,” I say.
“Let’s motherfucking do this,” Holden replies.
Our closer takes the mound and strikes out the Cougars’ first baseman on four pitches. Next up is Miguel, the centerfielder. He ekes out a walk, trotting to first base.
Through gritted teeth, I mutter, “C’mon, guys. Shut this down.”
Crosby is next, and he looks dead set on sending Miguel home. But instead, he pops up to second on his first swing.
One more out.
That is all we need.
We’re so damn close I can taste it.
I want it badly. The only thing I’ve ever wanted more is Grant Blackwood.
The man coming to the plate.
My husband is the last man standing between me and my first World Series. I’m on high alert as I field my position, poised and ready. Grant works the count full, fouling ball after ball, staying alive. He’s determined to get on base, to knock a ball out of the park, to send his team to victory.
I’m every bit as determined to do my part to end this game now.
The pitcher goes into the windup, fires off a fastball, and Grant takes a big swing.
The crack of the bat echoes throughout the park as he sends a scorching line-drive my way, hellbent on getting past me and onto the grass of the outfield.
No fucking way, baseball.
Not today.
I leap higher than I ever have, my arm straight up, my leather high above my head. Time slows then speeds up again as I wrap my glove around the ball.
The crowd goes wild.
The cheers are deafening.
The emotions are overwhelming and the thrill is electric.
I caught the last out of a World Series win.
My teammates mob me. We tumble into a pile of Dragons in the middle of the field, and I am flying above the stratosphere right now.
I’m soaring to the stars.
I’m higher than that when, after we untangle and separate, Grant Blackwood runs to me on the field, jumps in my arms, and hugs the hell out of me.
“I’m so happy for you,” he says, with more joy than I think even I feel.
“Me too,” I rasp, throat tight. Then I kiss my husband, and that makes everything even better.
Grant makes everything in my life better. Every single day.
Another Epilogue
A few years later
Grant
After seventeen seasons, Declan Steele retires from the game he loves. But he doesn’t putter around the house or take up a hobby. He starts a new job as a play-by-play commentator, handling the Thursday to Sunday-night games for the Sports Network.
He’s on the road a lot, but he’s not on the road too, which is all kinds of awesome, because he comes to my games, and that means I get to see him more.
Declan and I go out to dinner when my day games end, and we have lunch before my night games, and we spend time together in hotel rooms and our home too.
“I’m like a groupie now,” he says.
“And you love it.”
With a sly smile, he says, “I absolutely do.”
Declan keeps busy in other ways as well. He volunteers with me at the Alliance, and he devotes time to a local foundation that helps teens avoid drug and alcohol abuse. He helps raise grant money, and when he exceeds his goals, I am so damn proud.
And, he has time to research adoption.
Oh, man, does he ever devote his time to that—so much time that when it’s my turn to hang up my cleats, we’re both ready.