Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Drake

"Good evening, folks, and welcome back to the American League Championship Series game! We are at the bottom of the ninth, tied up in this nail-biter. I'm Les Anderson, here with my partner Joe Martinez. Joe, this game has been everything we could have hoped for and more."

"Absolutely, Les. This is what championship baseball is all about—the pressure, the drama, the incredible performances. And right now, we've got Rick Bosley standing on second base after that clutch double, one out, and the ever-reliable Drake Gunner stepping up to the plate."

"Rick Bosley, what a player he has been this season. That double was just another example of his clutch hitting. He's been a rock for this team, contributing in so many ways, both offensively and defensively."

"No doubt about it, Les. Rick's leadership and consistency have been invaluable. And now, all eyes are on Drake Gunner. This guy has been unstoppable this year, a real powerhouse in the lineup. He's come through in the clutch time and time again."

"You can feel the tension in the air. The crowd is on the edge of their seats. Gunner has been critical in this team's journey to the championship. His batting average, his power, his ability to get on base—he's been the complete package."

"And let's not forget his work ethic and determination. Drake has faced adversity and has come out stronger. He's a player who thrives in these moments, and you can bet he's looking to drive Rick home and send this team to the World Series."

"The pitcher is ready, and so is Gunner. The windup, the pitch… This is the moment we've been waiting for all season. Will Drake Gunner deliver when it matters most?"

"The pitch is on its way…"

Rick stands on second base, the determination etched on his face. The weight of this moment presses down on me as I step into the batter's box, the roar of the crowd a distant hum in my ears. This is it. This is what we've worked so hard for.

I grip the bat tightly, ready to prove my worth. The pressure feels like I've circled back to the beginning of last year. My life has taken such a different direction since then. Though, I'm still me. I still screw up occasionally, but I've grown and become more grounded than before.

The pitcher eyes me, his gaze cold and calculating, but I don't back down. I take a deep breath, focusing solely on the task at hand. The first pitch comes fast and inside. I swing and miss, the ball smacking into the catcher's mitt with a resounding thud. Stepping out of the box, I take a moment to collect myself. The pressure is immense, but this is where I thrive.

The second pitch is a curveball, dipping low and outside. I swing again, a fraction too late. The crowd gasps, a collective intake of breath. I can feel their anxiety, but I push it aside, focusing on what I need to do.

The crowd goes silent as the pitcher winds up for the third pitch. My mind flashes to the countless hours of practice, the sacrifices, the relentless pursuit of perfection. My heart hammers in my chest. I can't deny this moment's gravity. And yet, a part of me is elsewhere.

As the ball leaves the pitcher's hand, my mind drifts to my wife—the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs, the support she has given me during the most challenging times of my life, and her quiet understanding.

My swing follows through as if on autopilot; years of practice have ingrained it into muscle memory. The connection feels solid; a clean hit right on the sweet spot. The ball soars toward center field. For a moment, time seems to stand still.

Rick takes off from second base, his legs pumping, every ounce of his being focused on reaching home plate. The center fielder sprints back, but the ball sails over his head, bouncing off the wall. Rick rounds third, his eyes locked on the home plate.

The crowd is on their feet, a wave of sound crashing over the field. I hear my teammates shouting and feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Rick slides into home plate, the dirt flying up around him. The umpire's call is clear and decisive: "Safe!"

The stadium erupts in cheers, the noise almost overwhelming. I stand on second base, panting, my heart racing with exhilaration. We've done it. We've won the American League Championship Series.

My teammates rush out to the field, their faces alight with joy. Rick gets to his feet, grinning from ear to ear, and jogs over to join the celebration. Rappel is by my side, and everything blurs as we revel the moment. Even Kaplan joins us.

"Next stop, the World Series!" Rappel cheers.

"You bet your sweet ass!"

My eyes search the crowd for my wife and son. A peace settles over me the moment I spot them.

Lila throws her arms around me, and I hold her close, burying my face in her hair. She does it for me. I can't explain it, but the entire world could burn down around us, and I know I'm good with her beside me.

"We did it," I murmur against her ear. "We're going to the show."

She pulls back, tears glistening in her eyes. "I'm so proud of you," she whispers.

I reach out and tousle my son's hair. "You ready to go to New York?"

He nods eagerly, his face lighting up with excitement. I promised him a trip to Times Square and all the hot dogs he could eat if we made it.

"Papa Drake, you did amazing!" Jake exclaims, his eyes sparkling with wonder and pride, just like his mother's. The innocence and purity of his joy make my heart swell.

Rappel comes up with a bottle of champagne. "Time to celebrate." He goes to pour some into Lila's mouth, but she refuses. "No time for sobriety now." He laughs.

She places a hand over her stomach and smiles. "I'm going to be sober for the next nine months or so."

My head snaps to her.

"Wait, what?" I gasp, my heart going from a sprint to an absolute halt in less than a second.

Lila's blue eyes gleamed as she gave me a slight nod and a smile brighter than the stadium lights. Joy, pure and unfiltered, radiates from her in waves. "I wanted to wait until after the game to tell you," she murmurs, her voice nearly lost in the raucous celebration around us.

Her words sink in slowly as if written in a foreign language I struggle to decipher. She's pregnant. We're having a baby. A slew of emotions washes over me all at once—shock, disbelief, and elation.

Rappel is shouting something about a championship baby, but his voice sounds distant and muffled as I hold Lila closer. Despite all the chaos, we're alone in our little bubble of joy.

I kneel at Jake's level, drawing him into our embrace. He wraps his small arms around my neck, his voice filled with excitement as he repeats what he heard Rappel say—something about becoming a big brother. His eyes mirror mine in awe and wonder.

This is it; this is the pinnacle of my happiness—standing here on home plate with Lila and Jake beside me, our team winning the league championship series with a baby on its way.

At that moment, I realized there are battles worth fighting beyond the diamond field. And no matter the struggle, the sacrifices, or the fear that threatens to consume me, it's all worth it. Because, in the end, it all comes down to this—my wife, my son, our family.

My heart swells with love as I cup Lila's cheek and draw her in for a kiss. The crowd roars around us, but it all pales compared to the emotions that pulse through me: love, joy, and anticipation.

I'm the luckiest asshole ever because I got it all.

And I'm going to keep it.