4. Sinclaire

There are fifty thousand people in this stadium. Nine players on the other team, spread out across the diamond, all focused on getting one more out.

One more out and our team will win the World Series. We have a runner on second base. He is the tying run, if the man at bat can drive him home.

And that man is my entire world, not that he knows it.

My heart is in my throat as Trick settles into his batting stance. He's built like a majestic oak, with heavy thighs and a thick core, taller than everyone else around him, even on a baseball diamond.

I tug my hat low over my eyes, trying to block everyone else out. All I want to see is him, which is hard when I'm sitting all the way up in the nosebleed section and there are thousands of people in my line of sight.

The last eight months have been a deeply chaotic, emotional ride. Staying away from the team has been the hardest thing I've ever done. And I can't even pretend that I'm not obsessed with the star slugger on my father's baseball team. It became a running joke during my internship, how I'd find a way to work Trick into way too many conversations.

I loved that opportunity, but I was glad to leave it behind me when my dad's team made the playoffs. I couldn't watch any of this historic run from afar.

I bought my own tickets, carefully using money I've saved over the years so my father wouldn't ask why I was suddenly spending thousands of dollars on baseball tickets he could just give me for free.

But he can't know I'm here.

Nobody can. Not until they win.

After the rocky start when I was around the team, Trick has had one of the best seasons of his entire life. And I've devoured every moment of it. I've memorized all of his stats and analyzed his game tape—something I have a unique perspective on, because my dad often used Trick's tape to teach me stuff when I was younger.

I'm obsessed, and I know my subject better than anyone.

I know when his body is primed to connect with the ball and slam it out to left field, and right now, he looks good.

"Come on, Trick!" a shrill voice sounds from a few seats away.

My skin prickles with irritation, and I tamp it down.

There's maybe a thousand people in this whole crowd who want him to smash one over the outfield wall, because they're playing against the home team. I should share her eager enthusiasm, but I get irrationally jealous of all of Trick's female fans.

The first pitch is outside, and the ump calls it a ball. The second pitch is a strike, high and just inside, and everyone groans, but Trick looks calm. Steady. He didn't even swing at it, because it wasn't the one he wanted.

He's a patient man, and over the last twenty years, that patience has been rewarded many times.

Trust yourself,I think, willing that thought into his head. Not that he needs the whispered advice from someone he still thinks of as an annoying, distracting kid.

The pitcher takes a moment, setting back on his heels, his glove coming up in front of his face. Thinking. Two more strikes and he'll have taken down a giant in the ninth inning, in a game that matters more than any other game in his career.

The home team—the wrong team—is up by one run in the seventh game of the World Series. Victory is in their hands, but they need to strike out Trick to hold on to the win.

I picture my dad down in the dugout, clutching the railing. Fifteen years ago, he was the oldest player on this team, and Trick was the rising star. Now Trick has taken his place as the elder statesman on the team.

Something inside twists at the way I've had to distance myself from my dad as well as Trick this season.

When I was little, I didn't take to baseball in the way my dad hoped. Don't get me wrong. I love the sport more than almost anything else. I eat, sleep, and breathe sports stats. But I can't hit for shit, and my throw is atrocious.

First I was born a girl.

Then I wasn't athletic.

And when my mom died, I didn't turn into the hostess with the mostest, either.

But when it turned out I had a head for numbers, and we could talk about sports on that level, our relationship got better—and now I've put it on ice.

I'll make it up to him soon.

Come on, Trick.

He's been magnificent this game. It's been worth the insane sleeping arrangement I have—sleeping on a couch in a room with four other girls I found in a fan group.

I didn't have any problem getting a hotel room for the other games, but this one…oh well.

It doesn't matter where I sleep.

I had to be here to see Trick win this for them.

The pitcher winds up. Time slows as the ball speeds toward home plate.

The bat comes off Trick's shoulder, the arc sure and strong. His whole body twists, his broad shoulders flexing as he swings the bat around to connect with the ball in the most satisfying crack I've ever heard in my entire life. Fifty thousand people in the stadium all hold their breath with me as the ball soars up, up, up to the night sky, flying higher than would seem possible.

Halfway between second and third base, the runner is already going, his legs churning fast.

The ball is way over the heads of the outfielders, not a chance of it dropping, and the team is out of the dugout already, screaming at the top of their lungs as Trick takes off at a slow run, heading for first with a wild grin on his face. He's done it. He hit a home run, bringing in the runner ahead of him to tie up the game, and when he rounds the bases, he'll take the score ahead by one.

Winning the World Series.

Below me, his teammates have gathered around home plate, roaring for him as he rounds third, and the second his feet cross home, they pile on top of him three men deep.

Media and other family members flow onto the field, too.

I slip out of my seat, grateful that I got a ticket right at the end of a row, and race for the stairs.

Now that they've won, I can finally use my "go anywhere I want because I'm the coach's daughter" pass, and after a few wrong turns, I finally make it to visitors' clubhouse. Staff are already draping it in plastic sheeting for the free-flowing, free-spraying champagne celebration that will follow the presentation of the trophies.

There will be interviews out on the field for a while, so the team won't spill into here for a bit, but I have a really important request to make of the equipment manager.

It's something Trick did for my dad when they won the American League pennant fifteen years ago together—my dad's last series win—and there's no way my dad will remember. It's just not how he's built, so I'm going to make sure it happens.

Trick Lowry will never know just how much I love him, but that doesn't matter in this moment. I'll know I did this for him. I did it the last round, too, just in case that was his last win, because I have a sneaking suspicion he's retiring this year.

The equipment manager's eyes crinkle he sees me. "I didn't forget, don't worry. We'll get his for you jersey." He gestures to the boxes of World Series Champions t-shirts and hats that are streaming past him, heading out to the field to be handed out to the players. They pull them on over their uniforms, but as they come back to the clubhouse, I want the equipment team to ask for Trick's jersey, to preserve it in its game played condition.

"Are you heading out there for the celebration?" he asks.

I shake my head. I don't want to explain to my dad—or Trick—where I've suddenly appeared from. "I'll just wait for the jersey. And then maybe I'll stand in the hall and give them high fives on their way in."