31. Nessa

Nessa

The World Series: Game Seven

O kay, so maybe baseball wasn’t as boring as I’d thought.

There was nothing boring about watching my boyfriend pitch the best game of his career. He was only three outs away from throwing his first ever no-hitter and winning the World Series.

The Roasters had done the unthinkable and made it to the World Series their rookie season. The entire country was rooting for them. Well, all except for the people of Orlando. They had their own team to cheer for.

The series had been one for the books—not my kind of books, but still, I suspected that somebody wrote books about . . . baseball stuff. Unless that “baseball stuff” came with a side of baseball players getting stuffed, I wasn’t interested in reading it.

I loved stuffing Jared, almost as much as I loved getting stuffed by Jared. In fact, as I had quickly come to realize over the last few weeks, I loved Jared.

Period. No stuffing necessary.

The sharp crack of a bat had the entire stadium leaping to their feet. “No, no, no,” I repeated under my breath, clinging to my popcorn bucket like a lifeline. Better the cardboard container than June’s fingers. Her knuckles had taken one hell of a beating from my grasp during a particularly close call during the top of the seventh.

Soren fielded the ball effortlessly and fired it off to Roman at first base. Popcorn rained down on the entire section when the umpire called the runner out.

To my left, June jumped up and down, waving her foam finger at the camera like a maniac. To my right, Bella clapped from the safety of her seat. Her Loop earplugs were no match for the screams of forty thousand plus fans, but she’d refused to miss this momentous occasion.

Her brother was about to win the World Series, and we had a front-row seat to the action. Not that it mattered—the entire stadium was on their feet.

Even Jared’s mom had flown out to see him play, though she was safely tucked inside one of the luxury boxes alongside the team’s owners and a few more VIP guests.

“How are you so calm?” I asked Bella.

She smiled. “Jared excels under pressure. He won the game four innings ago.”

He took his spot on the mound, kicking at the dirt with the heel of his cleat. Even from our spot behind the Roasters’ dugout, I could tell he meant business. This wasn’t the goofball I had spent the weekend harvesting Swiss chard and binge-watching Schitt’s Creek with. This was war, and Jared was calculating his next attack. There would be no survivors, my pussy included.

Win or lose, I was going to ride that beard all the way to high heaven tonight.

He struck out the next batter in five pitches. The crowd’s deafening cries shook the stadium beneath our feet.

“For fuck’s sake,” June roared. “One more!”

I laughed through the threat of tears, sniffling. “C’mon, babe!” You’ve got this.

June and Bella threaded their arms through mine, popcorn long forgotten. This was it, the moment when his dreams came true and our happily ever after began.

The rest of the infielders gathered on the mound, flocking around Jared like moths to a flame. Every one of them had played an equal role in getting here, but Jared was their guiding light. Nobody could dull his flame.

One by one, his teammates—his brothers—patted his back, squeezed his shoulders, and shook his hand. When, finally, he was the last man standing in the dirt, he wiped sweat from his brow. As if he could feel the pressure of my gaze, he flicked a glance over his shoulder. The game camera caught his knowing grin.

“Not arrogant, angel. Confident.”

His words echoed through my brain, louder than the rollicking fans. Bella had been right. Jared was going to win it all now.

Strike one.

I hid my face behind June’s shoulder.

Strike two.

I leaned in the opposite direction, away from her raspy yell. Who knew she was such a rabid fan?

Strike three. That’s the ball game.

That was the whole enchilada. The rest of the Roasters poured out of the dugout, racing toward the mound to celebrate. Clarke and Dani stormed the field seconds later, documenting the moment before joining in on the celebration themselves. Soren twirled Clarke in his arms, planting a kiss on her that would make even Granny Gibbs blush.

There was no stopping the tears pouring down my cheeks after that. While the team celebrated on the field, I had a mini celebration of my own, exchanging hugs with June, Bella, and random strangers, all of whom had come out tonight to see history be made.

Eventually, Jared broke away from his teammates. My heart leapt when he jogged across the field, eyes dead set on mine. He didn’t stop when he reached the short wall dividing our seats from the field and instead leapt over it, landing directly to my side.

“Hi, angel.”

I smiled through my tears. “Hi.”

“Got something for you.”

I looked down at the dusty ball in my hands. The World Series game ball. Holy shit.

“Why are you—”

“Roll it over.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and rolled the ball over in my hands. My knees nearly buckled when I read the words scribbled on the other side between the laces.

I love you.

I threw my arms around his neck, soaking up every ounce of sweat and dirt on his body. “I love you, too.” I spoke into his neck.

“Say it again, angel.”

When I stepped back, I ignored the cameras and phones flashing around us and focused solely on the man of my dreams, my book boyfriend in the flesh. Someday, I would find the adequate words to describe how I felt about Jared—those three little words didn’t cut it. Until then, I would tell him every hour, every day, until hopefully one day, they amounted to a fraction of how I felt for him.

I reached up, spun his hat until the brim faced away from me, and grabbed the sides of his face. “I love you.” His eyes blazed when I tugged on his beard. “Now kiss me, baseball boy. You’re on TV.”