36. Remington

THIRTY-SIX

REMINGTON

In March it'll be nine years since I was officially welcomed to The Show. I can remember being handed my first official Nighthawks uniform like it was yesterday. It wasn't just any uniform either. It was the one with the coveted gold detailing that announced to the world that they were the reigning World Series Champions. That we were the reigning champions, Colt had corrected from his perch on Linskie's desk, telling me I had more than earned the piece of history that was in my hands.

It was as I was holding that jersey, tracing the number I had been wearing since I was five years old—an eight for my ma's birthday, August eighth—that they also told me I would be the one starting on Opening Day. Not Stansin, who previously played for Arizona, or Perez from Tampa, both of whom I'd rotated with all of Spring Training. Me. The twenty-three year old kid whose cleats had yet to touch the grass of a Major League stadium. The first of what was going to be almost a dozen new players signed and added to the 40-man roster over the next four seasons, paving the way for the new, long-standing Nighthawks Dynasty that Colt would put the finishing touches on in his first two years as skipper.

I was on top of the world that day and every day leading into Opening Day. But when the day finally came, I was so fucking nervous, I hardly slept more than a couple of hours. I couldn't eat the whole day yet somehow managed to spend every hour leading up to taking the field puking.

It was the same thing the first time I went to the playoffs. Again when I was named the starting catcher for the American League in the All Star game. And when it was Game 1 of the World Series, I was unsurprised to find the tradition held.

Today, though, there's not a nerve in sight. Where that first game saw my hands shaking so badly before we took to the field that I struggled with the simple task of getting my mask hooked onto my helmet, my hands were steady as I baked and frosted layers of pink champagne cake. My penmanship didn't wobble or scratch as I signed for our rush order rings upon delivery. And I succeeded in tying my tie on the first go round as I dressed in the midnight blue suit Scar had once told me was her favorite of the three I own.

Even as I pace laps from the hallway to the kitchen and the kitchen to the deck that Reeves decorated this afternoon with strands of white lights that as the sky grows dark look like falling stars, my anxiousness isn't born of anxiety, fear of failure, or imposter syndrome. It's anticipation from watching the hours crawl by all day long. Excitement because, in a few minutes, I'll see my girl as my bride. Eagerness because not long after that, she'll be my wife—two words I plan to exhaust tonight when our house empties out and I can have her while she still wears her dress.

The image of her arms spilling over with bunched up fabric as she sinks down on my cock is enough to have me adjusting myself. And when that doesn't work, I begin another lap around the main floor of our house to calm down.

As I'm making my way around, ready to ignore the stairs leading up to our room where Scarlet's been sequestered since I left her last night with a single minute to spare before midnight, Reeves comes galloping down with Boomer Hayes on his heels, and Roman follows with Winnie and her massive pink bow in his arms.

"Is it time?"

Setting his sister's dog down, Roman begins to lint roll her black and caramel colored fur from his suit, confirming, "It's time."

After he's done, it's a flurry of chaos as all the men in Scarlet's life begin bringing the final touches of our wedding day together. While Roman and I are opening up the glass doors to combine the deck and living room into one flowing space, Reeves lights a hundred or so leftover candles from the night I unexpectedly asked Scar to marry me. Even Boomer is fluttering about getting her Christmas tree lit, the lights inside the house dimmed so we're washed in firelight and artificial stars, and lining my bride's aisle with what is easily thousands of rose and peony petals he paid handsomely to have brought in from Nashville, Charlotte, and Atlanta.

Glancing around the room as Roman grabs Winnie around her middle and hauls her back from her attempt at getting to the cake, I slowly say, "I think we're good," trying to spot any final details that need attention or stray items that don't belong.

Mumbling through a checklist on his phone, Reeves's head snaps up as he demands, "Music. Where's my music?"

Distracting Winnie with a leftover pumpkin cookie from her dog-friendly Thanksgiving dinner, Roman questions, "Your music?"

"Yes, my music. I crafted the playlist and timing afterall."

"I hooked it up to the house's sound system," I intervene. "Someone just needs to hit play."

"Okay then," Reeves responds with a satisfied nod. Tucking his phone away in his pocket, he announces, "Then let's get Tate and Sugar hitched!"

With a deep breath, I stand to the right of where the aisle opens up, facing the mountains and taking in the hundreds of stars that have begun to turn out. As the opening whisper of Ed Sheeran's voice begins to hum around us, I want to turn around, especially when I hear Reeves—our newly ordained and self-appointed officiant thanks to credentials he got off the internet—breathe, "Fuck man…" But I don't. I wait. I count. I mouth the lyrics when they come in. I stretch and wring my laced fingers. Recite the career stats of everyone in attendance. Anything to control the anticipation and excitement within me that's coming to a head.

My heart is thundering against my chest. My blood rushing through my ears. Every nerve in my body is keyed in, waiting to relay the message that it's time to turn around.

It's the longest minute and sixteen seconds of my life. A moment of the sweetest agony I have ever felt. A developing memory of when time became relevant and my life balanced on the precipice of before and after.

And then I hear, "I'm in love now," and my body is already turning to see her as the song transitions to the chorus, the flash of Marcia's camera capturing the moment my eyes land on Scarlet.

If I thought time had been slow today, it's nothing compared to this. Staggering back, hand over my mouth, I close my eyes only briefly, checking to be sure this isn't a dream. Blinking them open, I find I'm still basking in the bright, shimmering radiance of Scarlet Jones as she walks toward me. The smile only I ever get, blinding with how big the soft, secret-like tilt of her lips has become.

Little wisps of curled hair frame her beautifully made up face. Her lashes are long, dark, and lined to make the saturated blue color of her eyes the focal point of her face. Her cheeks are a dewy shade of pink, reminiscent of when she blushes and how she glows just before she's flooded with a blissful flush. And her lips are painted with just enough color so as not to get lost amongst everything else—as if I would ever miss a chance to linger over one of her most beautiful and expressive features.

It's the slope of her bare shoulders I'm drawn to next. They're rising as her exuberant smile grows and her steps begin to out pace her dad's. I see his hand close over hers at the same time I feel Reeves's at my elbow. But their attempts are for naught because with her next hastened step, I'm matching her.

I don't think either of us have fully realized we've bucked the order of ceremony when we come together. Only that we're together.

It's too clear a moment to be surreal; nonetheless, it feels dreamlike as my fingers thread through her loose updo while my other hand lands on her hip, grasping her through the layers of signature pink that make up her dress. The fall of her bouquet seems to happen in slow motion as she drops it in favor of fully embracing me, her arms closing over my shoulders and around my neck. And as our lips touch, everything else fades away except the feel of her in my arms and her soft, "I love you, Remi," spoken between kisses.

"I love you too, baby girl," I return just as quietly, my chin coming to rest on top of her head as I hold her closer and breathe in her rose and vanilla perfume, swaying to the song as it continues to play.

It's all too soon when we're reminded of why we're here. Scarlet looks stunning in her dress with shimmering flowers that creep up from her waist to her breasts and down to her hips, the bodice an illusion of lingerie, and her long, toned leg and thigh peeking through a slit in the rippling skirt. Me, in a suit I would only ever wear outside of a press conference for her. And her family equally dressed for the occasion and stiltedly waiting for reality to return to us.

Far louder than necessary, though who knows how many times they've attempted to interrupt us when all I could see was her, Reeves asks in a way only he can, "Y'all done yet?"

"I could use a minute, or ten," Scarlet breathes, her eyes hooded even as she tilts her head back to kiss the underside of my chin.

Squeezing her hip through the layers of her dress, I drift my lips up her jaw until I reach her ear and quietly chide, "Patience, baby girl. The next time I'm inside you, it'll be with you as my wife."

Goosebumps are left in the wake of the shiver that races down her spine. Her darkened lashes fanning across the tops of her cheeks as her eyes flutter close. It's her mouth though that holds my attention as her lips part just enough for a rush of breath to escape her as she whispers, "My husband," her small hand slipping between us as she fists my shirt, her teeth sinking into her painted lip.

I didn't think it was possible to crave more of her than I already do. To be any more devoted to her. Further brought to my knees by her. It wasn't fathomable to me until tonight, until this moment, that there was any more of me she could own. But those two words spoken with such hunger and awe prove me wrong.

She can own everything about me. From my name to my body. My heart to my soul. My very existence and every afterlife I may have once this one ends. She can have it all and use it as she wishes. All I want in exchange is to hear those two words fall from her lips each and every day with the same raw, feverish passion as she has for me now. To never lose that look of burning love and lust that heats her eyes.

Pulling her closer so my cock can press in and feel her body for just a moment, I close my hand over hers and murmur, "My wife," capturing her dreamy sigh on my lips as I silently promise her forever ahead of declaring it aloud.

I hate denying her, but when she tries to turn our kiss deeper, tilting her pelvis into mine, I have to pull apart from her.

With a gentle kiss to her temple and an admonishing squeeze to her hip, I promise, "Soon, baby girl," and release her.

Bending down to retrieve her bouquet, I offer it back to her, a smile continuing to play on my lips, as I say, "Now we're done."

"Fantastic," Reeves grumbles. "Didn't want to be an inconvenience or anything and try to actually marry y'all on your wedding day."

Biting back the cheek splitting grin I have as I walk backward to my spot, my eyes never leaving hers, I respond, "Don't worry; you're not."

"Glad to hear it," he further mutters, giving me a light shove when I'm before him once more.

Then, all at once, time speeds up and blurs as my soon to be wife walks down the rest of the aisle to me and before I know it, I'm hearing, "You may now kiss the bride."

I get a split second to brace for my girl, my wife, before she's like an elated spring, her heels and dress not holding her back as she leaps for me. Catching her with a shallow squat of my thighs to better propel me in lifting her up the rest of the way, my arms circle under her butt as her hands take my face and her lips crash onto mine.

Though we kissed not twenty minutes before and a thousand, if not ten thousand, more times before that, this one is new. It's different. It's something we've never shared before. It's another beginning. Another first kiss when we thought we'd had our last. It's full of new hopes, new dreams, new passion, love and lust. It's full of the promises and vows of forever we've just made.

Coming apart to applause, I slowly slide Scarlet down my body, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she feels the growing situation in my pants. With molton eyes, she rocks up against me and kisses me hard and breathless once more, humming "Husband," against my lips before turning around in my arms with an exhilarated shimmy.

Then before Reeves can even get the words out, she's shouting, "Say hello to my husband, the freshly minted Mr. Jones!" fist bumping the air and throwing her bouquet at Roman with a wink, who promptly drops it and gives her a warning point of his finger as he mouths, "No."