28. Freya

CHAPTER 28

FREYA

I hold Matt's hand tightly in mine, both of us holding our breath as Jackson scrapes the pitcher's mound with his foot. The atmosphere in the stadium is electric, everyone waiting for the key moment.

We're at the top of the ninth inning, waiting for Jackson to do his stuff. He's been on great form all season, and his work has all been worth it, because here we are in the World Series, three zero up on Atlanta. And though the bases are loaded, I've got a good feeling about this strikeout that Jackson's about to make.

He'd better , anyway. If he loses this game, I'm going to be devastated for him. This is all he's been working for, for his whole life.

"He's got to do it," whispers Matt, mostly to himself. "He's got to do it."

"He will," I say. "They've got this in the bag."

Matt shakes his head, not as confident, but I refuse to put that energy out there. "Come on, Jackson!" I scream. Even though we're sitting just behind home plate in the best seats in the stadium, I doubt Jackson can hear us. He turns to look anyway, as if he just knew we were talking about him.

He throws Matt and me a grin, and we wave back. He's never happier than when he's playing ball. The only other time I ever see that smile is on date night while I'm telling him my stories about work or Matt or whatever else is occupying my time. It's not been long, but already he's sticking to his word. He has changed, and it's only for the better.

There's nothing about this moment that I would change — well, other than to guarantee the Prairie Dogs' win.

Matt squeezes my hand as Jackson turns back to the game. "He's got to do it," he says again. I just squeeze his hand back.

It all comes down to this. Matt says that this is the most strikeouts Jackson's ever made in one game and I believe it. There have been a couple of close moments but, overall, Jackson's managed to keep them from getting an advantage. He's getting tired now, though — it's been a long game, and I can see him rolling his shoulder to try and shake out some of the fatigue.

He's going to get such a good back massage from me later, and that's just the start of it.

Jackson takes a breath and so do we. He steps back and then, in a beautifully fluid motion, sticks his leg into the air like a dancer, then shifts all that momentum into the ball.

For a moment the entire world seems to stop, squeezed into that ball, stretching out as long as it can go. It's the slowest fastball I've ever felt.

And then time snaps back into place, and Matt and I both scream for joy as the ball sails past the batter, and the umpire crosses his arms in a way that can only signify a strikeout.

The entire stadium starts jumping, and I feel like we're going to cause an earthquake, but I don't care because I'm so delighted for Jackson. And for the rest of the team, of course, but mostly for Jackson. This is everything he's ever wanted. And finally, it's his.

The look on his face tells us everything we need to know about how much it means to him. He drops to his knees, mouth wide open like he can't believe it.

If I could, I'd go and wrap my arms around him, kiss his lips, and tell him how proud I am of how far he's come. He deserves every success, and I love him all the more for it because he meant every word he said to me in his house that day. He's not perfect, but he's trying, and that's all anyone can ask for.

He scrambles back to his feet as the team rush at him, and I wave, saying, "I love you!" at him even though he can't hear. He blows a kiss back at me, then gets swallowed into the celebration tackle.

Jackson has done his best to get us privileges to meet him afterwards. But he has to talk to the press first, and he told us it might take him a while to get to us. As expected, we get efficiently escorted into the depths of the stadium by a burly guard and deposited into a side room.

"They'll be in the press room now, ma'am, but we'll get you settled in here. You can watch the reporting on the TV, and I'll let Jackson know you're here, for when he's ready," says the guard with that vague disinterest most security seem to have.

"Thank you," I smile. He flicks on the video stream and shuts the door behind us.

"I can't believe they won," Matt says quietly to me, like saying it too loud will undo it.

"I can," I say. "They worked hard for it."

"Yeah, but working hard doesn't always mean you'll succeed."

"Who turned you into a little fortune cookie?" I ask, ruffling his hair.

He shakes me off, and we both turn our attention to the screen and the guy who has changed both of our lives forever. Jackson looks at the camera as if he knows we're watching and waits for the journalists to start asking their questions. Most of it is just run-of-the-mill stuff. How was training season? What was it like to get back to playing at such a critical time?

One guy with a nasal-sounding voice and an accent that's impossible to place catches Jackson's attention and says, "So what's next for you, Jackson? What's your plan for the rest of your career?"

"The rest of my career is going to be a long time relaxing," Jackson says smoothly. "Let me put any rumors to rest right now. I am retiring. In fact, this is the last game I will ever play with the Prairie Dogs."

Light gasps scatter around the room, and I get the feeling from the look on the coach's face that Jackson hasn't yet discussed this with him.

"You all know, my ambition was always the World Series. And now we've won it, I think it's time to go out on a high. I'm not done with baseball yet. But recently, I've learned that there's more to life than the game. I've realized that family can be important too. So, yes, I'm retiring. Starting now."

With that, he gets up and walks out of the room without another word.

Matt and I share a baffled look. "Where's he going?" asks Matt.

About three seconds later, the door opens and Jackson bursts in, almost breathless from running to us. "Freya," he gasps.

"Jackson, what the hell are you doing?"

"Didn't you hear? I'm retiring."

"Why?" asks Matt, just as shocked than I am.

"For you guys," he says. "For the baby. What more do I need?"

He breathes out hard and looks at us both as we stand there with our mouths wide open, neither of us knowing what to say now. Then he lets out that easy grin and starts laughing. Matt glances at me from the corner of his eye as Jackson comes up to us and collects us both in his arms, and, as if it's contagious, we both start laughing too, until the three of us are hysterical, our ribs aching from joy.

"Jackson, your career," I say at last. "What are you going to do?"

"Well, Ms. Journalist," he says teasingly, and I hit him lightly in the arm to knock some sense into him. "I don't know yet. Coach, probably. But it doesn't matter. I got what I wanted. I got the win, and I got you ."

From behind us, I hear a camera shutter click, and my stomach does a somersault as I realize that that quote is probably going to be a headline.

"They're looking at us," hisses Matt. "What do we do?"

"Hide your face if you don't want to be in the paper," mutters Jackson, then he turns his head to look at me. "But I think we should give them a real good picture for the front page. What do you think?"

I grin at him. "I totally agree."

With that, he sweeps me up in his arms and kisses me hard, his big, gentle hands cradling my body as his soft lips melt into mine, every single atom of his body crying out with the promises he's making to me, and every atom of mine believing him. Nothing in the world matters but this. Our family.