Chapter 11 OZZIE
OZZIE
The flight back to Rock Hills was a blur of flashing lights and microphones, but the moment the team plane touched down on home turf, a sense of calm finally settled over me.
We were back where we belonged. The media storm was still howling, but inside the gates of our home stadium, the air felt different.
We were finally us.
Our new coach, Fred Tiller, was a veteran of the game who had seen everything. He’d pulled us aside before the first home game and said, “I’m here to manage a ball team, not a fucking soap opera. You two produce on the field, and I’ll have your backs until the final out. Now go get changed.”
“Yes, sir.” Ryan and I both understood.
Walking into our own stadium again felt like reclaiming a sanctuary. We were home.
* * *
We had a home game tonight and the “New Era” was visible everywhere. There were pride flags tucked into the corners of the stands, and the “Lindson I felt like a man who had earned his spot.
* * *
The roar of the Rock Hills crowd was unlike anything I’d ever heard.
It wasn’t just the sound of a stadium; it felt like a wall of wind hitting me in the chest, pushing me forward.
As I stepped onto the red dirt of the diamond for the first time since the “accident,” I felt Ryan’s eyes on me from the mound.
He looked like a god out there. The home white jersey made his shoulders look a mile wide, and the way he stared down the lead-off hitter told me everything I needed to know. He wasn’t playing for the stats anymore. He was playing for us. He was my catcher and hitter.
In the bottom of the ninth, with two outs and the stadium lights humming above us like a heartbeat, Ryan caught a 99-mph heater that the batter couldn’t even see.
“Out!” The game was over. 4-0. The perfect shutout.
Usually, we’d do the team handshake line, keep it professional, and head to the showers.
But as the guys started pouring out of the dugout, Ryan didn’t go shake hands.
He turned towards me. He walked straight to me, his glove tucked under his arm, his face flushed with the heat of the win.
He was coming straight towards me on the catcher grass.
The noise of the crowd reached a fever pitch, but it went quiet in my head the second he reached me. He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed the front of my jersey, fist bunching the fabric, and hauled me into him.
“I fucking love you, Ozzie Ford. So much.” And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t a “bro” hug or a pat on the back.
It was a deep, possessive, “I-don’t-care-who-is-watching” kiss.
His mouth tasted like salt and adrenaline, and for a second, I forgot there were thirty thousand people screaming and a dozen cameras broadcasting our faces to every sports bar in the country.
My hands went to his waist, clinging to him, finally letting go of all the fear I’d been carrying since that first night on the bus.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing hard.
“If I ever caught a ball again, it would be you, Oz,” he rasped, loud enough only for me to hear over the chaos. “Would you catch me?”
“I would always catch you, Ryan Lindson.” I whispered back. “Every time.”
He smiled and kissed me again. The crowd was going wild.
But I didn’t care. I was kissing the man who I loved so much.
We broke apart and walked off the field together, shoulders brushing, our fingers lacing together as we headed for the tunnel.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t worried about the next play or the next contract.
I was just Ozzie Ford, the guy who’d helped win the game, walking home with the man who had changed my entire world. He was mine.
As we hit the shadows of the dugout, Ryan leaned in close to my ear. “Pack a bag tonight. When this series is over, I’m taking you somewhere where the only thing we have to worry about is which beach we’re sitting on.”
I smiled, feeling the weight of the championship ring we were going to win this year finally feeling light. “As long as you’re there, Cap, I’ll go anywhere.”
And that was a fucking promise.