Epilogue
RYAN
Six months later, the air in Rock Hills was crisp with the start of winter, but I didn’t care. I was three thousand miles away, sitting on a balcony in Amalfi, watching the sun dip into the Mediterranean. The only sound was the crashing of waves and the clink of ice in my glass.
For ten years, my life had been measured in innings, pitch counts, and ERA stats. I’d spent every winter training until my joints ached, terrified that if I took my eye off the ball for one second, I’d lose my spot as the “Ace.”
But then I felt a pair of arms slide around my neck from behind.
My Ozzie.
“You’re thinking too loud again,” Ozzie whispered, his voice thick with sleep. He pressed his face into the crook of my neck, his skin warm from a nap. “I can hear your brain calculating spring training dates from here.”
I reached up, grabbing his forearms and pulling him closer until he was draped over the back of my chair. “Hard habit to break, Oz. I’ve been a machine for a long time.”
“Well, the machine is on vacation,” he murmured, kissing the top of my shoulder.
I turned in my seat, pulling him down into my lap.
He laughed, that bright, messy sound that still made my heart do a standing ovation.
We’d fucking made it. Through the scandal, the viral videos, the firing of a legend, and a postseason that had pushed us to our absolute limits.
We didn’t win the World Series—we lost in the seventh game of the ALCS—but as I looked at Ozzie, I realized I’d never felt more like a champion.
I had him.
The league had changed. After the recording went viral, three other players in the majors had come out. The “Wingman Protocol” was a joke of the past. Now, when we walked into the clubhouse, we were just Ryan and Ozzie. The star catcher and his rookie catcher.
“Hey,” I said, tilting his chin up so he had to look me in the eye. “I meant what I said back in Chicago. About you being perfect. You are, babe.”
Ozzie smirked, that familiar spark of mischief returning to his eyes. “I know. I have the recording, remember? I could make it viral if you ever forget.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me, Cap.”
I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I pulled him into a kiss that tasted like expensive wine and the kind of freedom I’d spent thirty years thinking was impossible for a guy like me.
The world could have its “Golden Boy” back in February.
They could have their Captain and their stats and their headlines.
But right here, under the Italian stars, I finally had everything that actually mattered.
Him.
“I love you, Oz,” I muttered against his lips.
“I know,” he whispered back, his smile pressing against mine. “Now shut up and watch the sunset with me.”
And for the first time in my life, I did exactly what I was fucking told.
* * *
The Mediterranean sun had finally slipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a bruised purple and gold.
I felt the ring box in my pocket—a heavy, nervous weight I’d been carrying since we left the States.
I’d faced bases-loaded jams in the bottom of the ninth with less sweat on my palms than I had right now.
Would he marry a guy like me? A guy who’s possessive and protects what’s his?
“Oz,” I said, my voice sounding a little rougher than usual.
He was leaning against the stone railing, looking out at the lights of the boats dotting the water. “Yeah, Ryan?”
“You know, everyone talked about how I was ‘saving’ your career back in Chicago,” I started, standing up and walking over to him. “But the truth is, I was drowning in that ‘Golden Boy’ act long before you showed up. I was playing a character. You’re the one who made me a real person.”
Ozzie turned, his brow furrowing slightly as he sensed the shift in my energy. “Ryan? What’s going on? You’re doing your ‘post-game press conference’ voice.”
I let out a short, breathy laugh and reached for his hands.
They were calloused from a thousand batting cage sessions and from catching with a glove.
“I’m saying that I don’t want to go back to another season where I have to wonder what the future looks like.
I know exactly what it looks like. It looks like you. ”
I dropped to one knee.
Ozzie’s entire body went still. His intake of breath was the only sound in the quiet evening air. I pulled the small velvet box from my pocket and flipped it open. The diamond caught the moonlight, but I was only looking at his face—the shock, the watering eyes, the way his hand went to his mouth.
“Ozzie Ford,” I said, my voice steadying as I looked up at him. “You’re my teammate, my best friend, and the best thing that ever happened to this game. I don’t want to just be your Captain. I want to be your husband. Will you marry me?”
For a second, I thought he might actually faint. Then, he let out a choked-back sob and lunged at me, knocking us both back toward the lounge chair.
“Yes, Lindson!” he gasped, his face buried in my neck as he clung to me. “God, yes, Ryan. Of course I’ll marry you!”
I laughed, the tension finally breaking as I slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. I pulled him back for a kiss that felt like a grand slam—the kind that wins the whole damn series.
“Guess we’re going to have to update that TikTok,” I teased, wiping a tear from his cheek with my thumb.
Ozzie laughed, his eyes bright with a joy that no stadium lights could ever match. “The world isn’t ready for the ‘Lindson-Ford’ wedding. But I don’t care. I’m ready for it.”
We sat there on the balcony for hours after that, planning a life that had nothing to do with batting averages and everything to do with forever. The “Wingman Protocol” was officially retired. We were teammates for life.