37. Brian
CHAPTER 37
Brian
We’re driving through what looks like the quietest suburban area just outside the city. The kind of place where everyone knows each other, lawns are modest but well-kept, and there’s always a dog barking somewhere in the distance.
Jules is hunched over her phone, squinting at the map like it’s written in hieroglyphics, refusing to let me take a look.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” I ask, glancing at the winding road ahead.
She doesn’t look up. “I’ve got this.”
Sure, because Jules and directions go together like sushi and cereal. If this were Taylor? Hell, we’d probably be halfway to Vegas by now.
“Turn here!” she shouts, and I jerk the wheel, the tires shrieking as we skid onto a dirt road that looks like it hasn’t been driven on in years.
Dust billows up around us, and just when I think we’re heading into the middle of nowhere, it appears—a rundown baseball field.
The chalk lines are almost gone, barely ghosting the field, and the dugouts are hanging on by a thread, but the place still holds all its charm.
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes. “It’s been a while since I crushed you at baseball,” I tease.
“In your dreams, Bishop.”
We park and start walking around. “This could almost be a romantic stroll down memory lane—like that time I watched you totally lose your shit at the ump over a strike call.”
“Strike, my ass.” She giggles, her eyes lighting up.
That’s my Peach Pop. Feisty and gorgeous. “If someone had told me what I was in for, I’d have brought a change of clothes.”
“And spoil the surprise?” she fires back with a smirk.
I glance around at the field. With the look of these grounds, I could probably play just fine in my current prosthetic. But if push comes to shove, I’ve always got a blade tucked safely in the trunk—just in case Jules’s competitive streak rears its Godzilla head.
And let’s be clear, barring an alien invasion or biblical flood, there’s nothing keeping me from racing around that diamond if she asks.
Before I know it, a group of kids rush from the dugout, like they’ve been waiting for this moment all day.
One of them, the kid Jules has been texting, sprints right up to us, breathless. “You’re that Bishop guy,” he says in awe.
“I am.” I guess.
“Did you bring the list?” Jules asks, all business.
He pulls it from his back pocket, crumpled but intact, and hands it over. Jules motions to me, and I unfold the list. Uniforms. Bats. Mitts. And...a popcorn machine ?
I arch a brow. “What is this?”
“Well, Mr. Bishop,” Jules says, smirking. “You’ve officially entered ransom negotiations with Max here.”
“For my watch?” I light up.
Max grins, pulling off his ball cap and letting the watch slip into his hand, still a little sweaty from being crammed in there.
Jules cringes. “Eww,” she mutters, patting me on the back as if I’m the one who has to deal with it. “Promise to get them every last thing on that list, and the watch is yours,” she says.
I don’t even hesitate. “Sold.”
He points. “What happened to your leg?”
Jules looks mortified, but before she can step in, I offer a warm smile, doing what I’ve always done with the curious and the innocently unfiltered. I roll up my pant leg, revealing the prosthetic, and let them have a look.
“It was an accident. The doctors saved my life, and this leg? It lets me keep doing everything I love.”
They huddle around me, wide-eyed, asking a thousand questions. “Can you leap tall buildings?”
I chuckle softly. “Only when no one’s looking,” I say, pressing a finger to my lips with a playful shhh .
Another kid pipes up, eyes wide with curiosity. “Can you run faster than a car?”
I laugh, rubbing my chin. “Depends on the car. A Matchbox car? Hands down.”
The kids giggle, their eyes wide with wonder.
I lose the blazer, roll up my sleeves, and switch prosthetics as I lose myself in their world.
I might have gone with the sneakers that are always in my gym bag, but let’s be real—the blade always keeps the kids interested.
One kid, Logan, challenges me to a race around the diamond, and for once, it’s nice not to be the only one showing off.
Meanwhile, Jules has slipped into the game like a comfy pair of Uggs. She’s posted up on third base, chatting with Max, probably negotiating another deal, when she suddenly breaks for home.
The kids scramble, hollering and screaming, trying to catch her, but she’s fast—just as fast as I remember, if not faster.
I move before thinking, catching her just before she reaches the plate, lifting her clean off the ground and over my shoulder, giving the kids their much-needed victory. Cheers erupt all around us.
She squeals, half laughing, half complaining. “Hey! Put me down!”
I don’t. Not until I feel her laughter vibrating against my shoulder, warm and infectious, spilling over into my chest.
And then, because I can’t help myself, I set her down and kiss her right there, in front of all the kids.
My girl.
“Eww!” they groan in unison, hands flying up to cover their eyes.
Whatever. I’m standing here with a watch strapped to my wrist that spent some quality time in Max’s sweaty ballcap. I have earned this.
Let this be a lesson to their kind: When a man spanks his wife at sports, kissing will happen.