35. Grand Slam
THIRTY-FIVE
GRAND SLAM
ISABELLA
I’m gripping Jordan’s hand hard enough that I’m likely cutting off blood supply, but that’s the least of my concerns.
It’s game seven of the World Series and the bottom of the ninth inning.
The series is tied up after the Suns won the first two games at home but lost all three away games in New York.
They were able to pull out the win last night but barely.
Now whoever wins this game, wins the series.
And right now, it’s not looking good for the Suns.
They’re down by three runs with one out on the board.
But Ryan’s up at bat and the bases are loaded. His new walk-up song blasts through the stadium’s PA system, bringing a small smile to my lips.
“Accidentally in Love” by Counting Crows.
Yeah, that song from Shrek 2.
“Come on, baby. You can do this,” I say under my breath as he waltzes up to the plate, looking entirely at ease considering the amount of pressure he must be feeling right now.
“Did you just call him baby?” Jordan asks with a laugh.
“Shut up, it’s something we’re trying out,” I grumble at her, not taking my eyes off the field.
Right before he steps into the batter’s box, he looks up to where we’re sitting and shoots me a quick wink before he turns his attention to the pitcher and steps into the box. My body heats in response the way it does wherever he’s involved.
A hush falls over the stadium as the pitcher rears back and launches the ball toward Ryan. The slap of the ball hitting the catcher’s glove echoes in the silence.
“Ball!” the umpire calls out.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
The next pitch comes in just as fast.
“Ball!”
“Okay, two balls. That’s fine. They can’t walk him though,” Jordan says, trying to calm my nerves.
“I know.”
The next pitch comes in and Ryan swings at it, clipping the ball for a foul.
“Strike one!”
“Fuck,” I curse.
The next two pitches are another ball and a strike.
“Full count,” Jordan whispers.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” I say, holding her closer.
It’s like everything happens in slow motion.
Ryan bounces on the balls of his feet in preparation for the pitch.
The pitcher winds his arm back and fires the ball toward him.
The corner of Ryan’s mouth kicks up as if he knows that this is it.
This is the pitch. He swings the bat with his full power and?—
Crack!
The ball soars up, up, up. But also far.
“Oh my god,” I breathe out.
“Did he just…” Jordan trails off.
“Yeah. He did,” I say, a smile over taking my face as I watch the ball sail deep into the outfield and over the back wall into the stands.
Ryan hit a game winning grand slam.
The stadium erupts. Jordan and I jump up and down in each other’s arms, screaming and crying.
The Suns just won the World Series.
We settle down and turn back to the field right as Ryan’s finishing his lap around the bases.
The second his foot connects with home plate, the team floods out onto the field and lifts him onto their shoulders, tossing him around in celebration.
Someone else sneaks up behind with an orange drink cooler and dumps the contents of the electric blue sports drink over Ryan’s head.
When he’s back on his feet, he shakes the excess liquid from his hair all over the rest of the team. Pushing the stray hair off his face, he turns until he’s facing where Jordan and I are sitting.
I’m sure I look like a snotty, smiley mess as our eyes lock across the stadium, but he doesn’t look like he notices. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.
He jogs toward us until he reaches the wall at the bottom of the stands and waves his hand, beckoning me to him.
“Go!” Jordan says, shoving me out of our row.
“Am I even allowed down there?” I ask, unsure.
“Girl, you work for the damn team now! Pretty sure you can do whatever you want. Now go!”
“I’m not so sure that’s how that works!” I call to her over my shoulder with a laugh as I jog down the steps to meet Ryan. “What are you doing?” I ask him, breathless.
His entire face is lit up. Wide smile, a brightness to his eyes. “Wanted to see you.”
“You should be celebrating with the guys,” I argue, motioning behind him where they’re still all huddled up, taking turns spraying each other with champagne.
“I’m celebrating exactly how I want to. With my girl,” he says as he lifts his hand to cup my cheek and pulls me into him.
His lips meet mine in a desperate, hungry kiss.
He nips at my bottom lip and our tongues tangle, fighting for dominance.
He groans into my mouth, sending shivers through my body.
I pull back abruptly. “If we don’t stop this is going to turn into a very R-rated celebration that I don’t think our bosses would want to see.”
He chuckles as he uses his thumb to swipe at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose you’re right. Best we save that for later. When we can celebrate”—he leans close, dropping his voice to a rough whisper—“all. Night. Long.”
Another shiver wracks my body before I break out of the lustful haze, shoving him away as he laughs. Fisting the front of his jersey, I pull him back to me. “I’m so proud of you,” I say softly. His eyes sparkle with the buildup of unshed tears. “Ti amo.”
“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cry, firecracker.” He gives me a watery smile before he yanks me in for a firm hug. He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I love you so much. I’m so happy you were here to see us win.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” I whisper, holding him tight to me.