Chapter 58 #2
Next to me, Lexi’s blond eyebrows are nearly buried in her hairline. “Huh.” Though she says it as if she’s not completely surprised.
The rest of the stadium clearly is. The crowd’s murmur goes to outright dismay. What are they doing? I sit up straight as if they’re going to shine a spotlight right where I’m sitting. Then panic sets in. Everyone’s gonna know. Everyone does know.
Everyone knows.
Victoria will know. She might be happy for me or angry—in her disapproving Victoria way—for keeping this from her.
Forrest probably knows. Will he hate me for crash-landing with him, not for fleeing a bad marriage, but running from a good one I was too scared to embrace?
The team knows. The team knew and covered it up. Now Brayden decided to make it front-page news. They might bench him, trade him, cut him. I’m surprised they even let him set foot on the field. He might be throwing away his entire career—Asher’s entire career—for a few short weeks of happiness.
Brad and Barb know. Fuck. They essentially removed one son from their lives for the crime of moving to Boston. What’ll they do when they find out that Brayden is in lo—
I cut myself off mentally. We haven’t said those words, not yet. But here he is in a jersey with all three of our names on it.
The umpire circles his hand, commanding the opposing pitcher to hurry up and get on with it.
Baseball, right. What Brayden is actually here to do.
The pitcher tosses the ball. Brayden swings, makes good contact, ball skidding past the other team’s infielders for a single into shallow left field.
And I have just enough time to stand and cheer for him when Asher comes up to the plate.
His jersey has the same long string of names.
And if the crowd didn’t pick up on it before, they certainly do now.
We’re close enough to the field to see Asher’s expression as he stands in the batter’s box and prepares to swing.
Not a smile—but that knowing smirk, as if he’s in on a secret. Only now everyone’s in on it with him.
This is a PR disaster. A scandal. Headline news.
My heart swells in my chest. I blink back tears like I did in Dr. Ghorbani’s office—only this time, they’re from happiness.
I don’t know what’ll happen after the game or after the season’s over.
But none of that matters, not when Asher hits a double and clears the bases, driving in Isaiah and Brayden, and giving the Peaches a two-to-nothing lead.
Standing on second, Asher’s looking right at me, jersey proud on his shoulders.
He removes his helmet as if he’s signaling to the batter now standing in the box… but no, he’s waving at me.
The crowd around us—mostly season-ticket holders and local businesspeople—begins pointing and murmuring. News of this must hit social media; my phone starts buzzing in my hand.
Next to me, Lexi nudges my arm. I turn to her, face burning, trying to explain any of this. “I don’t know where you get the energy,” she says. “One ballplayer’s more than enough for me.”
I laugh, can’t help it. “I don’t have a toddler to chase after.”
She smirks. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Not for a while.” But maybe, someday. Briefly, I picture a little girl with my hair and Brayden’s gray eyes, a boy with Asher’s serious expression and wiry frame. All of us together, somehow—and that somehow feels a lot less distant than it did when I woke up this morning.
In the seat next to me, Izzy is clamoring for attention, clapping his chubby palms together and saying play ball, even if he can’t quite manage the ls.
Play ball.
So that’s what we do.
After the game, I rise, willing feeling back into my legs.
Midway through the fourth inning, I set my phone to airplane mode.
When I turn it back on, a flood of notifications greets me: reporters and randos DMing me on Instagram, a few people posting threats creative enough that I flag them to report to team personnel later.
If the team still wants to talk to any of us.
Most are about how I stole Asher from them, a few about how I led Brayden down a path paved with sin.
But a lot—a lot—are telling me to live my best life.
She really booked her ticket to the Eiffel Tower??
I’d let those two patrol my outfield…and my infield…and my backfield.
DP doesn’t just stand for double-play.
My face goes hot. I need to get out of here to process all of this.
Part of me wants to flee back to San Diego.
Part of me doesn’t want anyone to let them think they got to me.
I’m considering what to ask Asher and Brayden—Are we back together?
Did the team change its mind?—when the stadium scoreboard changes from the final game summary to an on-field camera broadcasting the post-game interview: Brayden, talking with the sideline reporter in the foul grounds near the Peaches’ dugout, as she asks him about his hit in the first inning that scored the winning run.
“We couldn’t have won this one without Asher in the lineup,” he says. A clear shot at the team, given how he grins into the mic as he says it.
“Yes, it’s great to have you both back!” the reporter says. But before she can get to her next question, Brayden interrupts.
“I actually have a question…” He pauses, drinking in the attention of the fans who haven’t yet left the stadium, many of whom pause where they’re halfway up the aisles. “For someone here tonight.”
Brayden reaches into his jersey, pulls out a necklace.
Unhooks it and holds it up to the camera.
My pendant. He must have worn that all game.
“The first time I tried to do this, I don’t think I did it right.
” He walks—the camera follows him—until he’s right in front of where I’m sitting, the two of us separated by the netting they use to protect the crowd from foul balls.
Slowly, he sinks down until he’s on one knee in the grass between the backstop and home plate. “Savannah Marie Burke—” he begins, then stops. “Wait, hold on.” He gestures over to the dugout.
Asher jogs out, his game jersey still on. “Hey, princess,” he calls to me. “Glad you got our letter.” Then he looks at Brayden. “Hope it’s okay, but I wanted to ask your wife to marry me.”
Brayden laughs. “Good, ’cause I was about to ask her the same thing.
” He looks up at me, smiling, happier than I’ve ever seen him, gray eyes for once calm.
“Savannah Marie Burke, I promise to love, honor, and cherish you as best as I know how, so long as you want me in your life. Would you allow me the privilege of being your husband?”
I’m crying. I can’t stop myself, tears of joy streaking down my face. I nod, barely able to speak. “Yes. Yes, I will.”
Brayden rises from the dirt, yanks up the netting enough that he can duck under it, so we can kiss while the stadium cheers. “Now,” Brayden says, “about the forsaking all others part…”
He looks back at Asher, who sidles up to us, shoulder jostling Brayden’s. “Hey, Mrs. Forsyth.”
“Didn’t you read your own jersey?” I say. “It’s Savannah Forsyth-Burke-Adler.”
He studies me, eyes dark, then leans toward me and whispers, low, so it won’t be picked up by the cameras. “I was thinking about making it easier on the team seamstress and dropping Adler.”
“Is that who you talked into doing this?” I ask.
Brayden grins. “She said he and her wife needed to do the same thing for their softball jerseys.”
I laugh. “Well, Asher Forsyth-Burke does have a nice ring to it.”
“It really does.” We’re still being broadcast over the stadium scoreboard, but Asher doesn’t so much as spare a look around.
Just takes my hand in his, threading our fingers together.
“I don’t have much to offer you. After today, I don’t know if I’ll even be playing baseball anymore and I don’t know what comes next. So I just have myself.”
“Yourself is enough,” I say, eyes teary.
Asher frowns. “You don’t know that.”
“You took a risk when you drove all night just for someone to give you a chance?” I say, and he nods. “So why are you surprised when other people are willing to take a risk on you?”
Asher doesn’t answer, not in words. Just pulls me to him, kisses me, deep, like he’s making a point.
A few people up in the stands who clearly didn’t get what was happening gasp. A few more shout encouragement. More clap, though some of it sounds slightly bewildered.
Asher pulls back, pats his uniform pants pockets like he’s forgotten something. “I don’t have a ring.”
I offer my hand where I’m still wearing the large yellow diamond Brayden gave me months ago. “That’s okay.”
Next to us, Brayden holds up his own hand, where he’s wearing the black silicone wedding band he normally plays in. “Who says you’d be the one to give us a ring, Asher?” He reaches into his pocket, takes out another silicone band: this one with a subtle geometric pattern all over it.
Asher takes the ring, examines it, looks between us as if wonderstruck, before he slides it on his left hand. Stares at it for a moment like he can’t believe this is happening. “This wasn’t part of the plan, B,” he says.
“Plans change.” Brayden knocks their shoulders together. “Ask me how I know.”
A burst of light appears above the stadium—post-game fireworks—shimmers of bright pink and green and white. Who knows what will happen tomorrow: if they’ll be cut from the team, if there’ll be the media firestorm we spent so long avoiding.
For now, I weave my fingers through Brayden’s and Asher’s, and we watch bursts of color streak across the sky like stars.