Chapter 29 Lachlan
LACHLAN
Bottom of the ninth. It might not end the way I hoped, unlike the movies.
Sure, I’d had my moments—clutch hits, big saves. Win or lose, I carried it. Every loss sat on my chest, as if I’d let every man on my team down. And yet here I was.
Bases loaded.
Tied game.
Two outs.
I strolled out of the dugout—adjusting my gloves, jaw tight—my mind nowhere near the strike zone. But on her.
Natasha.
She was planting trees this evening. And I knew damn well that tree was for Lorenzo.
That guy rubbed me the wrong way the second I laid eyes on him. Slick. Smiled too easy. Spoke too smooth. If he hadn’t served with Jamie, I wouldn’t buy that he was a soldier either. Vassili, you targeted the wrong guy!
Every part of me screamed Ferri was hiding something.
I gripped my bat tighter as I walked toward the plate.
I didn’t pray for home runs. Didn’t believe in manipulating God like that. But tonight, I burned with hope.
I needed to pull this off. Not just for the team.
For me. For everything I couldn’t say to Natasha.
For every inch of distance she’d put between us after telling me how some bawbag harmed her.
Because I loved her, and she was out there—right now—with someone who didn’t deserve to breathe her air. Her cologne.
Our cologne.
A humorless laugh choked my throat.
I stepped into the batter’s box.
The crowd was electric—sixty thousand strong, shaking the stadium walls with adrenaline.
Montana stood on third. My brother’s glare warned me to get in the game. Shohei at second. A hotshot rookie just walked to first. The lineup had stacked perfectly.
This was my shot.
The Giants’ closer stood tall on the mound, sweat beading his neck. I glared at him. Ice in my veins, though my heartbeat was a thundering Scottish drum in my ears.
The count climbed fast—strike one, two.
The umpire called a questionable ball.
Hyper focused, my vision blurred the dugout, the fans. Somewhere in those stands, I imagined Natasha chose me tonight.
Even if I was wrong … this was for her.
I locked eyes with the pitcher, my powerful limbs settled into a stance, and I waited.
He threw.
Fastball.
Too low. Too quick.
But I saw it.
Crack.
The sound of connection echoed like a fighter jet.
The crowd surged as I ran.
Montana crossed home to the chants of “Big Country!” Shohei at his heels. The rookie a step after. I rounded third.
By the time my cleats stomped home plate, the dugout had emptied and swallowed me whole. Montana threw an arm around me. Another hoisted me halfway into the air, water bottles exploding.
We won!
A grand slam walk-off.
I was breathless, pumped, laughing.
The jumbotron flickered. The crowd screamed louder as the Kissing Cam rolled across the stands.
I glanced up. And exhaled. Because there she was.
Natasha.
Center frame. Solo. Curls tucked behind one ear. Her skin glowed under the lights.
In her hands—firm but shaky—was a sign. Black Sharpie. Plain white cardboard. The words in Gaelic read, Only you.
She held it high, no embarrassment, no hesitation. Placing her palm over her heart, she pointed at me and mouthed, Only you.
My body heaved from the run, adrenaline pounding, but in that moment, everything in me stilled.
It was always her.
Had always been her.
Helmet in hand, I pressed it against my chest and stared at her like she was the only person in the world—because she was.
She mouthed, I’m yours.
The locker room was chaos.
Reporters shouted. Cameras flashed. Ice chests dumped. Champagne popped.
But I barely heard any of it.
Even when Montana passed me a bottle and shouted, “You’re a legend, MacKenzie!” I nodded, handing the bottle off.
His chuckle was all I noticed before tunnel vision took over. She didn’t seem confused. Not a woman stuck in limbo between two men.
I barely remembered throwing on fresh clothes. Jeans. My team-issued hoodie. Hair wet, cleats swapped out for sneakers, I passed the press tunnel like a ghost and ducked out a side entrance where security buzzed around the crowd outside.
Past the inner gates, Natasha leaned against my McLaren in the player lot, arms folded, guarding something fragile inside her.
That elusive heart she claimed to give to me and tore from my hands.
The brim of her Dodger cap dipped low, but I’d know her silhouette anywhere.
A thick, curvy frame. A quiet stillness surrounded her, as if the city had gone silent for this moment.
I slowed my steps. Not because I was tired. I wasn’t. Seeing her had brought me back to life. More adrenaline rushed through my veins than blood. But something about her presence demanded I not rush this.
I just walked—slow, like if I moved too fast, I might break the magnetic field pulling us together.
Then she looked up.
Not a word. Not a smile. Just eyes—soft, searching, locked on mine like gravity had its own rules when it came to us. I stopped in front of her, pulse thudding behind my ribs.
“You came,” I said, rough, yet lower than I expected. Damn. My voice always dropped a little when I set eyes on her. I sorta figured my mind had to reacclimate itself with her beauty.
My fingers brushed hers. She didn’t pull away.
“You hit that home run,” she whispered, “and something in me cracked open. Something I’d tried to bury.”
“Don’t.” My voice came out strangled. “Don’t bury anything with me, Tash.” I moved in slowly, letting the heat between us build. “Not pain. Not past. Please don’t close yourself off to me anymore.”
Her lips parted. She didn’t speak.
I cupped her jaw, my thumb brushing under her cheekbone.
“Natasha,” I murmured, “if I kiss you right now …”
She leaned in before I could finish. “Then kiss me.”
After we broke up, I read a book on trauma. Wondering where I’d gone wrong in those short hours after she’d broken the news. For the moment, my lips were a balm. Later? We’d discover more of how to heal her.
I dipped my head, lips brushing her once, then again, slower.
Testing. Honoring. She melted into me with a soft sigh, her hands sliding up my chest, gripping the front of my hoodie.
An anchor to the insane little laughter that fluttered from her lips.
Our mouths fit in that effortless, aching way that made the world fall silent.