59. JACKSON
FIFTY-NINE
JACKSON
Dear fucking Lord, we are so goddamned close.
I roll my shoulders and shift on the steps of the dugout.
I’m in the hole and itching to get in that batter’s box.
Also kind of want to run in the opposite direction.
Anxiety is fun like that. But this is game five in the biggest game of a baseball player’s career.
I want to show up for my team, and my body also wants to crumble under the pressure.
Bottom of the ninth, and we’re down by one, eleven to twelve. It has been a chase this entire game. We score. They score. We score. They score.
Come on, guys. Time for us to score again.
Please score, please score, please score.
We’re up three to one in this series.
We lose; we head to Houston. Three to two, and with them having home field advantage? I don’t like those odds at all.
But if we win?
If we win; we win the fucking World Series.
I still can’t believe I’m here. The past three months have been a blur. When I heard the word traded come out of the Jetties’ GM’s mouth, I thought I’d lost everything.
My team.
My friends.
My heart—because it firmly resided with Frankie at that point.
I’d been so damn excited to come out. Me.
Excited. I’d clearly entered some sort of alternate universe.
But Stone was already out with the organization, and they’d proven they were supportive, even if he’d still had to contend with jackasses like me.
I grimace. I honestly thought getting traded was karma.
This is what you get for being a homophobic asshole, Jackson. How’s the medicine taste? Made fresh for you by you.
But Berkeley instantly felt like home. The guys here are a family. It’s not a stiff, pressure-filled, results-only clubhouse. The atmosphere…it’s one that makes you want to win for every single person who works in that clubhouse, from the GM to your teammates to the groundskeepers.
And they were so welcoming. Of me. Of Frankie.
The WAGs—or SAPs (Spouses and Partners) they’re now called—organize events all the time.
Apparently, they’re putting together a cookbook of family recipes that they’re going to sell, with all proceeds going to charity.
Did a sexy Italian man with orgasm-level cooking get a little excited when he was told about that endeavor?
Let’s just say there are a disproportionate number of Nebiolo recipes included.
We do get the occasional side-eye from some guys on the team, but I suppose this couldn’t be a complete fairytale. Still feels damn close. They at least keep their mouths shut.
The pitcher fires in a laser—one-oh-one fastball down the heart of the plate. Swing and a miss by Schultz. That’s strike two.
Schultz’s brother Ryan and Frankie hit it off, too. Ryan is a professor at Berkeley U, and before classes started up again, he helped show Frankie around. Which ended up leading to something kind of ironic happening…
We’ve been nervous about the media catching on to us, but it’s been so hectic between relocating, finding a place to live, playing Major League ball, Frankie’s new role demanding a ton of his time—we really haven’t had a chance to breathe, let alone be out together where the media could get wind of us.
What did happen? A sports site—and I say sports site lightly because this one is really just a site that gossips about athletes—posted an article with pictures saying that Schultz was cheating on his wife with a mystery man, said mystery man being Frankie.
See, Ryan looks a hell of a lot like his brother, just leaner. So, the gossipmongers went nuts for it.
It got straightened out quickly, thankfully. I got to see our PR team in action, and damn, Liam and Layla are a force to be reckoned with. But as of right now, it would seem the world thinks my captain’s brother is dating my boyfriend. I grin. Did I say it’s been a whirlwind?
Pitch comes screaming—crack! Line drive down the left field foul line. It lands fair, and the outfielder’s tearing towards the wall, but it doesn’t matter. That’s a base hit, baby!
Schultz gets a double out of it. Tying run on base!
I step into the on-deck circle, lifting my bat behind my back and stretching out my shoulders. Sanchez is up now. Both he and I are power hitters. Please let him send one to the stands. This closer for Houston is on fire, though.
I slide the weight on my bat, do a few softball swings, and center myself. Visualize wood connecting with ball. I channel my inner Shane and manifest.
The guys all flew out for our home games for this part of the series.
They’re back at my and Frankie’s place watching.
Win or lose, I’m really glad I’ll get to go home to all of them.
We text in our group chat every day and video call to the point where it’s probably obsessive.
I still miss the hell out of them, though.
We’re heading back to Providence during the off-season for a bit, all living together for the last time.
Halloween party, ravioli making, and a visit to Mama and Papa Nebs are all on the schedule.
The first pitch is outside, but Sanchez goes reaching. Even from this distance, the frustrated tic in his cheek is evident. This level of pressure is something I could never have prepared for. No one can.
I drop the weight off my bat and line up like I’m the one in the box. My eyes are locked on the pitcher while I rotate my bat slightly. He fires, and my muscles jerk to swing even though I hold back. I’m just trying to get my timing down. Sanchez’s was off, unfortunately. Strike two.
I let out an unsteady breath.
I home in on the pitcher’s face. Jaw set. Brows pinched. My attention drops to his hand; knuckles curled around the ball.
And then my gaze catches on a movement behind him. Schultz is patting his leg. My eyebrows fly up. Sanchez hasn’t seen him, though. Schultz starts jumping up and down, but the pitcher’s already winding up.
It’s going to be a fastball, inside.
Sanchez swings and gets nothing but air. Strike three.
Despite the strikeout, my heart has started an excited jig in my chest. That was huge.
Because Schultz picked up on a tell of the closer.
We have signals designed to alert the batter to what pitch is coming if a pitcher has a tell.
If a pitcher is obvious enough that anyone can see it, it’s fair game.
And, shit, Schultz clearly clocked one. Because he was spot on.
I step into the batter’s box. I tap the ground. Kick twice. Bring the bat over my shoulder and meet the pitcher’s glare.
Bring it.
No sign from Schultz, so I’m on my own.
First pitch comes in and—fuck—I’m way too early. Overeager.
Breathe, Jackson. You’ve got this.
I step back and shake it out. This is just like any other at-bat. No big deal. Not insurmountable pressure threatening to crack through my ribcage. Not a stadium’s worth of it crushing down on my shoulders.
Nope.
I step back into the box.
I tune it out.
The roar of the crowd.
The blinding stadium lights.
The weight of what this game means.
It’s nothing but me and the man on the mound.
A pistol draw waiting to happen.
And Schultz
And fucking Schultz!
He’s patting his thigh. Inside fastballs are my weakness. I miss more than I hit.
The pitcher winds up.
Time slows.
My heart lurches into my throat.
I open my stance.
I’m so lasered in, I see nothing but ivory leather and red stitching.
My fists tighten on the handle of my bat, and I bring my hands in, the squeak of my gloves slicing through my ears like it’s been amplified.
The ball leaves his fingers.
It tears toward me.
I swing.
And am met with pure beauty.
Clean. Crisp. Clack.
I don’t even feel it.
And you know what that means?
Home. Fucking. Run.
The stadium explodes in sound. The ground shakes beneath my feet.
And I just stand stock-still, my pulse spinning out of control as I watch the ball soar to the back-left field bleachers. I can barely breathe, like my lungs just took the hit of my bat and not the ball.
Walk-off home run.
We won.
Oh my God.
We just won the World Series.
Reality slams into me. I spin on my heel and jab my finger toward the dugout stands. I don’t even have to search. I know where he sits. He’s jumping up and down, Amy on one side, my brother on the other. I can see the gold shining in his eyes from here. I jab my finger one more time, and he beams.
Then I turn back around and jog the bases.
Fuck yeah, baby!