Epilogue
EPILOGUE
JUST ABOUT TWO YEARS LATER
I've been sitting on our couch for twenty minutes, trying to figure out the perfect way to tell my husband I'm pregnant.
You'd think after two years together—one year married—I'd have gotten better at big announcements.
But no, I'm still the same Tracy who once tried to hide her baseball obsession behind a color-coded wedding binder.
The positive pregnancy test is tucked inside a brand new baseball glove sitting on our coffee table, which seemed like a cute idea this morning but now feels a little silly.
Maybe I should have gone with my second idea, which was writing it on his pitch chart.
Or my third idea to have the Stars announcer work it into tonight's lineup.
Okay, that last one would have been excessive. Probably.
"Trace? I'm home!" Jay's voice carries from the entryway, followed by the familiar thud of his equipment bag hitting the floor. "Please tell me you didn't cook. I love you, but after last night's 'experimental chili,' I think we should?—"
He stops dead in the living room doorway, his eyes taking it all in. Specifically, the huge "Happy Anniversary" banner I may have gone overboard with, and the suspicious baseball glove with a bow on it.
"Happy anniversary," I say, trying for casual and landing somewhere around 'person who definitely has a secret.'
"You remembered," he says, which is ridiculous because I have our anniversary in three different calendar apps with multiple reminder notifications.
"Of course I remembered. June 18th. You pitched seven scoreless innings that afternoon."
"You wore your 'Future Mrs. Talley' jersey to the game."
"And your ERA was sub-one for that game."
He grins. "My wife knows my ERA from our wedding day. Have I mentioned lately that I love you?"
"Only six times this morning." I pat the couch next to me. "Come open your present."
He eyes the glove suspiciously as he sits. "You got me a glove for our anniversary? Trace, this is a first baseman's mitt."
"Just open it."
"But I'm a pitcher. Why would I need—" He stops talking as he opens the glove and pulls out the pregnancy test. For approximately seventeen years (okay, ten seconds), he stares at it without moving.
"Jay?"
"Is this... are you... we're having..."
"A baby," I finish. "Surprise?"
What happens next can only be described as a full on man sized celebration. Jay jumps up, spins around, pumps his fist like he just struck out the side, then immediately sits back down and grabs my face.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Like, really really?"
"Jay, I took three different tests to be sure. They're all positive. We're having a baby."
He kisses me, then jumps up again, then sits back down. "A baby. We're having a baby. A tiny person. A future athlete?—"
"Or artist, or teacher, or?—"
"Who's going to have your organizational skills and my athletic ability?—"
"Or my athletic ability and your organizational skills, which, let's be honest, might be better because your idea of organization is knowing which duffel bag has clean socks?—"
"A little baseball player!"
"Or softball player."
"Or soccer player! Soccer's great for hand-eye coordination, which translates to baseball?—"
"Jay."
"Or golf! Tiger Woods started at two. We should get those plastic clubs?—"
"Jay."
"Oh! Swimming! Swimming is great for?—"
"Jay."
He stops mid-gesture. "Yeah?"
"I'm something like eight weeks pregnant. Maybe we can wait until the baby is at least here before we plan their athletic career?"
He sits back down, taking my hands. "You're right. Sorry. I'm just—" He breaks into the biggest smile I've ever seen. "We're having a baby."
"We're having a baby."
"Can I tell the team?"
"After the first trimester."
"Can I tell Ted?"
"Ted counts as the team."
"Can I tell the batting practice pitcher?"
"Jay! Come on!"
"Fine, fine. But I'm definitely getting those plastic golf clubs."
"We don't even know if it's a boy or a girl yet."
"Girls golf too! Actually—" His eyes light up in that dangerous way that means he's having an idea. "The LPGA has great development programs. Better scholarships than men's golf in college too. We should definitely start with golf."
"Our child is currently the size of a raspberry."
"A raspberry who could be the next Annika Sorenstam!"
I laugh, pulling him back down to the couch. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculously happy." He puts his hand on my still-flat stomach. "Hi, baby. I'm your dad. I promise not to be one of those crazy sports parents. We'll wait until you're at least three before travel ball."
"Jay!"
"Kidding! Four. Four is reasonable."
"How about we let our child pick their own interests?"
"Of course," he says seriously. "Any sport they want."
"Or no sports."
He looks genuinely puzzled. "Why would someone choose no sports?"
"I chose no sports. I quit softball sophomore year of high school to focus on student government."
"That's different. You still understood sports. You kept stats for the team."
"Because I was dating the pitcher!"
"See? Sports brings people together." He grins. "Just like our kid will bring their future spouse together through their shared love of..."
"Jay."
"Ballet! I didn't mention ballet. Very athletic. Good for flexibility and balance."
"If we have a daughter, you want her to do ballet so she'll have better balance for sports?"
"I want our daughter or son to do whatever makes her or him happy," he says. “But I really do hope we get to be sports parents. I’m not gonna lie.”
“I know. We really don’t need to worry about that right now. That will sort itself out at the right time,” I say. Secretly, I hope we’re sports parents, too, but I’ll keep that secret until it can do some good.
"Or maybe we don’t do sports." He pulls back to look at me. "I don't care what our kid likes as long as he or she’s happy. And healthy. And maybe has your smile."
"And your eyes."
"And definitely your brains. Can you imagine if she got my study habits?"
"Hey, you graduated."
"Because you made me flashcards for every test!"
"They were color-coded. Very effective."
He laughs, then gets that dangerous thinking look again. "You know, gymnastics is supposed to be great for young kids. Builds coordination and strength..."
"Jay."
"Yeah?"
"Our baby is the size of a raspberry."
"Right." He's quiet for exactly four seconds. "What about music? Piano players have great finger dexterity, which would help with pitching grips?—"
I kiss him to shut him up, which works like a charm.
"I love you," I say when we break apart. "And I love that you're already planning our child's entire life. But maybe we could start with, like, picking a name?"
"Nolan."
"What if it’s a girl?"
"Nolan Ryan is a legend. She'd be proud to carry that name."
"We're not naming our daughter after a pitcher."
"Jackie? After Jackie Robinson?"
"Jay..."
"Babe? After Babe Ruth?"
"Absolutely not. Are all your suggestions going to be baseball players?"
He thinks for a moment. "Mia. After Mia Hamm."
"That's soccer!"
"I'm branching out from baseball!" He grins.
I slowly shake my head in disapproval.
"How about Tracy?"
I melt a little. "You want to name our baby after me?"
"Works for a boy or a girl. Tracy Jr. TJ for short. TJ Talley. Great pitcher name."
"We're not naming our kid based on how it sounds in a starting lineup!"
"Fine." He's quiet for a moment, hand still resting on my stomach. "How about something that means something to both of us?"
"Like what?"
"River."
It takes me a second. "Like River Park?"
"Where we spent so much of our college years. The place you sat behind home plate and recorded all my stats." His voice goes soft. "College was the best time of my life until now."
"River Talley," I test it out.
"Great athlete name."
"Great any kind of name."
"So it's not weird that I already want to sign our kid up for Little League?"
"The baby’s a raspberry, Jay."
"A raspberry with potential!"
I laugh, snuggling into his chest. "No more sports talk until we have a toddler.”
"River." He tests it out again, smiling.
"Who can be anything he or she wants to be."
"Anything," he agrees. "As long as our baby's happy."
"And healthy."
"And maybe knows how to properly grip a four-seam fastball."
"Jay!"
"That's just basic life skills! I love you," he says quietly. "Both of you."
“I know.” I can’t stop smiling.
"Okay, but can I just say one more thing?"
I sigh. "One thing."
"The 2040 Olympics are in Brisbane. Our firstborn will be seventeen. Perfect age for a debut?—"
"Jay!"
His laughter fills our apartment, mixing with mine, and I think about our children growing up with this sound. With his determination and my organization and all the love two former college sweethearts can give.
Our first child can be anything he or she wants to be.
But if this child happens to have a killer changeup, well. That would be okay too.
"Stop thinking about her changeup," Jay says, because he knows me too well.
"Stop thinking about her golf swing."
"Deal."
"Deal."
We last exactly thirty seconds.
"But seriously, swimming lessons are important for safety?—"
"Oh my goodness, yes. Swimming lessons are a must."
And that's how River Talley, at the size of a raspberry, gets that first athletic commitment.
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