Epilogue - Liam
The End of the Season
"How ya feelin', Two-Three?"
I peer over, expecting to find Holloway's expression dripping with sarcasm or mockery, but instead, it's earnest. His body's still, his eyes are locked on me, and his brows are lifted as he waits for my answer.
"I feel good," I say, scanning the outfield. My eyes float past the open grass like they have a million times before, but this time feels different—final. "Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."
Jace blows out a heavy breath and nods, turning back toward the game. "I can't lie, I, uh…" He clears his throat, digging his heel into the ground. "I'm not sure I feel the same."
I chuckle softly, flexing my hand inside my glove. "You'll be just fine, Rook."
He shakes his head, his eyes forward. "Big shoes to fill, man."
My hand stills.
A lot has changed over the last six months, one of the biggest things being that Jace and I have gotten close—closer than I would have expected.
I know his past now, his goals. The failures he thinks define him.
And I've learned that beneath the buzz and bravado is a kid just trying his best—worried he's not enough.
A heart that's been bruised. An ego that isn't nearly as loud as people assume.
After a beat of silence, Jace glances up, catching my stare. I grin, and his shoulders finally drop.
“Nah,” I say, my eyes dropping to my glove, tracing the worn creases in the leather.
“When I first took this spot, I thought the same thing—that I had to be exceptional. Perfect. Better than the last guy.” I run my finger along the seams. “But this dirt?
It's borrowed. Always has been. It's yours to take care of until it's someone else's turn.”
He looks at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Always so fucking deep,” he mutters.
We laugh as the next batter steps into the box, and instinct pulls us both back into position.
"This next gig of yours is gonna be perfect," Holloway says.
I huff out a breath. "Yeah." I nod, smiling. "That's what I'm hoping for."
And it is.
But I think he's right too.
Jace was really the start of it all—my plan for the future. By helping him, I saw I was giving what I actually needed—advice, insight—a buffer to guide me into the next chapter of my career. And the idea only solidified as I heard about Jo's story—watched it unfold over these last few months.
No one really understands what it's like to completely reroute your life, especially when you're still smiling, still living—still talking trash on the internet or raising a daughter in a life that, despite the change, is so incredibly full. No one besides the people who have been there before.
And that's what I've been doing for Jace—it's what any mentor does for someone just starting out.
But what about those of us at the opposite end?
The ones who are done. Leaving. Walking away from everything we've built to enter a world that might seem more open to some, but one where that freedom is also paralyzing to others.
That's why I'm starting Extra Innings—a post-career transition program that will assist freshly retired or soon-to-retire players of all sports by giving them what they're so used to already: coaching.
Former players and coaches will guide them through the adjustment with unfiltered experience—working through the things that scared me the most. The future.
The physical decline. The loss of routine.
Figuring out who the hell you are without the game.
Mitchell inhales deeply before delivering the pitch, and just like that, I'm pulled back in—breathing with him, the way I've done for the last fifteen years.
The game has moved smoothly so far tonight. A few hits. A few runs. A ground ball through the hole and a close call with a catch against the fence. But through it all, we've managed to stay ahead—steady, calm. Almost as if the game itself knows this is the end.
Mitchell releases the ball, and it sails down the middle just before the ump punches his right fist into the air. Strike one.
The crowd erupts like I'd expect when a strike is thrown in the top of the ninth—one out left, up by two. But instead of adrenaline, I feel… peace. Not because I care less. But because no matter what happens next, I finally know what comes after.
My eyes drift like they always do—to the first row behind the wall. To the family I've always been able to count on. To my daughter—my world. To Tessa.
To the life I'm walking into.
Tessa's changed everything for us. She's given Levi and Alex another person in their corner and Ruthie someone to look up to and confide in. She's exactly what my daughter has needed—a role model, a friend. Someone who stays.
She's teaching her what she's learning herself—true strength isn't just solving problems and fixing messes. It's not being afraid to ask for help too. She loves Ruthie, not because it's her job—which it isn't anymore—but because it's her heart.
She even tracked down Norah and Sera the last time we were in Grand Oaks, and somehow managed to figure out who Grandma Birdie belongs to. Turns out the girls missed Ruthie too, and even coaches deserve to have someone watching from the sidelines.
As for me? I used to think that stepping away from baseball meant I'd never feel this rush again.
Or the opposite—I'd never be as content as I am on the field.
I thought it'd be impossible to feel as seen or understood by anything but these stands.
And that, besides my daughter, nothing could love me like this dirt beneath my feet—so easily swept clean after mistakes or missteps.
But then I met Tessa.
And now, she does all of that and more.
The roar fades as Mitchell toes the mound again, but my eyes stay right where they are.
I smile softly toward my family—my whole team.
My brother tips his chin. Alex chews her lip.
Ruthie smiles, waving. And Tess lowers her hand from her mouth—the number on the sleeve of my sweatshirt mirrored back at me—until it rests above her heart.
I suck in a breath—my lungs, my heart…my life, fuller than I could have ever imagined, just in time to watch another pitch soar toward home plate.
Swing and a miss.
Strike two.
The fans still sitting rise to their feet. The stadium erupts in claps and whistles, and it's only when a faint chanting grows louder—Two-Three, Two-Three, Two-Three—that I realize…
It's for me.
"This could be it," Jace says, his gaze still forward.
That reality hits hard, blood rushing toward my cleats.
It's a weird feeling—being at the edge of something ending, yet simultaneously at the start of a beginning. Every rush of nerves is quickly soothed by excitement, each wave of sadness so easily settled by the anticipation of what's to come.
Over the noise from the stands, I still hear the woosh of the pitch—maybe not for real, but the sound goes off in my head all the same. The bat connects, and the second it does, I know it's mine.
It has to be.
The ball pops high, floating over Mitchell's head, and a few steps forward puts me right underneath it. Time seems to slow as it hovers above me—suspended in the air as if it's giving me a moment to soak it all in.
I raise my hand, my glove heavier than it typically is, and when the leather snaps around it, my eyes sink shut, reveling in the sting of the catch.
Because just like that—
It's over.
Everything happens at once as my team swarms me—Jace jogging toward me as J.J. shoves me from behind. Ruiz joins us, throwing his arms around my neck as Mitchell and Garcia both head my way.
The rest of them—the players and coaches alike—pour out from the dugout, meeting me on the field. Fist bumps. Hand shakes. All of it grounded in chaos and laughter.
"You did good, kid."
The words hit me as the crowd parts, making room for Mack where he belongs—by my side.
"We did good," I say, my throat growing tight.
Mack's jaw works as his eyes glaze slightly. He clears his throat. "Yeah, well…" he starts, his voice thick. "What do you say we keep that up?"
I frown. "What do you mean?"
He sucks his teeth. "Eh, I've been thinking." He steps closer, his words coasting over the noise from the stands. "You might be on to something with this whole retirement thing."
My brows shoot up as my eyes widen. "For real?" I ask.
Mack shrugs. "It's time."
A weight I didn't even know was there lifts from my chest, and I stare at him, in shock on top of everything else.
"What do you think? You got room for one more on your team?"
I shake my head, smiling. "Yeah, I think we can work something out."
Mack presses his lips together tightly and nods, squeezing my shoulder before stepping aside.
Jace fills his spot, grin firmly in place. "The ball always did seem to find you, old man," he says as he moves in closer. He claps me on the shoulder, then pulls me in for a hug.
I smack his back, laughing. "It helps when you don't go looking for it."
In perfect timing, he releases me, gesturing toward the dugout, and that's when I see it—the real reason to celebrate.
Ruthie rushes toward me, tears in her eyes that she pretends aren't there as she throws her arms around my waist. "I love you, Daddy," is all she says, but that alone says it all.
"I love you too, Roo," I grind out.
She slides next to me as Levi steps up, dropping both hands onto my shoulders. "I'm proud of you, big brother."
I don't say anything. I simply fall into him, and he holds me tight as I fight back tears.
"Hey, congrats," Alex says, when we pull apart.
I hug her too, sniffling as I drop to one knee. "You better be ready, kid," I say to her growing belly. "Grass, not ice—remember that."
"Alright, alright," Levi says, nudging me. He pulls Ruthie to him as Mack taps his arm. The four of them gather as I chuckle and stand.
Just in time to see my girl.
Beautiful.
"Hi," Tessa says, pressing her chest against mine.
I kiss her with every ounce of love that I have, then force myself to break away just enough to breathe her in. "I missed you today," I say, brushing her cheek.
"Good." She winks. "Because after this, you're all ours."
I kiss her again—gently this time. "How was the movie?"
She tilts her head. "Did I need to see another one about zombie-teen pop bands?"
I wait for the answer.
"Yes." She chuckles. "But also…"
I arch a brow.
"She beat the claw machine."
"No," I drag out.
Tessa nods. "Yep, a stuffed shark."
"Would you look at that?"
She purses her lips. "Worth the wait."
My eyes flick between hers, recognition reflecting back at me. I grab the strings of my sweatshirt and pull her in close, running my fingers down the length of the chords. "Always is."
The field begins to clear and the hum around us starts to fade, but the buzz between Tessa and me still lingers stronger than ever.
She waves to someone across the dirt, but I don't turn to see who it is. Instead, my eyes trail over the woman who's changed everything—the one who was late but exactly on time.
"I think we should get married," I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her braid.
Tess's breath hitches as she slowly turns to face me again. "Wha—what did you just say?" she asks, swallowing like her mouth's suddenly dry.
I inhale the future, exhaling everything I'm leaving behind. "I said…" I take her hands in mine. "I think we should get married."
"Liam, I—"
"I don't have a ring," I jump in gently, searching her face. I laugh nervously. "I didn't necessarily plan for this. But it feels right, Hastings. Don't you think?"
She huffs out a breath, smiling ear to ear. "Yeah, Two-Three," she says. "It definitely does."
Coming home from this game feels the same—but different.
It's bittersweet knowing how good the future will be while also knowing this chapter is finished.
There will be ceremonies and speeches, appearances and interviews.
And I know my time at the stadium isn't actually over, especially with Extra Innings starting up.
But I don't hang back tonight like I normally would.
There's nothing left to do this time—no fielding to work on, no mistakes to fix. I don't stay to review film or talk with Mack about adjustments. The pull is still there—I'm not sure that ever fully switches off after a decade and a half—but there's no need to stay.
Now, as I make the drive, the seat still feels as soft as it always has, but I embrace the cushion on my tender muscles. My fingers still flex and shrink around the wheel, and my limbs still ache and scream for stillness. But I relish in it, knowing that a time is coming when all I'll have is rest.
“You okay?” Tessa asks, pulling me back. “You're awfully quiet.”
I take a deep breath, letting the question wash over me, surprised by how quickly the answer comes.
“Yeah,” I say honestly, placing my hand over hers. “I think I am." I brush my thumb over her bare ring finger. "Just soaking in the last drive home.”
The corners of her mouth lift as she flips her palm to meet mine.
I thread our fingers together as my other hand tightens around the steering wheel, and I turn into our development.
I roll down the windows, letting the outside in—the crisp fall air, the scent of wet moss, the faint smoke from the Buchmans' bonfire out back.
It all drowns out what I'm leaving behind.
The salt-soaked sweat. The sharp smell of pine tar and leather.
The white chalk stark against the dirt—all of it fades the closer we get to our house.
My chest tightens when I pull into the driveway—not with anxiety, but with gratitude. And that intensity grows stronger when I see the porch light flickering.
I look over at Tessa, then back at Ruthie, realizing the truck has gone quiet. Emotion clogs my throat as I take one last glance in the rearview mirror.
I imagine the stadium lights that once reflected back at me—the field, the stands, the team that shaped me.
For a second, I wonder how I'll wake up tomorrow and not head straight to the clubhouse.
But as the light above our door glows against the night sky, the thought doesn't feel as dark as it should.
The ride is finally ending.
But it's good to be home.