4. Brendan
brENDAN
OCTOBER
We lose the opening game of the wild-card series, then fight back.
We drop the first two games of the division series before winning three straight.
By the time we reach the league championship series, Luis is playing through a bruised wrist, two relievers are barely holding together, and I’ve pitched on short rest.
None of us gives a shit. We’re four wins from the World Series, and every man in the clubhouse is willing to empty himself to get there.
I want it for them. I want it for the coaches, the staff, and the fans who kept showing up when we spent half the summer playing terrible baseball.
I want it for myself too.
I’ve been in the majors for ten years. I’ve made All-Star teams, signed a contract that’ll take care of me for the rest of my life, and won more games than the kid I used to be ever imagined.
None of that has put a championship ring on my hand.
None of it has gotten me Dakota.
I think about her more than I should during the postseason. When my shoulder aches, I remember the way she looked at me in the clubhouse after we clinched. When I’m exhausted in the late innings, I picture her saying she wants us to keep winning.
The date isn’t the only reason I’m fighting, but it’s one hell of a motivator.
We push the championship series to a final game.
The score is tied in the eighth when a single drops between two fielders. The next hitter drives a fastball over the left-field wall, and three runs cross the plate.
We get one back in the ninth. We put two men on base. For one desperate minute, it feels as though we might survive.
The final hitter grounds out to short.
I stand at the dugout railing while the other team celebrates its trip to the World Series. The noise around us is deafening, but our side of the field has gone silent.
For the next four days, I barely leave my apartment. I sleep badly, eat worse, and ignore my phone. I replay every pitch from the series and every game we let slip away earlier in the season.
We were one win from the World Series. Now there’s nothing on my schedule until spring training.
On the fifth day, I drive to the stadium to clear out my locker. The clubhouse feels wrong without the usual music, conversation, and equipment scattered everywhere. Most of the guys have already left town, and several lockers are empty.
I fill a cardboard box with clothes, old mail, and the personal shit that has collected over the season. When I carry it into the hallway, Dakota rounds the corner with a stack of folders held against her chest.
She stops when she sees me.
Her hair is down, and she’s wearing jeans with a soft gray sweater instead of team gear. Without the usual noise and people surrounding us, the sight of her feels more intimate.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey.”
I walk toward her, and she studies my face as I approach. There’s no playful smile waiting for me today.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
Automatic responses rise to my tongue. Fine. Proud of the team. Ready for next year.
I’m too tired to use any of them. “Not great.”
Her expression falters. “I’m sorry.”
“We were right there.”
“I know.” She shifts the folders in her arms. “One more game.”
“Yeah.” I glance down the empty hallway. “I keep replaying everything. Every pitch from the series. Every game we gave away in May.”
“You can’t carry the whole season by yourself.”
“I know that.”
“But you’re doing it anyway.”
A tired laugh escapes me. “Pretty much.”
Dakota doesn’t tell me we exceeded expectations or that we should be proud of how far we came. I’ve heard enough of that from people who mean well. She lets the loss remain what it is, and somehow that helps more than anything anyone else has said.
Neither of us mentions the deal.
Losing the chance to take her out hurts, but bringing it up now would make everything feel smaller. This isn’t only about a date. The season ended, the clubhouse emptied, and a group of men who had spent every day together scattered within hours.
Dakota glances at the box. “Are you finished here?”
“Yeah. You?”
“I need to drop these in Marissa’s office.”
“What about after?”
Her eyes rise to mine questioningly.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I ask.
She hesitates, and for a second I’m sure she’ll refuse. But she nods.
“Sure,” she says. “I’d like that.”
“I still think Luis should’ve stopped at second,” Dakota says, wrapping both hands around her coffee cup.
“He would’ve been safe at third if he hadn’t tripped over his own feet.”
“He denies tripping.”
“There are six camera angles proving it.” I lean back in my chair and shake my head. “The man tried to blame the dirt.”
“He said it shifted under his cleat.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t filed a complaint against the grounds crew.”
Her laugh makes a little bit more of my sorrow ease.
We’ve been sitting in the corner of the coffee shop for nearly an hour, talking about the best parts of the season.
Not the final game or the opportunities we missed.
Just the ridiculous moments that still make us laugh.
Luis falling between second and third, then scoring when the throw went into the dugout.
A rookie getting lost in the visiting clubhouse.
Half the team playing cards on the floor during a rain delay because someone misplaced the folding tables.
Dakota sits across from me, relaxed in a way I rarely see at the stadium. I’ve wanted her since February, but most of what I know about her belongs to baseball.
I know her routines. I know she drinks iced coffee during afternoon games and chamomile tea at night. I know she keeps cinnamon gum in her desk and hates when players leave refrigerator doors open.
I want to know everything else.
“What do you do when you’re not keeping twenty-six grown men alive?” I ask.
“Recover from keeping twenty-six grown men alive.” Her eyes warm. “Some of you are much more work than others.”
“I have a feeling you’re talking about me.”
“You did eat three cinnamon rolls the morning of a day game.”
“I was carb loading.”
“You were showing off.”
Our familiar banter is still there, but it’s quieter now. For the first time, it feels like we’re really talking instead of just flirting.
“What did you do before the Titans?” I ask.
Dakota tells me about the private performance center where she worked in Raleigh and the university athletic department before that.
“I loved the university job, but I always wanted to work with one professional team,” she says, running a finger along the cardboard sleeve around her cup. “The same players. The same clubhouse. The same goal every day.”
I nod. “I get that. There’s something special about chasing the same goal with the same people every day.”
She smiles. “Exactly.”
I ask about her family. She tells me she grew up outside Richmond, where her mother still lives. Her older brother is married and expecting his first kid in December.
“You excited to be an aunt?” I ask.
“Very. I’ve already bought too many things.”
“That’s your job.”
“My brother claims the baby doesn’t need three blankets.”
“Your brother’s wrong.”
“Exactly.” Her face lights up as she tells me about the tiny clothes she’s already bought and the argument she had with her mother over who gets to babysit first.
I shouldn’t picture Dakota holding a baby. But there it is anyway: the image of her rocking a sleepy newborn in her arms, murmuring softly, looking so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
When she asks about my family, I tell her about my parents in Tennessee and my younger sister, who has two kids. My niece tells everyone at school that I’m famous. My nephew only cares whether I bring him another game ball.
“Do you?” Dakota asks.
“Every time.”
“Your nephew must love that.”
“He’s got me wrapped around his finger.”
We move from family to travel, then to the lives we have when the season isn’t consuming every hour. Dakota likes museums but hates guided tours. I own a fishing boat I barely use and a guitar I can’t play worth a damn.
“You have a guitar?” she asks, amusement lifting her brows.
“I know parts of three songs.”
“That doesn’t mean you can play.”
“It means I can almost play.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“I could prove it sometime.”
The invitation slips out honestly. Dakota’s gaze holds mine, and something warm gathers in the silence.
“Maybe,” she says.
I’m deciding whether to press my luck when an older couple enters the coffee shop. The man uses a cane, and his wife scans the room for an open table. There isn’t one.
I stand and gather our cups. Dakota looks up. “Everything okay?”
“Be right back.”
I walk over to the couple and gesture toward our table. “We’re just leaving. You’re welcome to take this one.”
Relief spreads across the woman’s face. “That’s so kind of you.”
“Happy to.”
The man nods his thanks as they make their way over. By the time I return, Dakota has slipped on her coat and is waiting beside the table.
She studies me for a second before we start toward the door.
“What?” I ask.
She laughs softly. “You just keep surprising me.”
“How?”
“You have this reputation for being the guy who’s always joking around.” She steps through the door I’m holding open for her, and I follow her outside. “Then you do something like that without thinking twice.”
I shrug. “They needed a table.”
The afternoon is cool and gray, and the stadium rises at the end of the block. We walk close enough that our arms briefly come in contact a few times, but Dakota doesn’t move away.
“What are you going to do with the off-season?” she asks.
“Work out. Throw. Try not to lose my goddamn mind.”
“That sounds restful.”
“I might go somewhere for a few weeks.”
“Where?”
“No idea. Somewhere quiet.”
She glances at me with visible doubt. “You aren’t good at quiet.”
“I’m excellent at it.”
“Riiight.”
“I’ll probably eat nothing but garbage too,” I add. “No one around to stop me.”
“You better not.”
“Come over and supervise me?”
“There it is.” She shakes her head, but her smile remains. “Your flirting is back.”
“I’m starting to recover.”
“I noticed.”
We reach the stadium entrance where we need to separate. Her car is on the other side of the building, while mine is parked beneath the players’ entrance.
I want to ask her to dinner properly. After the coffee and conversation we just had, I think there’s a chance she might agree.
But I don’t want her saying yes because I lost or because she feels sorry for me. I want her to come because she chooses to.
“I’ve been craving Italian,” I say.
Her brows rise. “That’s relevant to what?”
“There’s a place on Poplar I’ve been meaning to try. Delfino’s. I’ll probably go tomorrow around seven.”
Understanding settles into her expression. “You’re informing me of your dinner plans?”
“I value transparency.”
“Of course you do.”
I wait, but she doesn’t say she’ll come. She also doesn’t say she won’t.
“I should get going,” she says after a moment.
“Yeah.”
She takes a few steps, then turns. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime.”
Her eyes remain on mine for another second before she walks away.
Tomorrow night, I’ll be at the restaurant at seven.
The rest is up to Dakota.