Page 89 of Bad Ball Hitter
My eyes widened in delight. “Really?”
“Really,” Drake confirms, his eyes misting over.
Just then, Jake runs up to us, his face flushed with happiness. “Papa, Drake!”
Drake’s breath hitches, and he kneels to hug Jake tightly, his emotions clear on his face.
I watch them, feeling my heart swell with love. At that moment, I feel like I have everything I have ever wanted. The farmhouse, the future, and the family are all here, just as I had imagined.
As the cool air blows against my skin, I know this is just the beginning of our happily ever after.
Later that evening, after the sunset, we sat together on the porch, wrapped in each other’s arms. Jake sleeps in Drake’s lap, his tiny hands clutching a toy baseball bat, and covered by a blanket.
I lean on Drake’s shoulder, feeling his breath steadily rise and fall. “This place,” I whisper, “it’s perfect.”
Drake kisses the top of my head. “You’re perfect.”
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the stars twinkle against the black sky. I think about the journey that brought us here, the trials and triumphs, the love that grew stronger with each passing day.
Drake’s voice breaks the silence. “Lila, I want you to know something. Choosing to stay in Boston wasn’t just about the team or the fans. It was about you and Jake. You’re my home. Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.”
Tears spill down my cheeks as I lift my head to look at him. “Drake, you have no idea how much that means to me. You and Jake are my everything.”
He wipes away my tears with his thumb, his touch gentle and reassuring. “We’re going to make so many memories here, Lila. This is just the beginning.”
EPILOGUE
Drake
“Good evening, folks, and welcome back to the American League Championship Series game! We are at the bottom of the ninth, tied up in this nail-biter. I’m Les Anderson, here with my partner Joe Martinez. Joe, this game has been everything we could have hoped for and more.”
“Absolutely, Les. This is what championship baseball is all about—the pressure, the drama, the incredible performances. And right now, we’ve got Rick Bosley standing on second base after that clutch double, one out, and the ever-reliable Drake Gunner stepping up to the plate.”
“Rick Bosley, what a player he has been this season. That double was just another example of his clutch hitting. He’s been a rock for this team, contributing in so many ways, both offensively and defensively.”
“No doubt about it, Les. Rick’s leadership and consistency have been invaluable. And now, all eyes are on Drake Gunner. This guy has been unstoppable this year, a real powerhouse in the lineup. He’s come through in the clutch time and time again.”
“You can feel the tension in the air. The crowd is on the edge of their seats. Gunner has been critical in this team’s journey to the championship. His batting average, his power, his ability to get on base—he’s been the complete package.”
“And let’s not forget his work ethic and determination. Drake has faced adversity and has come out stronger. He’s a player who thrives in these moments, and you can bet he’s looking to drive Rick home and send this team to the World Series.”
“The pitcher is ready, and so is Gunner. The windup, the pitch… This is the moment we’ve been waiting for all season. Will Drake Gunner deliver when it matters most?”
“The pitch is on its way…”
Rick stands on second base, the determination etched on his face. The weight of this moment presses down on me as I step into the batter’s box, the roar of the crowd a distant hum in my ears. This is it. This is what we’ve worked so hard for.
I grip the bat tightly, ready to prove my worth. The pressure feels like I’ve circled back to the beginning of last year. My life has taken such a different direction since then. Though, I’m still me. I still screw up occasionally, but I’ve grown and become more grounded than before.
The pitcher eyes me, his gaze cold and calculating, but I don’t back down. I take a deep breath, focusing solely on the task at hand. The first pitch comes fast and inside. I swing and miss, the ball smacking into the catcher’s mitt with a resounding thud. Stepping out of the box, I take a moment to collect myself. The pressure is immense, but this is where I thrive.
The second pitch is a curveball, dipping low and outside. I swing again, a fraction too late. The crowd gasps, a collective intake of breath. I can feel their anxiety, but I push it aside, focusing on what I need to do.
The crowd goes silent as the pitcher winds up for the third pitch. My mind flashes to the countless hours of practice, the sacrifices, the relentless pursuit of perfection. My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t deny this moment’s gravity. And yet, a part of me is elsewhere.
As the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, my mind drifts to my wife—the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs, the support she has given me during the most challenging times of my life, and her quiet understanding.
My swing follows through as if on autopilot; years of practice have ingrained it into muscle memory. The connection feels solid; a clean hit right on the sweet spot. The ball soars toward center field. For a moment, time seems to stand still.