All In With Him by Lauren Blakely

Epilogue

That fall and into the next few years

Declan

Some guys have all the luck.

Like my husband. Grant wins another World Series in late October, catching the final pitch in an epic Fall Classic, battling the Chicago Sharks in a seven-game, extra-inning nail-biter.

He hits two home runs, bats over four hundred, and collects five RBIs. He also catches every damn pitch.

It’s no surprise he wins the MVP trophy.

To say I am proud is to say the sky is blue. I am elated, and I kiss the hell out of him when, still wearing his chest protector, he runs over to me in the stands and pulls me onto the field.

Two years later, Grant wins his third World Series.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous. But mostly, I’m so damn happy for him. My team comes close a few times, but we don’t win it all.

Someday.

But my somedays are getting shorter. The end of baseball looms closer for me. I’m thirty-four, and soon, I’ll have to start thinking about retirement.

Not yet, though. I’m still healthy.

Until I turn thirty-five. I twist my ankle on Opening Day—it knocks me out for a few weeks, I don’t feel one hundred percent when I return to the lineup, and my stats show it.

It’s the first season where I’m disappointed with my performance, and I tell Grant as much when we’re in Hawaii in November, lounging in the sun.

“Maybe it’s time to hang up my cleats,” I say, feeling more contemplative than usual as I stretch out on a lounge chair by our pool.

Grant shakes his head. “Nope. You had one less than stellar season. You’re not retiring.”

I don’t have his certainty, though. “Maybe it’s my time. Maybe the gods of baseball are telling me something.”

“Your husband is telling you something. You’re not retiring early. You’re a future hall-of-famer, and you need to keep playing.”

“Do I, though?” It’s not that I want to quit. I want to quit on my own terms.

“Do you want to retire, Deck?” Grant asks, his tone serious. “Because if you’re falling out of love with baseball, that’s one thing. Then, we should talk about that. If you’re just in a funk, then I will keep cheering you on till you’re out of it.”

I shift to my side, sigh heavily, and voice my deepest professional fear. “What if baseball is falling out of love with me?”

Grant shakes his head. “Nope. Baseball loves you. I love you. And I will keep rooting for you.” He smiles. “But I’m not giving you hitting tips on any pitchers.”

I laugh, feeling a little better, then motion for him to join me on my chair. He obliges, and we lie together in the sun.

* * *

I feel a lot better months later—at thirty-six, I’m having a season for the ages. Buoyed by Grant’s confidence and encouragement, I kick ass every day, and I rack up stats that any player would kill to have.

At the end of September, I finish with a career high in home runs, and the highest batting average in my league.

But, more importantly, the Dragons make it past the divisionals, march through the championship round, and advance to the World Series.

Against the Cougars.

It’s a Bay Area match-up, pitting two husbands against each other. The sports press goes wild. They milk the hell out of the story of Grant Blackwood and Declan Steele vying for one trophy.

We trade leads over the series, with the Cougars starting hot and fast and winning game one. The Dragons win games two and three, but Grant’s team snags four and five. The Dragons win game six.

When game seven rolls around, I have one mission, a single point of focus.

Beat my husband’s team.

* * *

Saturday night at the Dragons ballpark, the scoreboard is full of zeroes for five innings. The game moves quickly, and it’s a pitcher’s duel until I get on base in the sixth then attempt to steal second, sliding into the bag right as Grant throws hard to the infielder.

But I arrive a nanosecond ahead of the ball.

I wipe off the dirt on my uniform, enjoying an extra thrill at having stolen a base off my man. My blinders go back on, then, as Holden takes a swing at the next pitch, hitting a sharp single to center, and I move like I have wings, scoring the first run of the game.

I don’t look at Grant as I cross the plate. Don’t want to make eye contact. Don’t want to get out of the zone.

A few innings later, that’s still the only run in the game.

At the top of the ninth, I run out to the infield, Holden by my side, and we knock gloves. “Let’s do this,” I say.

“Let’s motherfucking do this,” Holden replies.

Our closer takes the mound and strikes out the Cougars’ first baseman on four pitches. Next up is Miguel, the centerfielder. He ekes out a walk, trotting to first base.

Through gritted teeth, I mutter, “C’mon, guys. Shut this down.”

Crosby is next, and he looks dead set on sending Miguel home. But instead, he pops up to second on his first swing.

One more out.

That is all we need.

We’re so damn close I can taste it.

I want it badly. The only thing I’ve ever wanted more is Grant Blackwood.

The man coming to the plate.

My husband is the last man standing between me and my first World Series. I’m on high alert as I field my position, poised and ready. Grant works the count full, fouling ball after ball, staying alive. He’s determined to get on base, to knock a ball out of the park, to send his team to victory.

I’m every bit as determined to do my part to end this game now.

The pitcher goes into the windup, fires off a fastball, and Grant takes a big swing.

The crack of the bat echoes throughout the park as he sends a scorching line-drive my way, hellbent on getting past me and onto the grass of the outfield.

No fucking way, baseball.

Not today.

I leap higher than I ever have, my arm straight up, my leather high above my head. Time slows then speeds up again as I wrap my glove around the ball.

The crowd goes wild.

The cheers are deafening.

The emotions are overwhelming and the thrill is electric.

I caught the last out of a World Series win.

My teammates mob me. We tumble into a pile of Dragons in the middle of the field, and I am flying above the stratosphere right now.

I’m soaring to the stars.

I’m higher than that when, after we untangle and separate, Grant Blackwood runs to me on the field, jumps in my arms, and hugs the hell out of me.

“I’m so happy for you,” he says, with more joy than I think even I feel.

“Me too,” I rasp, throat tight. Then I kiss my husband, and that makes everything even better.

Grant makes everything in my life better. Every single day.