The cheers are unmistakable now, and there’s whistling, too—lots of whistling. But Rowe just grabs my face, clinging to me, her hands making their way into my hair as her kiss grows stronger and deeper. After several long seconds, I finally break—because we both need air, and I’m pretty sure any longer will earn my team a delay of game.
“You’re here,” I say, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“That was some letter,” she says, her lower lip once again finding its way between her teeth.
“I meant every word,” I say, looking her right in the eyes, making sure she understands. “There’s room enough for both of us. And I’m willing to share.”
“I know,” she says, standing up on the tips of her toes, and pressing her lips to mine, her hands soft on either side of my face. “And thank you…for understanding how Josh fits in my life. He’ll always be important to me,” she pauses, her fingers flirting with mine while she thinks. “But…I really think he’d want me to give this,” she says, putting her hand flat on her chest, small tears forming in her eyes, “to you. You have it all—I just needed an angel to tell me I was ready.”
I hug her once more. I hug her because telling her I love her and saying thank you isn’t enough. And I hold her tightly, because it’s been too long, and because I want more, but for the next three hours this will have to be enough.
“I came here with your brother,” she says, stepping back, but leaving her fingers locked with mine. “And my dad. You know, more swing analyzing,” she winks, and I’m done. I love her; I love her so fucking hard.
“Right, well…maybe when we’re done going over my swing we can play back that recording. You know, look for those parts where you’re a little pitchy,” I wince, playing it off seriously, but she just jabs me in the ribs under the catcher’s guard, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Screw that. I wasn’t pitchy, you ass,” she says, her eyes glaring a challenge. She wins, of course. She always wins. I’d paint my whole damned house pink, and run up the white flag if she asked, she has me so wrapped around her finger.
“No, you weren’t pitchy. You were perfect,” I say, kissing her quickly one more time before I have to rejoin my team.
“I’m not perfect, Nate. I’m a work-in-progress. But this is me…this is me, trying,” she says, our fingers dropping apart as I back away. I smile and turn, just letting her think she’s right. But she’s already perfect. She was perfect the moment I laid eyes on her—perfect for me.