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The Olympians have looked incredible tonight from more than just a pitching standpoint, though Jack is definitely the one we’re all watching tonight, and I couldn’t be prouder of the nine men on that field right now. They have played the most incredible defense we’ve seen in a long time, but in the batter’s box they’ve blown me away. Tonight I watched LuisPerez actually let a first pitch go by without chasing. I was so happy I cried.
Nico, in addition to calling a beautiful game, hit a home run in the fifth to give us a commanding lead. Not that we really need it with what Jack is doing on the mound, but Nico’s home run all but cemented the result of this game. And with only three outs left, I’m as nervous as I’ve ever been while watching a baseball game. But, just as Jack has to trust the men behind him, I trust that the men on that field will have his back.
And they do.
The first out is easily caught by Luca.
The second out is a little scarier than the first. The ball takes a soft hop toward third base but is easily scooped up and thrown to first.
One out left.
I close my eyes and listen.
The softthwackof leather on leather as the ball finds its target. The roar of a crowd that knows history is on the horizon, and even though their team is on the wrong side of that history, they are stillbaseballfans, and we don’t see baseball like this often. A groan from the home crowd as a second strike is called, and then I hear it. Wood on leather. Solid contact. I open my eyes just in time to watch Luca’s feet hit the warning track. He leaps and my heart stutters in my chest as his feet hit the ground and he raises his glove in the air, ball trapped firmly inside.
Jackson is mobbed on the mound as the bench clears and the relief staff rush in from the bullpen to join the team on the field. I wish I was in the melee with them, hugging and high fiving and celebrating Jack’s amazing accomplishment. As I watch the celebration, I see Max seek him out, swallowing him up in a crushing hug. Soon, the post gamefootage turns to the Baltimore Blackbirds, as it is local coverage, so I switch to the American Sports Network for more coverage.
Penelope Hutchinson is guest anchoringBaseball Nightlywith Jim McCann, who recently took over hosting duties after leavingOn the Field. As they continue to show coverage of the no-hitter, including a post game interview with Jackson, Jake steps into the frame and sits in the empty chair at the desk. Knowing Penelope and her own brand of superstition, I’m guessing she sent her husband off set as soon as she realized what was going on. Jake is not allowed to speak – to his wife or anyone – during a no-hitter in progress in case he slips up. It makes for entertaining baseball analysis and funny holiday stories around the dinner table.
They show highlights of the game, shots of Jack in the dugout sitting next to a silent, scowling Max, and as I simultaneously celebrate and wallow in the fact that I’m not with my team right now, my phone buzzes nearby.
Roger wants you with us if you’re up to it. Rooftop bar in an hour.
I use the next hour to shower and style my hair, and dig my nicest clothes out of my suitcase. Baseball coaches don’t generally have any reason to travel with cocktail attire, but I still have my red carpet clothes with me so I steam out the wrinkles in my jumpsuit the best I can with a super hot shower, and slip into my heels.
Rather than sitting in my room, all dressed up and waiting, I ride the elevator to the roof where I order myself a seltzer with cranberry and lime, and perch at a hightop near the door. It’s a beautiful, if chilly, night in Baltimore, the city lights shimmer as a chill blows in off the water. The door bursts open and the team spills out onto the roof, cheering and whooping, as they spread out around the open space.
“Coach!” Jackson walks over and I hop down from my stool as he wraps me in a bear hug.
“Congratulations, Jack!”
“Thank you,” he kisses my cheek and pulls away, “it means a lot to have you here. You’re feeling okay?”
“Much better. But enough about me, this isyournight. Go celebrate.”
“Yes ma’am.”
A low whistle sounds from nearby and I turn to find Max stalking toward me, movements graceful and slow as his gaze roams over my body. And I shamelessly do the same to him. Say what you will about men in baseball uniforms – the tight pants and undone jersey buttons, especially on Max, drive me all kinds of crazy – but nothing beats postgame Maxwell Harrison. In tailored navy slacks and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and hinting at the tattoos that lie beneath, sleeves rolled up to reveal the floral tattoo sleeve on his left arm, and the stories that his right arm tells.
As he gets closer, I reach for him and he grabs my hand, pulling me against his solid chest and turning so that my back is against the bar, shielded by his body as he claims my lips in a kiss. I sigh against him and he catches me up, drawing me closer. For the first time since this all started, I don’t care who sees us. I would gladly walk away if it meant more nights of Max coming back to me like this.
My cheeks flame as cheers and wolf whistles and calls of ‘it’s about time!’ meet my ears as Max ends the kiss and presses his forehead against mine.
“Ground rules,” he groans. “I got carried away. I’m sorry, Sutton.”
“Do I get one too?” Luca calls from across the roof. “I sacrificed my body tonight. Max warmed the bench.”
I laugh as Max growls low in his throat and Luca makes hisway toward the bar. When he stops beside us to order himself a drink, Max still has me bracketed in his arms, but I press a kiss to Luca’s cheek.
“You were great tonight, Luca.”
“Thanks, Coach,” he beams, his usual humor replaced by a sincerity that I rarely see from him, as he claps Max on the shoulder. “And I’m happy for you both.”
“I missed you,” Max claims a stool and I sit down beside him. “How are you feeling?”
“Better now.” I lean in close to him, not worrying about being seen or what anyone on the rooftop thinks. I’m content to sit here with him for the rest of the night.
“I don’t plan on staying long.” Max signals to the bartender, ordering himself a seltzer like mine. “A drink, a few minutes with the guys, and then this old man needs sleep.”
