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I look at her, realizing I said it out loud.
“It’s happening because of all the work you put in to get here. Because you never, ever gave up, even when it got hard.” She squeezes my hand, a smile stretching across her face. “And because you’re fucking Bam, and all these guys are going to know who Bam is after tonight.”
My eyes search hers, soaking in her confidence and making it my own. Nobody has believed in me more than my Gabi. For the past three years, she has been almost relentless in her support of me and this dream. Coming to games, cheering me on, talking shop. When we were kids, she listened when I talked about baseball, but I don’t think she really got the sport. Now, it feels like she knows more than some of the guys who were on my team. It’s been amazing.
“What time is everyone showing up?” I ask, glancing at my watch.
“I told your mom I’d be leading the caravan from the hotel at 5:30.”
I nod. My entire family flew in for the game. I planned to just grab them whatever seats were available, but apparently there’s a guy whose entire job is to provide concierge service to players’ guests. The whole group of them—my parents, all my siblings and their partners, my niece, Junie Bee, and a few friends from Cedar Point—will be sitting in a section that comes with food and drinks and a great view of home plate.
“And she also told me to tell you she flew out a surprise as well.”
Grinning, I shake my head. “What does that mean?”
She shrugs. “Who knows? But Patty’s always a little sneaky like that, isn’t she?”
I laugh. “I guess she is.”
It’s funny hearing Gabi call my mom by her first name. All growing up, she always used Mrs. Mitchell, but about six months after we started dating again, Mom decided to try her hand at a pottery class at the community center and called Gabi to ask about it. Mom really took a liking to it, and now the two of them talk on a regular basis. They’re friends, which is both funny and amazing.
Mentoring my mom from afar was helpful to Gabi as she transitioned to her new studio space once she moved out to North Carolina. She enjoyed the new place—it had huge windows overlooking a park and it was great for her to network with other artists in the area—but she missed teaching ceramics a lot more than she expected to, so my mom became her new student.
Not that she would have the time for teaching these days. Working in a space with other creators stoked a new fire in Gabi, and her business really took off. She’s had her work featured in magazines and was approached recently about starting a line to feature in a major retailer. It’s incredible to see how far she has come. I couldn’t be more proud. It’ll be exciting to see how she transitions again now that we’re going to be in the Raleigh area, a much larger city with so many more resources and opportunities.
“I probably need to head in soon,” I finally say, letting out another long breath then taking Gabi’s hand in mine, both of them resting against the center console. “But I’ll see you in a little bit?”
She smiles. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
My thumb strokes against the ring on her fourth finger, the one I slipped onto her hand as we got married in a small ceremony back in Cedar Point last spring. It had snowed the night before, layering the ground with a beautiful white sheet that didn’t melt away until several hours after we exchanged our vows. It was a beautiful day, and it still floors me knowing the most incredible woman in the world agreed to marry me.
We hop out of the car and embrace briefly, then Gabi slides into the driver’s seat as I head toward the player’s entrance.
“Bishop!” she shouts.
I turn, laughing when I find her holding up her phone, taking my picture.
“Just don’t want you to forget this feeling,” she calls. “Good luck! I love you!”
Taking a deep breath, I head inside, and then everything is a whirlwind. Somehow, five hours pass in a flash, filled with stretching, batting practice, and other muscle warmups then hanging out with the other guys before we head out onto the field.
I barely hear the announcer as he says his spiel, my ears overwhelmed by the sound of the crowd. When I step out of the dugout, I turn, scanning the section I was told everyone would be sitting in. Sure enough, there they are. My eyes track over each person, over smiling face after smiling face—including Leah and Roy, who stand and wave with far more enthusiasm than I’m expecting—until I see someone I’m not expecting.
Justin. This must be Mom’s surprise.
He puts his hands on either side of his face and cheers then claps his hands.
We’ve grown close over the past few years, even though I moved away. We talk a few times a month and text regularly, and he keeps me updated on how things are going at school. He got a full ride to Whitney College to play for the baseball team, like I did. I’m incredibly proud.
More than that, some of his rougher edges seem to have lost a bit of their sharpness. He’s still cocky as hell—he wouldn’t be Justin if he wasn’t—but he’s turning into an amazing, thoughtful young man, and I feel proud to know him.
I wave at my family and friends then wait as Gabi gets out of her seat and jogs down to me.
“Just wanted to say one more time: I love you so much,” she tells me from the other side of the net that divides the field from the seats behind home plate. “So much.”
“Love you, too.”
She blows me a kiss, and my eyes fall to the little tattoo on her wrist. The same one I have on mine.
