Page 79 of Curveball

I sat back down next to my dad.

“Fatherhood looks good on you, son,” my dad said, clinking his bottle against mine.

I shook my head. “I’m not her father.”

My dad laughed softly. “You are in every way that counts.” He reached out and gripped my shoulder until I looked at him. “I’m proud of you, Walker James. The man you’ve become. Watching you face your demons, live your dreams, and get the love of your life back…”

He exhaled and shook his head like it still didn’t feel real.

“Most people don’t accomplish that in a lifetime.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Dad,” I rasped.

At a certain point, I wasn’t even sure what time it was anymore. The day had been so full it felt like three days stuffed into one.

Farrah and I finally made it home with Hadley in tow. She woke briefly when we moved her from Addison’s house into my truck, but she fell right back asleep once we got her settled into her own bed.

Exhausted, we changed, showered, and slid under the covers in record time. I wrapped an arm around Farrah’s waist and pulled her close, breathing her in—lavender and citrus, my calm. I kissed her hair. “I feel like I barely saw you today. I missed you.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Ace, this is the most you’ve seen me in months now that you’re back in season.”

“I miss you then too.” I pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.

Her breathing slowed—steady and relaxed. She shifted closer, her hand finding mine under the covers.

“Thank you,” I whispered into the dark, “for saying what you wanted, Wildflower.”

And I was so fucking lucky it was me.

Epilogue

Walker

6 Months Later

The Austin Aviators had a dream season—the season I’d wanted last year before the injury. Every single man on this team showed up and did his job, and that was how we’d ended up here: Game 6 of the World Series.

We were up 3–2 in the series. If we won tonight, the Commissioner’s Trophy would be ours. Fifteen long years since Austin had been world champions, and we had the chance to bring it home on our own field. I wanted it here. I didn’t want a Game 7 in New York.

By the top of the sixth, my no-hit bid was still alive, and I was on fucking fire. No one could touch my curveball tonight. I’d be lying if I said my elbow wasn't feeling it a little bit, but the adrenaline kept me going.

Their next batter stepped into the box and stared at me like he could will the ball into play. I stared right back.

Drake put down the sign for a fastball.

I nodded.

I came set and fired—pure heat, a goddamn laser. Their shortstop swung late, popping a high fly to center that dropped right into Maddox’s glove.

Out number one.

The next batter—Samson—stepped in like he owned the place.

Drake called for a changeup. I shook my head. Samson always chased my curveball. And tonight? I wasn’t in the mood to be generous. I exhaled, snapped my wrist, and watched the ball break hard.

Swing and a miss.

Strike one.