Page 90 of Lucky 22

“Ella Rose? Any chance you know how to drive a stick shift?”

“Nope.”

“Neither do I.” he says around a fit of laughter.

Now what are we supposed to do? How are we supposed tofigure out how to drive this car home?

Thankfully, the dealership’s owner walks over.“Congratulations on the big win, Mr. Lucas,” he says, shaking Christian’s hand.“That was one heck of a game.”

“Thank you.” He pauses. “Um…are we supposed to take thishome or…?”

Relief washes over me as the man responds, “Oh, no. This wasjust for show. You can come down to the dealership anytime, pick out the actualone you want, and we’ll ship it to you. I believe I heard you’ll be living inFlorida for the offseason?”

“That’s right. But we’ll be in touch before we go.”

Now, we’re finally ready to leave.

We drive home in our old, clunky Toyota. Christian calls hisdad, and in a rare moment, I hear Mr. Lucas give praise.

“Congratulations, son. I love you, Christian,” I hear himsay.

“I love you, too, Dad.”

Now I’m ready to cry again.

Back at our apartment, Christian carries his trophy in,holding it close.

I imagine I’d be the same way if we were coming home after Iwon an Emmy or an Oscar.

Looking around, I wish there were somewhere fitting for it—amantel with a light to shine on it, or even a nice table. But there isn’t. Thewhole minimalist thing feels crazy obvious right now. It also feels almost tooquiet. After such a loud and eventful night, coming home to our silent, barelyfurnished apartment feels anticlimactic.

“Do you want something to eat?” I ask. Now that the seasonis officially over, I know we can let go of some of the strict routines.

Shaking his head, he puts the trophy down on the sofa likeit’s no big deal, before walking over and kissing me.

This. This is what I love. We can finally have our moment.

When he lifts his head, I let out a dreamy sigh. “I know Isaid it earlier, but there was so much going on around us. Thanks for winningthe World Series for me.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Ella Rose.”

I know in his heart he means it. And now isn’t the time todredge up past arguments. This is Christian’s night.

“I just want to shower, crawl into bed, and hold you closewhile we watch some TV. I’m beyond exhausted.”

“Then that’s what you should do.” I give him a playful shovetoward our bedroom. “Go and take your shower. I’ll join you in bed when you’redone.”

I think it’s sweet that he picks up the trophy and takes itwith him.

When I walk into the bedroom a few minutes later, I find iton the floor. “That won’t do,” I murmur. Looking around, I’m reminded of howbare our bedroom is. We have a mattress on the floor and a TV on a stand butthat’s it. This trophy needs a place of honor.

Inspiration strikes.

Well, unconventional inspiration.

Within minutes, I’ve got everything set up, and as I standback and admire my handiwork, I know Christian’s going to love it, too. I hearthe shower turn off, quickly change into my pajamas, and climb into bed. Whenthe bathroom door opens, I’m sitting up against the pillows, smiling.

“How was that shower?”