Page 3 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

The final out lands in the opposing right fielder’s glove, and the whole damn stadium seems to exhale around us.

I remain at the dugout railing while the visiting team spills onto the field to celebrate. Their cheers cut through the noise from the crowd, but most of the Titans fans are already heading for the exits. Blue seats appear in widening patches throughout the stadium as another home loss settles over Charlotte.

Five to three.

I left the game with a two-run lead after seven innings. Twenty minutes later, that lead was gone.

It isn’t the first time it’s happened this season, but this one hurts worse. Every loss hurts worse in August. There isn’t enough time left to pretend we’ll fix our shit eventually. Eventually is getting real goddamn close.

Behind me, the dugout has gone quiet. Players gather their gloves and batting gear without speaking, their movements heavy with frustration. Some of the younger guys keep their eyes down. They know the reporters will ask the same questions they’ve been asking for weeks, and none of us have found better answers.

I push away from the railing and turn toward them. “Heads up.”

A few men glance over.

“We’re back here tomorrow,” I say. “Nobody’s going to do this for us, so we show up and do the fucking job.”

Luis gives a tired nod from the bench. “Could’ve used one more inning from you, man.”

“I could’ve used one goddamn run from you.”

That gets a few quiet laughs, including one from Luis. The mood doesn’t lift much, but the tightness breaks enough for the guys to start talking as we head toward the clubhouse.

I’ve been in the majors for ten years, and I know one bad stretch can turn into a collapse when twenty-six men start carrying every loss into the next game. I also know there are only so many speeches anyone can tolerate from a starting pitcher who gets to sit for four days between appearances.

Still, I’ll keep giving them until somebody tells me to shut the hell up.

Inside the clubhouse, I answer questions from two reporters, shower, and spend fifteen minutes with one of the trainers working through my usual post-start recovery routine. My shoulder feels good. My command was sharp. I did everything I was supposed to do tonight.

It doesn’t make the loss easier to swallow.

By the time I change into a clean Titans shirt and athletic shorts, most of the reporters are gone. The clubhouse remains subdued, but music has started playing from someone’s speaker. That’s progress.

I head toward the fueling area in search of food, hydration, and the one person in this building capable of making me forget we just lost.

Dakota stands behind the counter, rearranging containers in one of the refrigerators. Her brunette hair is pulled into a ponytail, and the fitted blue team polo she wears hugs every pretty curve of her body. My eyes travel over her full hips before I force them back to her face.

Seeing her still hits me in the chest just as hard as it did the first day I met her.

I still remember the day we met in Florida with perfect clarity. One look at her warm brown eyes, that sweet mouth, and her lush curves, and I was done. I didn’t know it then, but every day since has made the truth harder to ignore.

I’m fucking gone over this woman.

The whole team knows it. Half the staff probably knows it too. I flirt with Dakota every chance I get, and I’ve asked her out so often that the guys have started betting on which excuse she’ll use to turn me down.

I’m not sure she realizes how serious I am.

She closes the refrigerator and straightens, catching sight of me. Her expression warms, and I know I’m in trouble all over again.

“There you are,” she says. “I was starting to think you’d decided recovery nutrition was optional.”

“For everyone else, maybe.” I step closer. “I’d never risk disappointing you.”

“You disappoint me at least twice a week.”

“Only twice?” I press my hand over my heart. “Baby, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She tries to hide her smile by turning toward a covered plate on the counter, but I catch it anyway.