Page 7 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

SEPTEMBER

“Holy shit.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, focused on the list in front of me.

Chef Marcus doesn’t answer, so I glance up from the meal counts spread across the stainless-steel counter. He’s standing beside the prep table with a knife in one hand, staring past me at the television mounted in the corner of the kitchen.

The Titans are playing the final game of a road series in Baltimore. I’ve kept the broadcast on while we prepare tomorrow’s meals, but I haven’t looked at the screen in several minutes. When I turn, three Titans players are racing across home plate while Luis Hernández slides into third.

“What just happened?”

“Bases-loaded triple.” Marcus sets down the knife and points toward the screen. “They were down by two.”

Now they’re ahead by one in the eighth inning.

The replay shows Luis driving the ball deep between center and right. Both outfielders dive for it, neither comes up with the ball, and it rolls far enough for all three runners to score. The camera cuts to the Titans dugout, where every player is crowded against the railing.

I find Brendan immediately.

He’s grinning beneath his cap, one arm thrown around a teammate as he shouts toward the field. Even through a television screen, the sight of him sends a warm flutter through my stomach.

Marcus lets out a low whistle. “That’s eleven wins in thirteen games.”

“I know.”

“They’re going to move into a wild-card spot if they hold this lead.”

“Exactly.”

Marcus glances at me, and the curiosity in his expression makes me turn back to the paperwork. “You seem very informed.”

“I work for the team. It would be strange if I wasn’t.”

“Right.” He smirks as he returns to the cutting board. “Professional interest.”

I ignore him and check the meal count again, although I already know the number is correct.

The Titans’ sudden hot streak has changed the entire atmosphere around the organization. Now the players arrive with more energy, the coaches linger over conversations, and everyone knows exactly how many games separate us from the teams ahead.

I’m thrilled for them. I want the Titans to make the postseason, and I want Brendan to have the chance to pitch in October.

I also haven’t forgotten the deal he proposed last month.

It seemed harmless when I agreed to it. The team was struggling, and the postseason felt distant enough that I could agree without facing what the answer revealed.

I wanted to go. The frightening part was that Brendan might realize how much.

All these months after meeting Brendan, I still get butterflies whenever he approaches me. I still notice how large he is, especially when he leans over a counter or stands close to me. I still feel the pull of his attention when it settles entirely on me.

Brendan jokes with everyone, but he pays attention in ways most people don’t. He knows when a rookie needs encouragement after a bad game. He remembers the names of staff members’ children and asks about them. When one of the players’ wives had complications late in her pregnancy, Brendan arranged for meals to be delivered to their house.

He also steals strawberries before I finish setting out the trays, argues with me about fried food on travel days, and asks me out often enough that the rest of the clubhouse starts watching us whenever he starts smiling at me.

I always turn him down.

He always acts devastated.

For most of the season, that routine gave us a boundary. Brendan could flirt, I could laugh, and neither of us had to acknowledge the real tension beneath it.