Page 172 of The Fall Classic

They both shake her hand, but Scottie holds it for a beat, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses. “Have you always had bangs? They look amazing on you. Very Ella Langley.”

“Oh, thanks,” Liv says, touching her hair. “And, no. Maybe six months? I don’t know. It was one of those ‘I need a life change and bangs are cheaper than therapy’ moments. But also I started therapy.”

We all laugh.

“I like your style, Liv,” Scottie says. “Is that short for Olivia?”

Liv nods. “Yeah. Is Scottie short for something?”

“Prescott. And yes, my parents are … those kind of people.”

Liv and Liesel snort, and I look between them all. “I don’t get it.”

Scottie smiles. “My brothers’ names are Dallas and Hudson.”

“Okay?”

“We’re all named after cities that my parents visited. For romantic getaways.”

“Oh! Got it,” I say, laughing through the fire burning my face. “Sorry. I’m a little slow.”

“You’re not slow,” Liv, Liesel, and Scottie all say.

“You’re sweet,” Liv says with a smile.

“That feels like the same thing,” I say wryly.

“It isn’t,” they say in unison.

Scottie’s gaze lingers on Liv, like she’s trying to place her, but before she can, Bruce Fischer is waiting behind his daughter.

“Out of the way, girls,” he says with a smile. Then he pulls me into a big bear hug. “There she is,” he says, squeezing me.

It’s easy to assume that being hugged by Bruce Fischer would make a person feel small, but it’s the opposite: His hugs make you feel important and cared for and always—always—protected. Every time he hugs me, I think this is how dads are supposed to make their daughters feel.

We watched the entire World Series together, along with Liesel and Scottie. Bruce wasn’t allowed to officiate, for obvious reasons, and he said he liked getting to watch the game as a dad a lot more than he did as an ump.

And even though it’s crazy, I got the feeling he was including me in that statement.

And I let myself believe it.

I squeeze him back, because it feels so good to be hugged by someone who so obviously loves me.

“I’m glad you made it, Mr. Fischer,” I say. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“We’ve been over this, Georgie. It’s Bruce,” he says. “Or Dad, if you want to get a head start.”

“I prefer Papa Fisch,” Coop says, coming around to give me a hug. His nose has a bump in it now, but that’s the only indication of the concussion that made him sit out the first three games of the World Series. Sadly, the Firebirds couldn’t quite rally without him. They lost in game seven.

None of us has quite recovered.

Especially Jake, whom Scottie asked to invite, on account of her parents being on a cruise and her brothers being with their significant others for the holiday. He gives me a quick hug, shakes Liv’s hand without looking up, and walks through the backyard gate. Jake doesn’t have any other family to speak of, and when Alma heard, she insisted he come.

She really is the best.

Logan’s family has been so lovely—including his extended family: aunts, uncles, and cousins who invited me to a family game night when I was staying with Scottie throughout the World Series. They instantly treated me like I was one of their own. It was sweet and a storybook kind of wonderful, but it also made me realize something.

I missed Alma.