Page 23 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

“Yeah.” He glances toward the dugout. “My next day off is Thursday.”

I scoff. “We’re not getting married this Thursday.”

“What about the following Monday?”

“You have a game.”

“I can work around it.”

I put both hands on his face and kiss him before he can start trying to reorganize the Titans’ schedule around our wedding. When I pull away, his hands remain at my waist, and the look on his face tells me he’s completely serious about marrying me as soon as possible.

“Ask me again tomorrow,” I tell him. “We can start talking actual dates.”

Brendan considers that. “Technically, tomorrow starts at midnight, right?”

I laugh and kiss him again while another firework bursts overhead.

8

EPILOGUE 2 – BRENDAN

12 YEARS LATER

“Right here, bud.” I tap the center of my glove. “Don’t worry about anything else.”

Miles nods from the other side of the backyard and takes a second to get comfortable with the baseball in his hand. He’s been asking me to work with him on his pitching almost every afternoon this week, which means I’ve spent a lot of time reminding myself that he’s ten years old and doesn’t need twelve different corrections every time he throws.

His next pitch comes in high. I reach up and catch it, then toss the ball back without commenting on what went wrong.

“Again.”

He tries once more. This one lands exactly where I asked for it.

“There it is.” I smile as I return the ball. “You felt the difference, didn’t you?”

Miles nods, already setting up again. “Yeah.”

“That’s all you need right now. Don’t overthink it.”

I’ve had coaches who could spot three things wrong with a delivery before the ball reached the plate. I became one of those guys myself toward the end of my career, especially with younger pitchers. But with Miles, I just want him to enjoy this.

He loves baseball right now. He loves watching it, playing it, talking about it, and occasionally cornering me at breakfast to ask why I threw a particular pitch in a game that happened years before he was born.

Who knows how long all of that will last. But for as long as he wants to play, I’ll be out here with a glove.

The back door opens and Lauren leans outside. “Dad! The game’s starting!”

“We’ll be there in a minute, sweetheart.” I look back at Miles and raise my glove. “Last one.”

He takes his time. His delivery is simpler this time, and the throw comes in clean. I catch it without moving the glove.

Miles watches me expectantly.

I walk over instead of throwing the ball back and hand it to him. “You did good.”

“Can we do it again tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”