Page 8 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

The idea of going on a real date with him is exciting enough to scare me.

He’s Brendan Kelso. Women approach him everywhere we go, and he knows how attractive he is. I’ve watched him charm reporters, fans, and strangers without appearing to make any effort at all.

Part of me is terrified of what happens when the flirting stops being a joke. The other part of me wants him badly enough to risk it.

The remaining weeks of the regular season are a roller coaster of narrow wins, painful losses, and daily changes in the standings. The Titans claim the final wild-card position, lose it two days later, then fight their way back.

Every game feels critical. Staff members gather around televisions whenever the team is on the road, and the clubhouse stays tense until the last out.

Brendan keeps finding me in the middle of it.

After one win, he asks whether I’ve started deciding what to wear on our date. In Boston, he wants to know whether I prefer candlelight or a skyline view. After pitching seven scoreless innings in New York, he walks past three reporters to ask whether I’m impressed.

By the final weekend of the regular season, the Titans need one win to secure their spot in the playoffs. They lose Friday, which leaves Brendan starting Saturday with the season resting heavily on his shoulders.

I watch from the staff area behind the clubhouse. He gives up a run in the first inning, then shuts the other team down through seven. When he leaves the mound, the Titans lead three to one.

The bullpen holds.

The final strike sends the stadium into chaos. Players race onto the field while staff members hurry toward the clubhouse. By the time the team comes through the tunnel, music is blasting and champagne is spraying across the room.

Chef Marcus and I exchange a joyful hug. Luis nearly knocks both of us over before spinning away to celebrate with someone else. I’m laughing and trying to protect my eyes when I see Brendan across the room.

He sees me at the same moment.

His grin brightens as he starts toward me. Two teammates try to stop him along the way, but he breaks free and keeps coming until he’s standing in front of me, soaked with champagne and flushed from the game.

“We did it,” he says over the music.

I beam at him. “I’m happy for you.”

“For the team?” He steps closer. The front of his shirt, wet with champagne, clings to his chest. “Or for me?”

“For all of you.”

Brendan’s gaze stays fixed on mine. “There are still several rounds left. You sure you want us to keep winning?”

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

Satisfaction fills his expression. “Good answer.”

I laugh, and suddenly, it feels like he might kiss me right here and now. In that moment, we’re the only two people in the room. His body nearly surrounds mine without touching me, every part of me anticipating what comes next.

Then a teammate dumps a bottle of champagne over Brendan’s head.

He swears and turns, and the moment breaks. I step back as he grabs the nearest bottle and goes after the man responsible, disappearing into the celebration.

4

BRENDAN

OCTOBER

We lose the opening game of the wild-card series, then fight back. We drop the first two games of the division series before winning three straight. By the time we reach the league championship series, Luis is playing through a bruised wrist, two relievers are barely holding together, and I’ve pitched on short rest.

None of us gives a shit. We’re four wins from the World Series, and every man in the clubhouse is willing to empty himself to get there.

I want it for them. I want it for the coaches, the staff, and the fans who kept showing up when we spent half the summer playing terrible baseball.