Page 9 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

I want it for myself too.

I’ve been in the majors for ten years. I’ve made All-Star teams, signed a contract that’ll take care of me for the rest of my life, and won more games than the kid I used to be ever imagined.

None of that has put a championship ring on my hand.

None of it has gotten me Dakota.

I think about her more than I should during the postseason. When my shoulder aches, I remember the way she looked at me in the clubhouse after we clinched. When I’m exhausted in the late innings, I picture her saying she wants us to keep winning.

The date isn’t the only reason I’m fighting, but it’s one hell of a motivator.

We push the championship series to a final game.

The score is tied in the eighth when a single drops between two fielders. The next hitter drives a fastball over the left-field wall, and three runs cross the plate.

We get one back in the ninth. We put two men on base. For one desperate minute, it feels as though we might survive.

The final hitter grounds out to short.

I stand at the dugout railing while the other team celebrates its trip to the World Series. The noise around us is deafening, but our side of the field has gone silent.

For the next four days, I barely leave my apartment. I sleep badly, eat worse, and ignore my phone. I replay every pitch from the series and every game we let slip away earlier in the season.

We were one win from the World Series. Now there’s nothing on my schedule until spring training.

On the fifth day, I drive to the stadium to clear out my locker. The clubhouse feels wrong without the usual music, conversation, and equipment scattered everywhere. Most of the guys have already left town, and several lockers are empty.

I fill a cardboard box with clothes, old mail, and the personal shit that has collected over the season. When I carry it into the hallway, Dakota rounds the corner with a stack of folders held against her chest.

She stops when she sees me.

Her hair is down, and she’s wearing jeans with a soft gray sweater instead of team gear. Without the usual noise and people surrounding us, the sight of her feels more intimate.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey.”

I walk toward her, and she studies my face as I approach. There’s no playful smile waiting for me today.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

Automatic responses rise to my tongue. Fine. Proud of the team. Ready for next year.

I’m too tired to use any of them. “Not great.”

Her expression falters. “I’m sorry.”

“We were right there.”

“I know.” She shifts the folders in her arms. “One more game.”

“Yeah.” I glance down the empty hallway. “I keep replaying everything. Every pitch from the series. Every game we gave away in May.”

“You can’t carry the whole season by yourself.”

“I know that.”

“But you’re doing it anyway.”