We meet Murphy and Lexi and the four of us go to the game together. This is a big game for Brady. This is the team he was facing last year when he broke his arm. He feels like he has a score to settle. I just hope it doesn’t mess with his head. Maybe it’s a good idea that I brought the posters after all.
The Hawks are winning 3-0 after six innings. As our guys take the field, Murphy grabs my hand and squeezes. “You know what’s going on, don’t you?”
Of course I know what’s going on. Everyone in this stadium knows what’s going on but nobody is talking about it. Brady is pitching a perfect game. Not one batter has made it to first base. Not with a hit, not on an error, not because of a walk. He has three more innings to go to be in the history books. Nine more batters. A lot can happen. The odds are not in his favor.
I stare Murphy down, refusing to talk about it.
“Et tu, Brute?” she says, giggling.
“Don’t you dare mess with the mojo or I’ll have to hurt you.”
“Seriously, Murphy. What’s wrong with you?” Lexi says.
Brady and Caden knock their gloves together and then go to their respective places, Caden behind the plate and Brady on the mound. As always, he looks up at me on the way. I smile and Stryker yells, “Go Bwady!”
It’s a tough inning. The first batter is really putting Brady through his paces. The batter has fouled off seven balls. I can tell Brady is getting frustrated. He throws two wild pitches and then Caden calls time and walks up to the mound. Brady shakes his head at him and Caden puts a hand on his shoulder.
I reach down and grab the poster board. I wait to see if he looks up at me. When he does I hold it up.
KNOCK KNOCK
He doesn’t smile. He’s stoic and focused. He turns back to Caden and they have another word before Caden walks back behind the plate.
Brady throws a strike, finally getting the guy out. He tips his hat at me.
The next batter hits a fly ball to right field and you can hear the collective sighs from the entire stadium when the outfielder catches it. I’d hate to be the fielder who drops the ball in a game like this. He’d never hear the end of it from Brady.
Brady takes a deep breath and then looks up at me and mouths, “Who’s there?”
I hold up the next poster.
INEDA
He turns back and gets his sign from Caden. He throws two strikes and then two balls. Then he strikes the guy out with his curveball, never needing my third poster.
He looks up anyway before he leaves the field. “Ineda who?” he mouths.
I hold up the last one.
I NEEDA POO
He shakes his head, laughing as he jogs off the field.
It’s the first time he’s ever asked for the joke when he didn’t need it. It’s how I know I won’t ever have to bring the large white poster boards again.
Caden and Sawyer both get a run, bringing the score up to 5-0 as they head into the top of the eighth. Two innings left. It’s beginning to seem like a real possibility. It’s closer than most pitchers ever get to having a perfect game.
I’m so nervous I can hardly stand it. I’m lucky Lexi and Murphy are here with me. Lexi takes Stryker to the bathroom when he asks to go and Murphy gets him a soft pretzel when he’s hungry. No way am I missing a second of this game.
Brady takes the field, knocks his glove to Caden’s and looks up at me. Then he puts his glove under his arm and unbuttons the first three buttons of his jersey, flashing just the top part of his shirt underneath. But it’s enough to show me. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes.
It’s enough to make me know that this is the sign I’ve been waiting for.
Because the shirt underneath his jersey is no longer the one he’s always worn since he was eighteen. The shirt under his jersey is the one I bought him last fall. It’s his White Poison shirt. The one he kept in the box. The one he kept alongside everything else he holds dear.
I know what a monumental step this is for him. He’s letting go of the past. He’s showing me that I’m his future.
Tears blur my vision as I make a split-second decision and pull the thick black marker from my purse. Murphy and Lexi can’t hide their excitement as they watch me draw in the words on the backs of the poster boards.
But then Brady has a phenomenal inning. He strikes out all three batters. He doesn’t look up at me once. I’m not sure if that makes me happy or sad.
The Hawks don’t score any more runs in the bottom of the eighth. So as long as the other team doesn’t score five runs, we’ll win. But he still has three batters to face. And when Brady takes the field, everyone gets on their feet. The stadium is as loud as I’ve ever heard it. Everyone wants to witness history in the making.
Brady looks up at me. He’s nervous. I hold up the first poster.
KNOCK KNOCK
He cocks his head to the side. He knows I never bring two jokes. But he doesn’t ask me who’s there.
He throws a pitch to the first batter and the ball gets fouled into the right-field stands.
Then he throws two balls.
He steps off the mound and back on. Then he steps off again. He’s trying to find his balance, his mojo. He takes his hat off and wipes his brow. Then he looks up at me. “Who’s there?” he mouths.
I hold up the second sign.
MARY
He throws a fastball right down the middle and the batter hits a line drive to left field. The fielder runs in on it and scoops it up, quickly and powerfully throwing it to the first baseman who stretches into a split to catch the ball.
The first-base umpire calls the batter out and the stadium erupts in cheers.
I have to will my heart to re-start.
Batter number two comes up. Brady takes a deep breath. The first pitch is a strike. But the second pitch is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. The batter makes solid contact, sending the ball hurdling at one hundred miles an hour right at Brady’s head. Brady barely has time to put his glove up and catch it.
But he does. He catches it for the second out.
And as the crowd goes wild, he doubles over, putting his hands on his knees.
Caden calls time and runs out to Brady. I can tell he’s trying to calm him down. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for him, considering what happened the last time a ball was hit to him like that.
As Caden returns to the plate, Brady looks up at me. “Mary who?” he mouths.
I hold up the third sign.
MARRY ME
I think his jaw drops open. I believe I see him grasp the front of his jersey over his heart and nod his head. But I can’t be sure. I can’t see him very well through all the tears in my eyes.
Everyone is on their feet as the last batter comes to the plate—the one man who stands between Brady and ultimate glory.
I pick up Stryker so he can see the game over the tops of the heads in front of us. Murphy grabs my free hand and holds it tight.
Brady throws a strike and I scream. Well, I try to. It’s now that I realize I’ve lost my voice.
The next pitch is a ball. Brady steps off the mound and takes a breath.
He looks up at me and we lock eyes. Then he looks at Stryker. Then he throws strike number two.
My heart is beating so fast I think I will faint. Lexi takes Stryker from me and Murphy and I cling to each other. One more strike. That’s all he needs to have the game of his life.
He throws his fastball and the batter gets a piece of it, sending it flying high up in the air. Caden throws his mask off and runs over near the third base dugout. He dives for the ball, but it’s just out of his reach.
Collective moans echo throughout the stands.
I’ve never wanted a foul ball to be caught more in my life. I’ve never wanted a foul ball to be called a third strike more than I do at this very moment. But you can’t get out on a foul ball. Not unless it’s caught.
And I wonder who made up that stupid rule.
Brady shakes
off a sign from Caden. Then another. Then he nods. I’ve never seen him more focused than he is right now.
He winds up for the pitch. It’s going to be his breaking ball—I know it. I watch the ball travel out of his hand to the plate. Then I watch the bat swing and miss the ball. Then I watch as Caden catches the ball in his glove and the umpire calls the batter out.
Ear-splitting screams bounce around the stadium. All of Brady’s teammates run to the mound, throwing off their gloves before they tackle him. Other players pour out of the dugout and join the fielders. Caden and Sawyer put Brady on their shoulders and carry him off the field. They carry him as he points over to me.
Crying, I hug Lexi. I hug Murphy. I hug my son.
Stryker’s too young to understand what he just witnessed. Odds are, this will never happen to Brady again.
“You realize we both got engaged at a Hawks game,” Murphy says.
“Does that make us sisters or something?” I joke with a hoarse voice.
“Close enough,” she says.
I see Brady double back, he comes over to where we’re sitting and I walk down the few rows to meet him. He puts his hands through the net and pulls me to him, our lips meeting through a hole in the netting. He kisses me while the world watches. But I don’t care. Nothing matters more than this moment.
“You did it,” I whisper.
“We did it,” he says. “Everything I do from this day forward is because we’re a we.” He looks over at my son. “All of us.”
“Come here, sport!” he yells up to Stryker.
Stryker comes down the few stairs to where I’m standing. “You won! You won!” he squeals, jumping up and down.
“Yes, we did.” He lifts up the net. “Want to come into the clubhouse with me?”
“Can I, Mommy?”
I nod my head, not having words as my eyes mist up once again.
Stryker slips under the net and Brady hoists him up onto his shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he says to me. “I’ll keep him safe.”
“I know you will.”
He starts to walk away but then he turns back. “Don’t throw away the signs. We’re keeping them.”
I smile when I watch him carefully step over the foul line as he walks Stryker to the pitcher’s mound. He stands there with my son on his shoulders, slowly turning around and absorbing every last ounce of this momentous occasion.
Murphy, Lexi and I make our way out of the stands and to the boisterous waiting area where I promptly get bombarded by reporters.
“Are you Brady Taylor’s fiancée?” one asks.
“Who is the boy?” asks another.
“How did you manage to snag the hottest bachelor in baseball?” a third one says.
I ignore their questions as we try to move away from them.
Some of the women waiting alongside us give me dirty looks and talk to each other about me.
Then two security guards walk up. “I’m Drew,” one of them says. “Brady thought you might need a little extra help today.” He escorts us to the front of the gathering crowd and past the barrier. Then the two guards stand with us until the guys come out of the clubhouse twenty minutes later.
As soon as Brady is through the door, he hoists Stryker up on his shoulders again. The reporters forget about me and go after Brady. He’s got security around him, so I’m not worried about them. I get out my phone and snap some pictures.
“Who’s the boy?” someone shouts.
Brady looks over at me and smiles. “He’s my son.”
I didn’t think I had any more happy tears to cry. I was wrong.
Murphy grabs onto me. “You have yourself quite a man there, I hope you know that.”
“I do,” I say nodding. “I do know that.”
Brady sends Stryker over to me so he can sign autographs and pose for pictures. Then he walks over and pulls me into his arms. “Come on, let’s go home.”
“And where exactly is that?” I ask, wondering whose apartment we’re going to.
He picks up Stryker in one arm and holds my hand with the other. “It’s wherever the two of you are.”
~ ~ ~
It takes longer than usual to get an excited Stryker to fall asleep. I read to him. Brady reads to him. Then Brady tells him a story about a boy and his guardian angel.
“It was Keeton, wasn’t it?” I ask Brady as we crawl into bed.
“What was?”
“The guardian angel in your story. It was Keeton.”
He nods.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“No more than I love you.”
He proves it to me with his kisses, his loving caress. He takes his slow time with me. He moves his lips across every inch of my neck. His tongue blazes a path down to my breasts. I moan breathily when he takes a nipple into his mouth.
My hands travel across his strong, broad back. I can feel his muscles contract as he moves. I trace the ripples and ridges with my fingers. I reach down to take him into my hands. His steely erection throbs under my grip as I stroke him.
He moves a hand to my sex, inserting his fingers, making me arch my back into him. He traces his thumb across my clit. He whispers sweet nothings to me as we work each other to the edge of ecstasy.
“I can’t wait another minute,” he says. “I have to be inside you.”
“Yes,” I cry.
As he enters me, we lock eyes and I wonder how this even happened. How did this man wrap himself so completely around our lives that I have no choice but to love him? How did he fight his demons and overcome such loss so that he could love again? How did he take this ordinary girl with an ordinary life and turn us into an extraordinary family?
With every thrust, he says my name. With every breath, he declares his love for me.
And when we come, he watches me. I watch him. And for a moment, we are one. One person. One entity. One perfect being.
He nuzzles his head into my neck as we chase our recovery. Then he spoons himself behind me. “Hello, fiancée,” he whispers.
I smile for the millionth time today. “I think I like the sound of that,” I say with my raspy voice.
“Don’t get too used to it, sweetheart,” he says. “You won’t be one for long.”
“You want to get married soon?”
“As soon as possible.”
I think about it. “I’d like that, too, while there’s a better chance of my mom being lucid.”
“We’ll record it for her and show it to her later if she isn’t.”
I turn around in his arms. “When did you become this perfect man, Brady? You think of everything. You say the right things. You take care of us so well.”
He climbs on top of me. “It happened when I met you,” he says. “Don’t you know, Rylee—you’re everything to me. My Holy Grail. My jackpot. My perfect game.”
His lips crash down on mine and he shows me just how much he means those words. “I never want to spend another night without you. Move in with me.”
“Will tomorrow be too soon?” I ask.
He props himself on his elbows. “What changed your mind? Why did you finally say yes?”
“I always knew I would,” I tell him. “I knew I would from the moment you asked me. But it all happened so fast. I just had to be sure.”
“And you’re sure now?”
I nod. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He cups my face with his hands. “I meant what I said about Stryker being my son. I want that. Will you let me adopt him?”
A tear rolls out of the side of my eye and he wipes it away with his thumb.
“Yes,” I say. “He’s going to be so happy to have a daddy.”
He laughs. “Let’s not forget to remind him of that when I take away his car keys after he fails chemistry in high school.”
“Car keys? But we live in the city.”
“We do now, but someday I’d like to have a house. A big house with a white fence and a basketball hoop. We’ll have a batt
ing cage out back for Stryker.”
“And a pool,” I say. “I’ve always wanted a pool.”
“You got it,” he says, leaning down to kiss me again. “You can have anything you want, future Mrs. Taylor.”
He settles in behind me pulling my back to his front, yawning after his big day.
“I still can’t believe you did it today,” I tell him. “You accomplished what most pitchers will only ever dream of. Kids all over the world will want to grow up to be like you. Books will be written about what you did.” I squeeze his hand. “What were you thinking when you struck out that last batter?”
“I was thinking what a lucky man I am. And I was thinking I never thought I’d feel that way again. I was thinking none of it would have mattered if you and Stryker weren’t with me, Ry. And even if that last batter had stepped up to the plate and hit a home run, I promise you, I would still have been a winner.”
Epilogue
Brady
Eighteen years later …
I sit in our house, the one with the white fence, the basketball hoop, the batting cage, and the pool—I sit here doing something I haven’t done in twenty-four years.
It’s not that I wouldn’t have done it after Rylee and I got married. I probably would have, but just like Ry, she planned something extra special every year on this day knowing it might hold bad memories for me.
But today, every eye in our house is glued to the television. Reporters and cameramen mingle with our family and friends, all of them giving space to the six of us who are so anxiously watching the screen.
Stryker is sitting next to me, wearing his University of Florida hat for maybe the last time. From this day forward, he’ll wear a different hat. One that will shape his future.
“I think you’re more nervous than I am, Dad,” he says, putting his hand on my leg to stop it from shaking.
I nod my head, trying to hold back the tears of pride that I feel for this incredible young man.
Benching Brady (The Perfect Game Series) Page 30
