She starts to sing. I know it the minute the first word leaves her lips. I would know that voice anywhere. It’s the voice I imagine when I’m going to sleep every night, and the one I listened to silently, hiding in the dark, while she sang in the shower when she thought no one was there to hear her.
Rowe is singing. In front of at least two thousand people…maybe three. And she’s not missing a beat. She’s hitting every note, and it’s perfect and beautiful…and she’s here, within reach—touchable. The longer the song goes, the more I can hear her nerves coming through, but she keeps going, her voice just as pretty as the first note, just not as strong. If I knew I wouldn’t get booed for interrupting the ultimate act of patriotism, I would break formation and run to her right now, but I wait.
When the second verse hits, the video screen switches from a slideshow of fireworks to her—it’s her! She’s holding one arm around her waist and the other hand is clutching the mic, her eyes closed, just trying to survive this. I can’t believe she’s doing this, and I know how hard it is for her. This is light years ahead of what she thought she was capable of, and she’s doing it for me. I feel Cash lean into me at my side, and when I look to him, his eyebrows raise.
“That’s your girl, right?” he whispers.
“Yeah…that’s my girl,” I whisper back, rapping my mask against my leg just waiting for the song to finish so I can run to her. Her hair is long and wavy, tucked under a McConnell headband, and she’s wearing jeans and a McConnell sweatshirt…mine! Ty! Ty must be here. He’s the only one who could have given that to her. I turn my head without fully looking, and I can see him by the dugout.
Our national anthem is long. I mean, like, stupid long. I’m sure Rowe is thinking the same damned thing right now as her voice quivers for those last few lines. The crowd can feel her losing her nerve, and everybody starts to join in, even the guys standing next to me. As soon as she’s done, as soon the word brave ends and there are no more syllables for her to sing, I drop my mask and I run.
It takes a while for the crowd to notice what’s happening, but when I get closer to her, a few people start to cheer. Her arms are trembling, and she hands the mic back to a guy wearing a shirt and tie, and she looks like she wants to pass out. She doesn’t see me coming until the last second, and when she turns to me, her eyes grow wide and she bites at her bottom lip. I don’t give her a chance to explain—I don’t waste another second. I cup her face in my hands and pull her to me, kissing her so hard that I have to bend her backward and hold the arch of her back in one hand.
The cheers are unmistakable now, and there’s whistling, too—lots of whistling. But Rowe just grabs my face, clinging to me, her hands making their way into my hair as her kiss grows stronger and deeper. After several long seconds, I finally break—because we both need air, and I’m pretty sure any longer will earn my team a delay of game.
“You’re here,” I say, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“That was some letter,” she says, her lower lip once again finding its way between her teeth.
“I meant every word,” I say, looking her right in the eyes, making sure she understands. “There’s room enough for both of us. And I’m willing to share.”
“I know,” she says, standing up on the tips of her toes, and pressing her lips to mine, her hands soft on either side of my face. “And thank you…for understanding how Josh fits in my life. He’ll always be important to me,” she pauses, her fingers flirting with mine while she thinks. “But…I really think he’d want me to give this,” she says, putting her hand flat on her chest, small tears forming in her eyes, “to you. You have it all—I just needed an angel to tell me I was ready.”
I hug her once more. I hug her because telling her I love her and saying thank you isn’t enough. And I hold her tightly, because it’s been too long, and because I want more, but for the next three hours this will have to be enough.
“I came here with your brother,” she says, stepping back, but leaving her fingers locked with mine. “And my dad. You know, more swing analyzing,” she winks, and I’m done. I love her; I love her so f**king hard.
“Right, well…maybe when we’re done going over my swing we can play back that recording. You know, look for those parts where you’re a little pitchy,” I wince, playing it off seriously, but she just jabs me in the ribs under the catcher’s guard, and I can’t help but laugh.