Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Thirty minutes later, I can’t stop staring at his left shoulder, utterly mesmerized. This is no big back tattoo. It’s a small but beautiful piece of art—a silhouette of a bird, its wings spread.
“It’s gorgeous,” I whisper reverently, transfixed by the black ink on my husband’s body.
Grant shifts his gaze to me. “You like?”
“I love,” I say.
“It kind of reminds me of you.”
“Yeah?”
“You wanted to be a bird. I like to think you flew to me.” He flashes me a goofy grin. “Maybe that’s cheesy, but I believe it.”
A tingle swoops down my chest, warming me up, driving me on when an idea pokes at me insistently. “Any chance you can do another one?” I ask Echo.
“On your hubs?”
I’ve never had a tattoo before. But then, I’ve never seen one that felt so right, and this one means something to him and to me. It says something about who we are to each other and makes me feel like we’re always connected. “No. On me.”
Grant’s eyes pop, all big and blue. “You’re going to get a matching tattoo?” He sounds shocked—maybe too shocked.
I waggle my left hand. “We have matching rings. We share a house. Sometimes we share clothes. Is a tattoo your limit?”
His grin is magnetic, telling me the shock in his eyes is the good kind. “Get one. Get it now. You’re going to look so hot with a bird on you.”
With her eyes focused on Grant’s shoulder, Echo nods. “If you want the same design, I can fit you in.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the chair, with Echo inking a small silhouette of bird wings onto my chest.
When we leave the shop, Grant wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You’re stuck with me now.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
Epilogue
That fall and into the next few years
Declan
Some guys have all the luck.
Like my husband. Grant wins another World Series in late October, catching the final pitch in an epic Fall Classic, battling the Chicago Sharks in a seven-game, extra-inning nail-biter.
He hits two home runs, bats over four hundred, and collects five RBIs. He also catches every damn pitch.
It’s no surprise he wins the MVP trophy.
To say I am proud is to say the sky is blue. I am elated, and I kiss the hell out of him when, still wearing his chest protector, he runs over to me in the stands and pulls me onto the field.
Two years later, Grant wins his third World Series.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous. But mostly, I’m so damn happy for him. My team comes close a few times, but we don’t win it all.
Someday.
But my somedays are getting shorter. The end of baseball looms closer for me. I’m thirty-four, and soon, I’ll have to start thinking about retirement.
Not yet, though. I’m still healthy.
Until I turn thirty-five. I twist my ankle on Opening Day—it knocks me out for a few weeks, I don’t feel one hundred percent when I return to the lineup, and my stats show it.
It’s the first season where I’m disappointed with my performance, and I tell Grant as much when we’re in Hawaii in November, lounging in the sun.
“Maybe it’s time to hang up my cleats,” I say, feeling more contemplative than usual as I stretch out on a lounge chair by our pool.
Grant shakes his head. “Nope. You had one less than stellar season. You’re not retiring.”
I don’t have his certainty, though. “Maybe it’s my time. Maybe the gods of baseball are telling me something.”
“Your husband is telling you something. You’re not retiring early. You’re a future hall-of-famer, and you need to keep playing.”
“Do I, though?” It’s not that I want to quit. I want to quit on my own terms.
“Do you want to retire, Deck?” Grant asks, his tone serious. “Because if you’re falling out of love with baseball, that’s one thing. Then, we should talk about that. If you’re just in a funk, then I will keep cheering you on till you’re out of it.”
I shift to my side, sigh heavily, and voice my deepest professional fear. “What if baseball is falling out of love with me?”
Grant shakes his head. “Nope. Baseball loves you. I love you. And I will keep rooting for you.” He smiles. “But I’m not giving you hitting tips on any pitchers.”
I laugh, feeling a little better, then motion for him to join me on my chair. He obliges, and we lie together in the sun.
I feel a lot better months later—at thirty-six, I’m having a season for the ages. Buoyed by Grant’s confidence and encouragement, I kick ass every day, and I rack up stats that any player would kill to have.
At the end of September, I finish with a career high in home runs, and the highest batting average in my league.
But, more importantly, the Dragons make it past the divisionals, march through the championship round, and advance to the World Series.