XXX EPILOGUE XXX
"Okay, try to smile, Edward . . . That's better . . . Turn toward each other just a little more . . . Can you unclench your jaw please, Edward?"
"Loosen up, Professor." Emmett spoke softly out the side of his mouth so only I could hear. "You could crack a walnut between your ass cheeks!"
"He's not taking a picture of my ass cheeks."
"He should. They look hot in those jeans."
The camera fell away from Jake's face, revealing his frustrated expression. "Edward, could you possibly relax just a little bit? Your eyebrows look like Mr. Spock's."
Emmett snorted, and I jabbed him in the side with my elbow.
"Ouch! Careful! I'm pitching tomorrow."
"I'm fully aware of your schedule." Giving his uniform a thorough once-over, I said, "You could save yourself some time and just sleep in that."
Emmett placed his lips at the edge of my ear. "As if you wouldn't tear it off me."
He had me there, and we both knew it. Over the years, in the privacy of our home, Emmett had granted me the chance to live out my fantasy of stripping him out of his Mariners uniform—mostly on special occasions. This "At Home with Big Mac and the Professor" piece for Sports Illustrated was far from such an occasion, but I had a feeling he'd reward me later for putting up with the massive invasion of privacy.
"Let's get a couple from the back, please." Jake circled his finger in the air and nodded encouragingly.
Emmett's smug smile practically screamed, "I told you so!" They were getting my clenched butt cheeks, after all. We turned dutifully, bumping shoulders and lining up our two sixty-nines. Emmett's was pristine, as usual, the bold, teal numbers standing out against the crisp, white background, whereas my fourteen-year-old jersey was covered in scribbled autographs and whatever graffiti Emmett had seen fit to decorate me with over the years. He had a thing about marking me, and honestly, it was pretty hot.
"How about putting your arms around each other's waists?"
Emmett draped his arm around me first, hooking his thumb through my belt loop and tugging me into his side. I followed suit with slightly less fervor.
"That looks great . . . almost done here."
"Y'hear that, Edward?" Emmett jiggled the hand at my side. "He likes your smile much better from the rear."
A muffled laugh came from SI's lead baseball writer, who was standing to one side and jotting down notes.
"Oh my god, you're not writing that, are you? Emmett, do something!"
"Okay." Emmett leaned over and kissed me—not what I had in mind, but it did provide a pleasant distraction for me from the media assault.
The shutter whirred with rapid-fire determination until Emmett unlocked his lips from mine with a giant grin. "It's all good. We get to review every picture and every word before the story goes to print, right, Tom?"
"Of course."
I spun around to address Jake directly. "And the pictures we don't use? What happens to those? Are they going to end up in some bloopers reel?"
Jake let the camera rest at the end of its neck strap. "First of all, that's unethical." With a slight chuckle, he added, "And secondly, Tammy would cut off my balls."
"See? All good." Emmett gave my hand a squeeze.
"Thanks, guys. I'm all set with the posed photos. I'll just hang out and get some candids while you chat with Tom."
I wasn't all that reassured as Tom Verducci, the same reporter who'd blown the lid off steroid use in 2002, flipped to a fresh page in his steno pad. "Shall we start the tour?"
"Sure." Emmett took the lead, and I followed close behind, fully prepared to pounce on any out-of-place knickknacks or intimate items that may have escaped my thorough cleaning. "You'll probably want to start in the trophy room."
I checked my watch—3:45. The twins would wake from their naps in forty-five minutes, tops, and then I'd have a ready excuse to beg off. Emmett was more than capable of fielding the questions for both of us; he already knew ninety-nine percent of my answers before they came out of my mouth, and he was so much more relaxed in front of the cameras than I could ever be.
I supposed becoming the "King of Calvin Klein" could have that effect on a person. Emmett seemed equally at ease with or without his clothes on. Either way, number sixty-nine still held my full attention, and I figured he always would.
Tom followed us into the room and took a slow, appreciative spin. The biggest wall was divided into three columns, one for each of the World Series the Mariners had won with Emmett on the mound. At eye level hung the three LeRoy Neiman paintings rendered of Emmett in glorious motion, each of which captured a different element of the grace and beauty that was Emmett McCarty. Above each painting sat a souvenir cap and ball from the Series, signed by every player on that year's team. In the recessed opening beneath the Neimans, a Plexiglas case held Mac's jersey from the final game pitched, along with the corresponding World Series ring, each a work of art crafted from white and yellow gold, rubies, and diamonds.
I had implored Emmett to store the rings in a safer location, but Mac had been insistent. "What good are the rings if I'm just going to stick them inside a dark safe nobody ever opens?" I could hardly fault Emmett for wanting to occasionally visit his hard-won trophies though I had undoubtedly made more trips to the trophy room than Emmett over the years.
"Mind if I ask what's in all these albums?" Tom moved in front of the row of scrapbooks.
I handed him my most recent masterpiece—Emmett McCarty, Mariners, 2025. "Basically, each volume is an almanac of Emmett's season. There's a scorecard filled out for each game he pitched"—I flipped through the pages while the other two peered over my shoulder—"and some handpicked articles written about each game . . ."
Tom smiled as he came upon a story he'd written. "I remember that night. You were on fire."
"That was one of my better nights," Emmett agreed.
"Emmett's mother used to keep scrapbooks, but once I came into the picture . . ." I didn't want to step on any toes, but Mamó McCarty's attention to detail left a bit to be desired.
Emmett finished my sentence with a chuckle. "Nobody keeps records like the doc here."
"You'd be a handy guy to keep on staff."
I had to laugh at that one. "I'm pretty happy with my day job, but thanks just the same."
Emmett turned toward the adjacent wall. "Speaking of that day job, let me give you a tour of my Edward wall. On the top three shelves are all the trophies from his days as a lad on the chess circuit, and here are the six titles he's brought to Seven Hills Academy as coach of the chess team." Emmett paused to kiss my cheek while Tom admired the hardware. "Below those are all the teaching awards Edward has raked in. Here's the Milken Family Foundation National Educator Award from 2018, the 2022 Washington Teacher of the Year Award, and this little baby"—Emmett lifted the framed certificate signed by the president and handed it to Tom—"the Presidential Award for Excellence in Mathematics and Science Teaching for 2024."
"Okay, Emmett. The man can see for himself."
Emmett tightened his arm around my shoulders. "Sorry, Professor. You know I get a little carried away when it comes to your accomplishments. That's probably why they voted me president of your fan club."
I leveled my husband with an eye roll so big, I actually felt my eyeballs hit the top of their sockets. "'They.' My fan club of one."
"You see what I'm dealing with here?" Emmett and Tom exchanged chuckles. "If they gave out awards for modesty, we wouldn't have enough shelf space for all the trophies this guy would win."
Grin firmly in place, Tom set the frame back in its spot. "I'm sensing Edward would like us to move on."
"Yes, please."
Emmett took my hand and led us through the massive great room with its bank of floor-to-ceiling French doors opening out to the water. We'd spent many an evening sitting on the porch in our matching Adirondack chairs, staring out over Puget Sound while catching up on some crazy thing that happened at school or one of Emmett's many juicy insider baseball stories or the twins' adventures of the day.
"Is it true you gave this house to Edward as a wedding gift?"
Emmett turned back and locked his gaze on mine. Don't worry, baby, his deep green eyes assured me, our secrets will stay that way. This reporter didn't need to know that Emmett had bought the sprawling waterfront estate after my exposure therapy "grand finale."
#whatilove#
"We're doing what?" My heart pumped faster than a hummingbird's wings.
"Relax, baby. Deep breath." Emmett took my hands as he talked me through my controlled breathing exercises. "That's better."
"Did you just say"—inhale—"you're taking me"—exhale—"to the top"—inhale—"of the Space Needle?" Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
"Dr. Banner says you're ready. This is the last step in your desensitization plan, remember?"
"IT'S STEP TEN! NOBODY GETS TO STEP TEN!"
Emmett's eyes widened into "Oh, shit" mode, and he tightened his grip on my hands. "Edward, I'm going to be with you every step of the way, and Dr. Banner is on call . . . just in case."
Just in case. Just in case I have a panic attack somewhere between the ground and the observation deck 520 feet in the air. Just in case my heart gives out in the claustrophobic elevator. Just in case I flip over the guardrail and crash to a bloody, excruciating agony of a death.
"Em, I don't know if I can do this." The confession was crushing, especially with Emmett standing right in front of me, believing in me with every fiber of his being.
"You know what? Sometimes we need someone else to do the knowing for us. You stayed at my place for ten days running before I left for Toronto last week. We had dinner on the balcony four of those nights. You even carried on a normal conversation with me in the elevator. You're so much better now, but you'll never be able to put this behind you until you take this final step."
I hated to admit it, but Emmett was making sense. "What about all the other people? What if I freak out and humiliate myself? And you?"
Emmett smiled. Shit, he knew he had me. "I rented out the place from six to midnight tonight. There won't be a soul there but us and a very discreet private guide."
"That seems like an awfully long time."
"We don't have to stay the whole time. I just wanted us to be able to enjoy the sunset from the top. Say 'okay,' Edward." He closed the gap between our lips and sealed the deal with a kiss before I could protest again.
"Okay, Edward," I parroted, adding a scowl just in case he didn't get that I wasn't exactly thrilled about this.
Emmett grinned so wide, I almost forgot how terrified I was. I heard him say, "Let's go," before he pulled me to some sketchy side door and whipped out his cell phone. "We're ready."
The glass elevator ride was a forty-one-second blur of deep breaths and distracting kisses and pep talks and jokes and Emmett being Emmettful and making me believe I could do anything with him at my side. I kept my eyes closed tight until the bright ding! announced our arrival at the observation deck.
I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire—a 360-degree view of the city from way the hell too high. My stomach twisted and rolled.
"I don't feel so good."
Emmett and the elevator guy exchanged looks of grave concern. Emmett's free hand snuck into the pocket where Dr. Banner waited only a speed dial away. Fuck. I hated disappointing Emmett.
"Let me just go splash some water on my face or something."
"Want me to come with?"
"No, Em. I'll be fine." I added a solemn nod.
When I came out five minutes later, Emmett was pacing at the door. "You okay?"
"Yes." As I assured him, I realized I might not have been lying.
He smiled cautiously. "Can you take a little walk with me?"
"Okay."
Emmett took my hand again, and together we stepped out onto the platform surrounding the needle. The soft breeze hit my face, which helped and didn't. Fresh air was always good, but it drove home the fact that there was nothing but a mesh cage between me and certain death.
"Breathe," Emmett reminded me.
Emmett took the outside rail, placing his body between me and my worst fear. I gazed out at the Seattle skyline—inhale, exhale. Watching the horizon wasn't as scary as tipping my face to the ground below. Emmett seemed satisfied. He took a step; I matched his pace. I couldn't look at the view without also seeing the man I loved so deeply, and that worked for me.
As we moved counterclockwise, the reds and oranges of the horizon deepened, as if putting on a show in honor of my great accomplishment. Meanwhile, Emmett murmured reassurances all along the way. "You're doing it . . . so proud of you . . . keep breathing . . ."
I slowed at the reflection of the sunset on the Puget Sound, casting my eyes downward for the first time. My breath caught in my throat. "It's spectacular."
Emmett turned, teary-eyed, and kissed me. "You're spectacular."
I rolled my eyes, but he knew I didn't mean it.
We continued along the catwalk until Alki Beach came into view. "Hey, there's your apartm—hey, what did you do?"
There, in front of me, was a metal stand holding an ice bucket with a bottle of Cristal resting inside it. Emmett moved behind me, wrapping his arms around my stomach and dipping his face into my neck.
"Look how far you've come. When I first brought you home, you could barely make it up the elevator in my building. Now . . . here we are on top of the world together. I think that's worth celebrating."
I dropped my head back onto Emmett's shoulder and closed my eyes. I was fucking proud of myself. "What'd you have in mind?"
Emmett chuckled into my neck, sending shockwaves below the surface of my skin. "What'd I have in mind, or what can we get away with up here?"
"God, you're such a pervert."
"Pervert? I'm romantic! It's romantic as hell!" Just to prove it, Emmett popped the cork on the Cristal. "Shit, I forgot to ask for glasses. Oh well . . . Here's to you, my brave professor!" Holding the bottle to my lips, Emmett tipped it back and poured until I protested, then took a long swig for himself. "This is some good shit right here. Alice was right!"
I smiled at my outlandish boyfriend. He'd gone to a whole lot of trouble arranging this. Emmett McCarty never did anything halfway.
"Thanks for all this, Emmett. It was really generous of you."
Emmett forced more champagne down my gullet. "So, what do you think? Are you all cured now? Should we string a tightrope over to my penthouse and walk home?"
The earth wobbled a wee bit at that thought. "It's not exactly like that. I feel like I can manage this if I have to, but I'd still rather be on the ground."
Staring out toward his building thoughtfully, Emmett tipped the bottle back and took an extra-long drink. When he moved the champagne, I could see the distress etched in his forehead.
"In that case, I think I should move."
"Move? You love your place."
"I do. But I love you more, and I don't want you to be uncomfortable even for a second. Plus, it's too long of a commute for you if you stay over on a school night. When I have a night game during the week, we end up sleeping apart, and I hate that."
"I hate it, too."
"Then, let's find something that works for both of us."
#whatilove#
"Yes," Emmett answered. "Edward and I both love the beach, and we needed a place that was closer to his school. We were on the same page early on about the pitter-patter of little feet, so even though we were years away from having kids, we made sure to find a place with plenty of space inside and, of course, a lawn to toss around a ball."
"Or two," I chimed in.
"Right," Emmett said with a glance toward the nursery. "Anyway, why don't I show you the kitchen? I understand it's very state-of-the-art, but I should probably let Chef Boyardee take over this part of the tour."
We filed into the kitchen with Tom and Jake in tow, and they all looked expectantly at me. I cleared my throat. "Basically, it's a kitchen. Over here on this part of the counter are the only appliances Emmett's allowed to touch—the microwave, the toaster, and his Vitamix."
Tom sniggered as he took notes. "I understand you've really gotten into baking in a big way, Edward."
"I find it relaxing—all the precision and chemistry involved. I can't wait until the twins are old enough to bake cookies with me."
Emmett chuckled. "I wouldn't count on too much precision from those two for a while. They can barely find their mouths with the Cheerios."
"Speaking of the twins, you said you and Edward were on the same page about wanting children. You both knew right from the start?"
"Actually, I was quite happy being an uncle until Edward came along."
I looped my thumb through the belt loop at the back of Emmett's uniform. "You're a fantastic uncle, and I knew you'd be an amazing dad."
Emmett grinned as the shutter clicked and purred in the background. "You see how he does that, right? My husband has this way of making me feel like a rock star whether I'm clinching the World Series or giving the twins their bath. It's completely irresistible. I'm hopelessly addicted."
A blush heated my face, and I feared Jake was catching the whole thing on film. "That was my master plan."
"The truth is, I watched Edward with those kids on the tee-ball field. I listened to his stories about the students in his classes and the kids on his chess teams. The man has a natural talent for bringing out the best in people. Look what he did for me! I knew he'd make a phenomenal dad, and I learn from his example every day."
I locked my gaze forward, but Emmett's loving regard caressed me from the inside out.
Tom craned his neck toward Jake. "You're getting this, right?"
With the camera plastered to his face, Jake answered, "Oh, yes."
The grasshopper-under-the-magnifying-glass treatment was starting to get to me. "Perhaps we should move on?"
Tom signaled for Jake to finish up. "Sure. Would you mind showing us the boudoir?"
Emmett fluttered his eyelashes at me. "Did you make the bed this morning, darling?"
"Have I ever not made the bed?"
"Well, there have been a few days we've never actually left the bed."
"I'm sure Sports Illustrated's audience would really love to hear about that."
"I'm all ears." Tom grinned, upper body angled forward.
"Moving on . . ." I led the parade to the master bedroom and scanned the room for stray towels or lube or dirty socks that didn't make the hamper. Everything was in order.
Tom's gaze landed on the life-size photo from Emmett's first Calvin campaign—my all-time favorite. Emmett's right shoulder angled down and forward, so it looked as if he were about to pounce right out of the frame. His left foot rested against his right thigh, exposing the full expanse of green perfection—the boxer briefs and everything beneath them—between Emmett's legs. His deliciously toned obliques bulged above the thick waistband, melting into a series of rippling abs that carried the eye to a flawless set of pecs a person could lick for days. You couldn't fully appreciate Emmett's shoulders from the pose, but even shadowy Emmett shoulders were sexy as fuck.
As delectable as Emmett's physical gifts were, what always got me about this photo was the lusty look in his eyes. I knew to stand just in front of Emmett's left thigh to experience the full blast of that hungry glare.
Real life Emmett seemed suddenly, uncharacteristically embarrassed. "Yeah, um . . . Edward likes that one."
I let out a guffaw. "Anyone with a pulse likes that one."
Tom didn't respond, but he also didn't turn away from the photo. Meanwhile, Jake busied himself taking pictures of the bed before moving into the bathroom.
Tom half-turned, his gaze landing on the horizontal of Emmett that filled the wall over the headboard: Emmett in a pair of white Calvins, gracefully balanced on his right hand and his fully extended right leg, hips tilted toward the camera so the underwear, ahem, was on full display.
"And where do you keep the half-naked pictures of Edward?"
Emmett angled his hip in front of mine, subtle yet effective. Tapping a fingertip to his temple, he answered. "Right up here, where they'll stay."
Duly chastised, Tom chuckled. "Message received."
"I fully recognize I've gotten off easy," I said. "I'm not the one plastered all over the internet and Route 5 and the pages of GQ and Details. You should've seen how much arm-twisting I had to do to get Emmett to let me hang those in here."
Emmett sniggered. "If I recall, it wasn't my arm you twisted."
Tom tactfully ignored the comment. "With all this publicity, does jealousy ever become an issue?"
Though the question was clearly meant for me, Emmett answered before I had a chance to open my mouth. "Hell, yes! I am insanely jealous. You have no idea what it's like . . . No offense to your wife, Tom; I'm sure she gets her share of lookers, but the Professor here? I don't like to let him out of my sight."
Tom stared at Emmett, probably checking for sarcasm or dementia. Was Emmett teasing? I couldn't be sure. There couldn't possibly be a lingering doubt he'd ruined me long ago for other men—even before we met online. Did he like sharing me? He did not. He wasn't jealous around his straight teammates, but Emmett had never been able to truly relax on the few occasions we'd gone out dancing at clubs. Of course, Emmett always attracted twenty times the attention I ever did, but he could not have been more oblivious, especially since Bridget and Little Mac had come into our family.
Not one to miss a possibly juicy story, Tom dug a bit deeper. "Would you say that getting married changed that at all, Emmett?"
"Yes, of course." Emmett's fingertips ghosted across my left hand, relaxing only once they came to rest on the familiar rings I'd worn since our wedding day eight years ago. "Those other guys can eat their hearts out. This sexy hunk of man is mine, and feel free to quote me on that."
"Will do." Stepping closer, Tom held out his hand. "So it's true about the different rings?"
Emmett lifted our joined left hands into Tom's palm, my ring finger sporting the Celtic double love knot and Emmett's circled by the tungsten chess board. "Yep, it's true."
"I don't suppose you'd share the back story?" Tom gave our rings a thorough examination before releasing our hands.
Emmett glanced at me for permission, and I shrugged. I happened to have fallen in love with a gregarious, fun-loving guy very much in the public eye, and sharing our love for each other was something that brought Emmett great joy. He loved to hold hands almost as much as he loved to kiss, and if anyone had a problem with that, we certainly never let it slow us down. If Emmett McCarty wanted arm candy, I was beyond delighted to be his lollipop.
We'd opened up our now-famous Twitter banter—about 50% baseball, 25% Emmett driving me nuts with Instagrams, jokes, and other assorted Big Mac-isms, maybe 10% serious tweets related to his foundation, and the remainder a bunch of sappy, romantic nonsense—to our followers, reserving the racier messaging for private texts. From the retweets and replies, I'd say they were a hit. As Emmett's popularity grew in social media, the endorsements piled up. It didn't hurt that Big Mac was the hottest pitcher to hit Major League Baseball in this decade.
"I'll let Edward handle this one."
"Heh . . . okay. I guess it's no secret I'm a bit of a planner—"
Emmett guffawed, then quickly apologized. "Continue."
"So, I get it in my head to propose to Emmett the day of the season opener, Sunday, April 3, 2016. He was scheduled to pitch that afternoon, so obviously, I wanted to get the proposal out of the way much earlier in the day. As it was a weekend, we were staying at the beach. I made some excuse to go down to my car late Saturday night—"
"He suddenly panics that his registration had expired, and he absolutely has to check before he can sleep. I offer to run down and check for him, but he won't hear of it."
"I ride down the elevator, jog out a little ways on the beach so he won't see it right away, and carve out, 'Marry Me, 69' in the sand."
"Aww." Tom had stopped writing and was now staring with rapt attention.
"So he's a bit sweaty because he's basically just jogged two miles . . ."
"And Emmett says, 'Where the hell did you park your car, Spokane?"
Enjoying the retelling, Emmett laughed again at his own joke.
"So to throw him off the scent, I tell him the elevator ride was a bit rocky."
"Right, your claustrophobia issue," Tom said.
With the support of my therapist—and, of course, Emmett—I'd "come out" as a recovered claustrophobe after the Space Needle exercise to hopefully serve as the "after picture" for others suffering from crippling phobias.
"Yes, I was still in the midst of my desensitization. Anyway, it worked. Emmett dropped the subject. I toss and turn all night, replaying the proposal in my head until I have the exact words I want to say."
Emmett cut in with an affectionate eye roll. "The planning thing . . ."
I gave him an elbow in the gut. "Shush! In the morning, I safety pin the ring into the inside of my shorts pocket. We ride downstairs, stretch a bit, and start running. My heart's jackhammering in my chest—"
"His pace was whacked! I could hardly keep up!"
"We get to the place where I'd so carefully etched my proposal into the sand—"
Emmett leaned in front of me again. "And it's gone!"
Tom's jaw dropped. "Holy shit! No!"
I confirmed the sad state of affairs with a nod of my head. "Holy shit, yes. Of course I knew the tide schedule, so I had done my engraving high enough on the beach to avoid the ocean, but some kids must've been fooling around that morning or maybe they combed the beach . . . I really don't know how it got erased."
Emmett picked up the story where I'd left off. "He starts acting really funny: slows down nearly to a walk, and once he starts jogging again, he keeps looking back over his shoulder like the Loch Ness monster herself is chasing after us. He even stumbles and nearly face-plants in the beach, and Edward never stumbles. He's a damn gazelle."
"Did you suspect something?"
"I suspected he was excited about the season opener." Emmett grinned at me and scrubbed his knuckles along the top of my head. "He gets very excited when I pitch."
I gave him my best you're-gonna-get-it-later face, which he ignored, as usual. "When we passed the spot again on the way back, I debated dropping down onto one knee in the sand and just doing the deed anyway, but my heart was in shreds."
Emmett leaned forward and stage-whispered, "Very sensitive."
We'd see who was sensitive later when I got hold of Emmett's nipples with my teeth. "I ride the elevator all the way back up to the thirty-fifth floor with that ring banging against my leg and mocking me. I know I'm in the wrong frame of mind to propose now, and I'm running out of time before Emmett has to leave. I figure I'll regroup and make a new plan after he leaves."
"Meanwhile, oblivious to all of Edward's inner turmoil, I had set my own little plot into motion. The opening day festivities were scheduled to begin at 12:30, so I knew Edward and Carlisle would be in their seats well before noon. Unbeknownst to Edward, I'd invited my whole family and Edward's mother and Tammy—"
"And me." Jake emerged from our bathroom with a wide grin on his face.
Emmett continued with his story. "Right, they were all hidden away in one of the luxury suites, poised and ready for the big reveal—"
"Emmett lines up with the rest of the 2015 World Series Champion Mariners while they announce each player and hand out the rings. I'm up there in the stands mopping up my tears with the mustard-covered napkin from my hot dog."
With a giant grin on his face, Emmett said, "And I believe the rest of the story is public knowledge, but if you need to jog your memory, right behind you are the pictures Jake took that day." The three of us turned to the row of photos lining the third wall of our bedroom. "Here's Edward's expression when they announced, 'Please turn your attention to the scoreboard.' And of course, the proposal."
Jake had truly captured the perfect image of Emmett's tweet lit up in digital yellow lights against the black background:
ɸbigmac69 ɸ69fanatic:
MARRY ME, PROFESSOR!
"And there's my dumb face when I figured out what was happening . . ."
Emmett brushed his thumb down my cheek. "And there's your dumb face when you started crying—"
Jake stepped in to help. "And there's Emmett's dumb face when he started crying."
Tom followed the sequence, studying each photo in turn. "How did you capture all these images at the same time, Jake?"
"I didn't. I had about ten friends in on it. Since I was in the box, I was focused on getting the close-up reactions of their nearest and dearest."
I grabbed Emmett's hand as the tears stung at the back of my eyes. "I love that picture of our folks."
Emmett's voice caught in his throat. "I love the one where you stood and waved your hat in the air."
"Pshhh, as if there were ever a doubt. Here's me, catching the ring he duct-taped to a ball and threw up into the stands."
"That was one hell of a catch, babe."
"It wasn't a bad throw, for the best pitcher in the league."
Tom studied the last photo before turning around. "I'm confused. That accounts for the Celtic love knot ring you wear, Edward, but where did Emmett's checkerboard ring come from?"
"It's a chess board," we answered together.
"Aha! I noticed all the chessboards earlier. You two enjoy the game, I take it?"
Emmett frowned. "He enjoys beating me. I'm hoping in about twenty years, one of our kids will be able to put Edward in his place."
"No doubt," I answered. "So, Emmett's ring . . . I'd moved it from my running shorts to my cargo shorts, thinking if Emmett had a good night, maybe I'd propose after the game."
"It did turn out to be a pretty damn good night," Emmett said.
"It's always nice to start the season with an ERA of zero-point-zero."
"Mmhmm. While I was icing my arm and showering, Carlisle took Edward to the suite. I made a quick exit from the post-game conference—"
Jake interjected, "Yes, I believe you said we'd have to excuse you; you had a fiancé to maul."
Emmett nodded. "Sounds about right. By the time I got to the suite, there was a pretty decent party going on. I tried to be polite to everyone, but I was a little anxious to get Edward alone."
My cheeks heated up. "Enough said."
Emmett chuckled, and I know his mind had gone exactly where mine had—the bathroom of the luxury suite. In a frenzy of lips and hands and sweet words and urgent kisses, we'd crashed together and celebrated our engagement.
Taking my hand in his again, Emmett finished our story. "Edward starts rooting in his pocket for something, and I swear to God, I thought he had an emergency lube tucked away. I mean, even for the professor, that was pretty crazy! So imagine my surprise when he pulls out a ring . . . this ring . . . and says, 'Funny thing . . .' We emerge from the bathroom, and I've got my World Series ring on my right hand and my engagement ring on the left."
"I probably should've planned that better, too," I admitted. "Nothing like trying to compete with a ring that has two hundred twelve diamonds and a dozen rubies."
"Don't forget the rare teal diamond in the mascot's eye," Emmett added helpfully.
"Right. Thanks."
"And the plain black bands you both wear?" Tom asked.
"Tungsten," Emmett said. "We exchanged them during our wedding ceremony so we'd have the same rings."
"Tungsten is very hard, but it's also malleable."
"Like my husband, here," Emmett said. "It's also incredibly dense, like me."
Tom smirked as he took notes. "Sounds like the perfect combination."
#whatilove#
We'd decided on a "no-regrets" affair—invite everyone we were on the fence about so we wouldn't have regrets later. For Emmett, that meant all of his current and several of his past teammates, coaches, and of course, Trey. For me, a few buddies from MIT and Stanford I'd stayed in touch with through the years and the full faculty of Seven Hills.
The internet search for a rent-a-minister yielded "New Age interfaith minister, wedding celebrant, and Reiki healer" Roland Cummins. And apparently, we were now set for life because for only thirty bucks an hour, we could engage the reverend's services for funerals as well.
The venue was obvious—the pitcher's mound at Safeco. Alice worked her magic with the facility maintenance staff to transform the infield into a romantic "field of dreams"—certainly surpassing even my own wildest dreams, which was saying quite a bit. The 2017 all-star break provided the perfect timing; not only were the groundskeepers at Safeco able to create pristine field conditions with their four-day window, but Emmett was fully occupied in Miami and safely out of my hair—and Alice's—until the day before the wedding. Not that he had any desire to make an actual decision, but Emmett had to have his finger in every pie, or wedding cake, as it were. The "just wondering" curiosity led Alice to dub him "Groom Kong," a title Emmett unfortunately regarded as a challenge.
Promising it would add "an air of mystique to the wedding," Alice convinced us not to see each other after Emmett flew home. High off his all-star performance and revved about the wedding—not to mention his standard post-road-trip horniness—Emmett was impossibly frisky, his sexting nearly convincing me to abandon the plan and meet him at the beach. If I hadn't been staying with my parents that night, I might've folded despite the certainty of Alice's scorn.
In the morning, I packed up my tux and my "Team Edward" uniform for the post-ceremony baseball game. Kind of cheesy, but we'd decided to split up the real ballplayers into what Emmett deemed "equal" teams—and assigned the rest of the guests randomly to either his team or mine.
Emmett and I hadn't seen each other's tuxedos—per another of Alice's orders—and I was jumping out of my skin, both to see and be seen. It wasn't often I had the occasion to wear a tux, and I was eager for Emmett's reaction. Having stalked Emmett for years, I knew the magnificence of the man in a tux, and this occasion promised to be his coup de grace; I would surely be toast.
While Emmett gussied up in the Mariners' locker room, I used the away locker room as home base. My best man, a.k.a. Dad, helped steady my nerves while Mom made sure all my cufflinks and studs were in the proper place. Jake buzzed in to take a few candids. He wouldn't give up any details about Emmett's tux other than to say, with a forbearing eye roll, that Tammy had swooned.
I could not have been prepared for the sight that greeted my eyes when I emerged from the locker room with one parent on each arm. The July mid-day sun blinded me for a second until Dad calmly reminded me I had sunglasses in my jacket pocket. I pulled on my Ray-bans, turned my head to the right, and drank in my first glimpse of my groom. To call him stunning would be a gross understatement, yet the word perfectly described how my heart stopped when I laid eyes on Emmett.
He was glorious in his starched white shirt and satin lapels, black studs disappearing into the vest under his jacket. His trousers hugged his legs at the thigh, classic Calvin Klein with a nod to sexy-as-fuck. Just above his bowtie was probably the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen, the perfect combo of I-know-I-look-hot and how'd-I-get-so-damn-lucky? I had a feeling Emmett's sunglasses were hiding a tear or two, as were mine.
I enjoyed a private inner chuckle watching Francis and Kate McCarty skip to keep up with their son. Ever the stallion champing at the bit, Emmett crossed the chalk line between home plate and first with a confidence I'd never possess. My pace was slower, as usual, a deliberate right-left-right-left that required all my concentration. This was no time to fall on my face.
Just before delivering me into my fiancé's hands, Mom and Dad each gave me a kiss on the cheek while Emmett's did the same. Dad took his place at my side while Mom stepped back and grabbed hold of the elbow of her escort, Robinson Cano. Dad wasn't the only one who caught her fangirl moment; how could I poke fun at her? I was making the same face at my husband-to-be.
And that's when it really hit me. Holy hell! I am about to marry Emmett McCarty, literally the man of my dreams.
Emmett took my hand and gave it a squeeze. He leaned over and whispered into my ear. "You look so fucking hot, babe."
I tried to respond; I wanted to tell Emmett he looked amazing, too, but all that came out was a pathetic little squeak.
Emmett chuckled and moved in closer to my side. "You okay, Professor?"
The rent-a-reverend gave me a startled look. I was supposed to say something. I cleared my throat and nodded. I'd say what I needed to say when called upon, but I wasn't about to try for any extra credit. Emmett's best man, Dr. Jasper Whitlock, bent forward and offered a reassuring smile. I took a deep, cleansing breath.
"Dearly beloved . . ." God bless Reverend Cummins. While he delivered his opening blessings for our union, I decompressed. By the time he called for us to recite our vows, I was human again. Knowing I'd be a mess after Emmett's vows, we'd agreed I would deliver my speech first. I'd memorized my vows, but Dad was holding the whole speech on an index card in his pocket in case I needed it.
"Emmett Seamus McCarty, today, I give you my heart and my hand, along with various other body parts you've specifically expressed affection for."
Emmett interrupted with a loud burst of shocked laughter.
"I promise to be your loving partner in marriage, your most loyal friend, and the best co-parent you could ever ask for. I promise to continually provide you challenges to expand your mind and nourishment to maintain your body in its current state of perfection."
Emmett slipped a finger under his sunglasses to wipe away a tear, and I nearly lost it. My voice quaked as I continued.
"I will celebrate every triumph with you, large or small, and I will be there to fall back on when life throws you the occasional curveball. I promise to keep improving myself and give you space to take chances. Most of all—and easiest of all—I promise I will always view you through the starry eyes of your biggest fan ever."
"Aw, shit." Emmett tugged me into his chest and placed his lips over mine.
The soft sweep of his tongue wiped all intelligent thought out of my head. If not for the firm "Ahem!" of the good reverend, I would likely have let Emmett have his way with me right then and there. Emmett pulled back, but not without whispering, "You knocked that outta the park, baby."
Emmett gathered himself as if preparing to throw out the first pitch. I recognized the intensity in his eyes, even behind the Oakley's. He was fully engaged, one hundred percent present in this moment with me.
"Professor Edward Masen Cullen, Ph.D., before I met you, I thought my life was just about as good as it could get; in fact, if you'll recall, it was nearly perfect that night."
One of his teammates—Seaver, as I confirmed later—yelled out, "Worst call ever!" to the crowd's delight.
"Annnnnyway . . . I had no idea how much I was missing until you barged into my Twitter feed and rocked my world with your sweet, humble, smart, sexy vibe. Your confidence in me sometimes feels impossible to live up to but somehow always manages to lift me to a new height I never imagined I could reach."
The coach's soul in me melted like ice cream on hot asphalt. Emmett paused and waited for my lip to stop quivering before he continued.
"I promise to respect and cherish your mind, spirit, and especially your body." He added a comical waggle of his eyebrows to lighten the mood. "I will attempt to always be worthy of your faith in me. Above all, I promise to stay out of your way in the kitchen."
Alice's "Here, here!" rose above the collective murmur of "Awww" from the guests. Emmett's mouth settled into a satisfied grin right before his lips met mine.
"Um . . . excuse me." The reverend stepped forward and placed one hand on each of our shoulders. "We haven't come to that part yet."
Laughing as he pulled away, Emmett said, "Sorry, Coach."
"Will the bearer of the rings please step forward?"
Sawyer moved to his spot as rehearsed and presented the white, baseball-shaped pillow with the two tungsten bands held in place by a single bow the color of baseball stitching. Emmett untied the red thread and bent down to his nephew to deliver a "Good job, Champ."
"I'll go first this time," Emmett told Reverend Cummins, even though that wasn't how we'd rehearsed it. Emmett would tell me later he couldn't wait another moment to "take my fine ass off the market." Sliding the band onto my ring finger to sit just above the Celtic knot ring, Emmett repeated the line after the minister: "I give you this ring as a visible and constant symbol of my promise to be with you as long as I live."
I repeated the vow and the action, fighting a battle with the voice inside me that kept reminding me of the insanity of this ceremony, this day, this whole mad idea that Emmett McCarty was wearing my wedding ring, and I was wearing his.
"And now—"
I only know that Reverend Cummins finished his sentence with, "I pronounce you husband and husband, and you may kiss" because I've watched the video, oh, three hundred times. In that moment, I was aware only that my husband, Emmett "Big Mac" McCarty, was giving me the most extraordinary kiss of my lifetime.
#whatilove#
Red-haired, freckle-faced Bridget toddled down the hallway toward her Papa's voice with an eagerness I still felt every damn time Emmett and I were separated, whether by miles or plaster walls, for days or minutes. My world revolved around this man and these two children in a profound way I never would've imagined possible. Slower to warm, Mac hung back cautiously, and I held his hand until he was ready to break free.
I'm not sure there would ever be a more satisfying sight than Emmett bending down to scoop our daughter up in his arms, the joy on both of their faces as radiant as the stadium lights.
"Hahaha, here's my girl!"
Bridget loosed a happy stream of giggles as Emmett twirled her around and kissed her face. My heart lifted and flipped as if I were the one being spun in his arms. "Bridgy, say hi to Mr. V."
"Hi."
Tom smiled and waved back. "Hi."
"Bridget Katherine Cullen-McCarty, for the record." Emmett set Bridget's feet on the floor and reached for our son. "Hey there, big guy. Come to Papa?"
Mac gave Tom a wary look before running to Emmett. "And this would be Liam Brayden Cullen-McCarty, but his friends call him 'Mac.'"
I dragged out some of the kids' favorite toys—blocks, puzzles, cars, and trucks—and sat down with them on the floor.
Jake squatted off to the side. "I know we said no photos of the kids for the story, but why don't I take some pictures for you guys while I'm here? I haven't seen these two in a couple months. I can't believe how much they've grown."
"Sure, thanks, Jake," I answered.
Tom watched quietly while the kids played side by side. I recognized the critical expression on his face; he was tallying their features and playing the attribution game. Mac had Emmett's blond hair and dimples, bless him, coupled with my rectangular chin and bushy eyebrows. He had more of my personality—thoughtful, cautious, and calm. He was slower to warm, but when he did, Mac wouldn't leave your side.
Bridget shared her Papa's button nose and long eyelashes, along with his booming laugh and lack of inhibition. Our daughter had also come equipped with a razor-sharp mind she could've inherited from either of us and fine motor skills well above average for her age. Her coloring came from my side of the family though my mother swears I never had hair as orange as Bridget's.
"Would you two feel comfortable talking about how these babies came into being?"
Without cracking a smile, Emmett responded. "Didn't anyone ever tell you about the birds and the bees, Tom?"
"I'm aware of the old-fashioned technique, thank you."
"Just checking." The two of us had discussed this topic before Tom's arrival, so Emmett knew I was on board. "Edward and I are happy to share if it might help another gay couple navigate the waters. As you're probably aware, about ten years ago, scientists at the University of Cambridge and the Weizmann Institute joined forces to produce human egg and sperm cells using stem cells from two males. We've been the fortunate benefactors of that happy discovery."
"So it's true that both of you are the biological parents to each child?"
"Exactly. After the embryos were deemed viable, all we had to do was find a surrogate." Emmett gave me a sly smirk; I knew where this was heading. "You should probably ask the professor how he chose our surrogate."
Pen poised, Tom turned his attention to me.
I owned it. "I set up a Pugh matrix to capture all the quantifiable data: IQ, family health history, age, ethnic background. Emmett helped me evaluate the "intangibles"—interests, hobbies, temperament, lifestyle choices—and we factored in ratings for each category. After we had all the data, I weighted each of the criteria and arrived at the unique solution to the problem."
Tom had stopped writing about halfway through my description. "Are you putting me on?"
Emmett laughed and shook his head. "He's not."
"I believe the results speak for themselves," I said.
Emmett nudged Bridget with his sock-covered foot. "They sure do, baby. Our kids are sheer perfection."
"Okay," Tom said, filling in some notes. "I know eighteen months is a bit early to tell, but have you seen any glimmers of athletic prowess yet?"
"Mac throws his sippy cup halfway across the kitchen when he's mad," I offered.
"And Bridget can kick the crud out of a soccer ball," Emmett added proudly.
"So, if you had your druthers, would your children follow in your footsteps and go pro?"
"Sure," Emmett answered, "if that's what they want. We just want them both to stay true to who they are and pursue what makes them happy."
Jake chuckled from behind the camera. "Right now, that looks like dumping things out of their containers."
"Well, they know how much their daddy enjoys sorting everything out at the end of the day, don't they, Daddy?"
"I admit, I do find it satisfying to create order out of chaos."
Emmett stage-whispered to Tom. "He has a bit of a God complex going."
I helped Mac fit a piece into the wooden puzzle frame. "Ha! If I were God, I'd be able to get you to clean up at the end of the day!"
"Hey, I put all my dirty clothes in the laundry hamper."
I gave Tom a see-what-I-have-to-deal-with headshake. "Our goals for the twins are a wee bit higher than putting their smelly socks in the hamper. We want them to be the power for positive change in the world. That's why we brought them to the NoH8 shoot with us back in February." I tipped my chin toward the familiar photo of the four of us, hanging over the mantel. Emmett and I had duct tape across our mouths, but the twins just had the logo drawn on their little cheeks. Emmett and I had had a long, thoughtful discussion before releasing the photo, but in the end, we decided there was no better cause than equality for their first public appearance.
Emmett's gaze found me before he added his two cents. "I wouldn't be disappointed if we had another math teacher or a chess master in the family."
Jake chimed in. "How about another underwear model?"
The blood drained from Emmett's face. "Please tell me you're talking about Mac!"
I was thinking the same thing, but that didn't mean I'd let Emmett off the hook. "You're sounding a wee bit sexist there, Papa."
Emmett didn't take the bait. "Sue me."
Bridget chose that moment to reach for a puzzle piece her brother had just fit into place and threw it across the floor. With typical outrage at the unfairness of it all, Mac squawked and stole one of the trucks she'd been enjoying. I shot Emmett a look he understood immediately. We're on borrowed time here.
Tom was no dummy. "I'm guessing our interview time is just about over. I want to ask you a few questions about your future if I may."
"Shoot." Emmett sat back on the couch, leaving me to manage the kids.
"Okay. Are you sad about leaving baseball?"
Emmett lifted his hand to his right shoulder, a motion I'd seen a thousand times, a reflexive habit he'd formed over years of dealing with aches and pains. Only the coaching staff and Emmett's doctors appreciated the extent of his muscle and nerve damage and the pain he lived with on a daily basis. He rarely complained except when it interfered with his ability to do something with the kids.
"I'll be sad not to be part of the team. I'll miss seeing the guys every day at practice, and I'll miss the thrill of the win. I'm sure my body's gonna go to pot without Trey to whip me into shape and work out the kinks."
"Wait, what? No more Trey? Babe, maybe you should reconsider this retirement thing!"
"I suppose I could see if he'll make house calls. Have I mentioned that my husband has a little crush on my trainer?"
I shrugged. "Everyone needs a backup plan."
Emmett snorted and aimed his reply at Tom. "You see why I can't leave this one home alone, right? Will I miss the road, being away from my husband and my kids? No, I can't say I will. Aside from that, I don't want to become one of those sad old geezers who didn't know when to let go. When they retire my number, I want only positive thoughts associated with sixty-nine."
I shouldn't have cracked up, but sometimes, you can't take the little boy out of the man.
Emmett smirked. "Really, Professor? In front of the children?" He shook his head with mock disdain.
Tom pretended to ignore our banter, but he had a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "So, what's next for you, Mac?"
Emmett glanced over at me. "I haven't told Edward this yet, but I got a call yesterday from Kraft. They want me to be the face of macaroni and cheese."
I laughed again, and Little Mac joined in, his giggle throaty and deep. "What exactly does a macaroni and cheese face look like, aside from being bright orange?"
"I have no idea, but I figured it would be a nice change from doing Big Mac ads, especially since we actually do feed the kids macaroni and cheese."
"As long as you have time to coach the Lumpsuckers . . ."
"Right. I have committed to being the lead baseball coach at Seven Hills, starting next spring. Also, I plan to take a more active role in my foundation. As I'm sure you know, we provide scholarships for gay athletes with outstanding academic records. I'd like to be much more involved with the selection process and maybe even do a bit of mentoring."
My heart ballooned in my chest. I'd married a superstar in the sweet spot of his career, but Emmett McCarty was so much more than that. His hair was bound to grey and thin, and maybe his abs would lose a smidgen of their lickability, but his dimples would deepen along with the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Maybe he'd jump a bit slower out of the blocks as he gained maturity and wisdom. He'd mellow like the sterling finish of our silver service, taking on a rich, elegant luster in place of the brassy veneer of youth. I was in no rush for either of us to age, but I wasn't scared of it either.
". . . And of course, Edward has his summers off, so we'll travel, show these little tykes the world."
Tom turned to me. "And what about you, Edward? What are your plans for the next thirty years?"
"Thirty years, huh? That's a lot of time. Lemme see . . . I still need to master juggling flaming swords, so there's that."
Emmett guffawed. "He thinks you're kidding."
I looked directly at Tom. "Yeah, I was kidding. But seriously, I have a lot to accomplish academically. Over the next decade, I'd like to roll out some of the math programs we've piloted at Seven Hills and see if we can get some national traction, especially in districts where the kids are underserved. For now, I'm pretty content to get down on the floor and play with these two. When the time comes, I look forward to helping them with their homework and sitting around the dinner table talking about everyone's day. My dreams are pretty simple, I guess."
Emmett gave me a mushy smile. "Does that mean you're finally going to stop pinching yourself?"
"I think I better. If I wake up now, I'm going to be extremely pissed."
Despite the audience, the kids, and the toys strewn all over the floor, Emmett slid off the couch and crawled over to where I was sitting. "Hey! How do you think I'm gonna feel? I'll have to climb back into the closet after all these fabulous years!"
Emmett kissed me as hot and hard and sweet and tender as he had that first day he admitted his feelings for me. The flood of emotions rushed back: my utter disbelief, Emmett's terrifying admission, my unrestrained hope, the passion, the heat, the kiss that changed everything, the giddiness of lying together afterwards, imagining a life of being loved and wanted by Emmett McCarty.
A perfect life I never could have conjured, even in my wildest dreams.
Author's Note: #whatiloveaboutwritingfanfiction: YOU GUYS! The support, the love for the characters, the feedback, the questions, the guesses, the fabulous insights that ignite sparks in my brain and get me fired up! Your laughter and smiles, your tears and occasionally, your ire. Your begging (you know who you are!). Your hilarious outbursts, your deeply serious responses. So, here's to all of you for being fans of this story...and to you brave, perverted souls who've read every word I've ever written, there's a special place in my pumpkin shell for you!
Though the serious timing and weird retrofitting flaws in this story are all mine (YAY!), I cannot write enough fabulous words about my team. Like Emmett, I couldn't possibly do this by myself. In every chapter, I can point to details large and small that would've been either wrong or just not as rich or well-worded without the cracker jack eyes and hearts of my fabulous staff of prereaders: Jayme, my umpire extraordinaire, making the calls when I've broken the rules or used the wrong lingo; Shadow, catching some really embarrassing booboos and bringing in a fresh look at emotions and dialogue; Ladyeire, shaking her pompoms and batting around plot lines and character traits like nobody else (and making the legit banner for both stories!); Shell, inspiring this story in the first place with her own "Sawyer" tee-ball stories, then scrubbing each chapter as only she can do (and incidentally, figured out where the story ended-THANK YOU!). Last and never least, my sweet, wonderful Chayasara, who touches my words and my heart with a loving but firm (mostly my words) hand and makes sure I always put forth my best.
I also want to thank each of you who has recommended this story, whether you're a big blogger (SMOOCHES FicsistersIHOFF and Rita!) or someone who retweets my posts or simply tells a friend to try it, I appreciate every one of you. I never know what kind of audience to expect with a slash story, and I believe this story has garnered my largest m/m audience. Thank you all for sticking with the boys even if that wasn't your thing at first. Your trust in me warms me like hot cocoa on a winter's day! If you're looking for more of my boys, most of them are here, but probably my best piece, "Remastering Marcus" is on my blog (too dirtay for fanfic!) so please let me know if you venture out! Thank you all for reading and commenting, even if it was just once, to let me know you're here. You might now know how much those words mean to me. Sigh...I guess it's time to let go now. Take good care of my boys?
Oh...what's next? I'm working on a continuation of my one-shot, "Bag Boy" (first chapter posted here). Follow me or the story to stay on top of updates. SMOOCHES!
XXX ~BOH
