XXX CHAPTER 39 XXX

"You sure you're okay to drive to the ballpark?" Edward had been observing Emmett all morning like a bug under a microscope, so his offer to drive came as no surprise.

"I'm fine. I'm better than fine. Your little plan worked miracles, best night's sleep I've had in weeks . . . maybe ever."

Edward grinned, so proud of himself. "Sounds like we'll have to do that again soon."

Emmett grasped Edward's brassy beard and gave him a sexy kiss. "Absolutely. But next time, it's your ass strapped to the bed."

Edward blanched. "No rush, then."

"Whassa matter, baby? Don't you trust me?"

"In theory, yes, but Emmett McCarty with unlimited power? That's a scary concept!"

Emmett snuck in another kiss. "I don't think I can argue with your logic there, Mr. Spock."

Edward sighed. "I guess I better go. I have to wash my jersey. So . . . next time I see you, you're gonna be the MVP of the World Series."

"Or the most hated man in Seattle."

Edward grabbed him by the hips and yanked their bodies together. "No matter what happens on that mound tonight, people will love you. You're our Big Mac!"

"You've been nipping at the Kool-Aid again, haven't you?"

Glancing down at their joined crotches, Edward grimaced. "That was a little salty for Kool-Aid."

Emmett grinned and scratched his fingers through Edward's beard. "This lumbersexual thing was a fun detour, but I can't wait to see your face again."

"Hmm, yours is more 'I don't give a fuck about shaving because I know I'm hot as sin either way.' And you know how I feel about this subject."

"Maybe we can work out a compromise."

"Really?"

Emmett would never tire of the way he so effortlessly lit up Edward's face like a little kid getting his first red wagon. "Sure, I could do a little scruff, but it's gotta be neat. None of this wild forest business."

"Deal!" Edward slid his hands into Emmett's. "Play your heart out tonight, Em. You're the best there is, and after tonight, it'll be official."

"You know, you're the best cheerleader a guy could ever hope for."

"It's easy to cheer for you." Edward looked like he was about to say something else. "If you need me at any point, I'll have my phone in my hand."

Emmett smirked. "Gonna give me the color commentary again?"

"It's the next best thing to being there."

"Edward, I wish . . . god, this sucks so hard. I wish you could be there with me tonight."

Edward squeezed his hands. "I am with you. Now, go win the World Series, why don't you?"

"Okay. I'll text you as soon as I can." It hurt his heart to say it, but Emmett had no choice. "You better not wait up for me. Win or lose, we're going hard tonight."

"I expect nothing less. Enjoy every second. I know I will."

Emmett leaned in and found the soft lips buried in miles of copper yarn. "Thank you. I wouldn't be here without you."

"Of course you would. Don't forget your sunflower seeds. I'll talk to you later."

"You know, you're kind of hot boyfriend, mom, coach, and best friend all rolled into one."

"Huh," Edward said, a smile taking over his face, "I guess you better hold onto me, then."

"Doing my best here, Professor. Doing my best."

XXX

What I love about baseball? The slap of the official game ball in the heart of my mitt, knowing the win or loss is literally in my hands.

Throwing out the first pitch of the 110th World Series at Safeco Field.

The hometown crowd going crazy over every single pitch.

Downing the Giants' first three batters without a hit.

Life was good. Emmett's normal game-day hum was ratcheted up several thousand levels, but he was under control—or so it seemed until the second inning. Right out of the blocks, Emmett hit the lead-off batter with a sloppy pitch, which Sandoval converted to the game's first run. With bases loaded, Pence scored on Crawford's sacrifice fly for a 2-0 lead for the Giants.

Stop the bleeding, Mac. Emmett rolled the ball in his hand, the grain of the cowhide cover and waxed thread seams as familiar to him as his own skin. You will do this now. Seaver gave the signal for a fastball, and Emmett let it fly. Strike! Emmett drew in and released a deep breath before throwing in a second fastball. Perez tipped it into the net. Strike two!

Patience, that's what separates the men from the boys. Mac had heard it countless times from too many coaches to remember. And here it was, a pivot point in game seven, no better time than the present. He switched it up, hoping Perez would swing at a ball just outside, but the batter held fast. Ball. Again. Ball two. And now, for the Big Mac Attack . . . Emmett threw his fastest pitch of the night, clocking in at 102. Perez took a hefty swing and missed. Strike three.

Coach was waiting for him in the dugout. He threw an arm around Emmett's shoulder, asked him a single question—"How are you feeling?"—and, satisfied with Emmett's "Great," sent him away with a hearty slap on the ass. No coddling, no doubts—worked for Emmett. Meanwhile, the Mariners answered with two runs in the second, tying the game and scoring again in the fourth to take a 3-2 lead.

With the cushion of the one-run lead, Emmett took the mound in the fifth, putting away the top of the Giants' batting order one-two-three. The Safeco crowd erupted on every strike, screaming and cheering and chanting "Mac! Mac!" Emmett chanced a glance into the stands as he trotted to the dugout. Edward's reddish beard was a beacon. More like a siren pulling me in, Emmett mused with a chuckle.

Warm and loose with the second inning deficit covered, Emmett delighted the crowd, setting up the double play in the sixth inning and finishing off Morse with the seventh strikeout on the night. Emmett caught movement in the bullpen; Rodney was warming up. Okay, unless something disastrous happened, Emmett would pitch through the seventh inning, then Coach would most likely play Rodney in the eighth and send in Fuller to close.

Crawford, Perez, and Blanco—if he played his cards right, the last three batters Emmett would face this season. As he watched his own teammates pop out, fly out, and line out, Emmett reviewed his strategy. Keep it simple. Three big K's adorning the scorecard would work just fine.

Crawford and Perez went down swinging. The crowd jumped to their feet, roaring their approval, waving caps and towels. "Mac! Mac! Mac!" Blanco stepped into the batter's box. Thanks to Emmett, this guy was having a shitty night, and the added pressure of two outs was certainly not going to help him any. Emmett threw a sinker, which Blanco caught low in the strike zone, sending an easy grounder to the shortstop. Tomlinson threw to first, capturing the third out and capping off Emmett's season on a high note.

The standing ovation was a heady moment for Emmett. It was dangerous, he knew, to get too caught up in what the fans thought of him. Live by the sword; die by the sword. Still, this was a moment to soak in and commit to memory. Emmett tipped his cap to the stands, acknowledging the fans for appreciating him, zeroing in on a certain fan wearing a jersey with Emmett's wild scrawls across his back.

Emmett iced up in the dugout, watching with trepidation as the first three Mariners in the batting order went down without a fight. He blasted through a pound of sunflower seeds while Rodney held off the Giants in the eighth inning. Rodney paced with him in the tiny cave while Fuller jogged out to the field in the top of the ninth.

"Three more outs."

Emmett wasn't sure if Rodney was talking to him, but he grunted just in case. That was about all he was capable of at the moment. Every pitch was agony, every call an eternity. Ground out to second. Two more. Struck out swinging. One more, just one more out . . . Strike one . . . strike two . . . struck out swinging!

The dugout emptied, spilling spare players, trainers, and coaches onto the field. The mass of humanity crushed together into one giant organism of elation on the mound. Giant cannons blasted confetti from the upper reaches of the stands, filling the night sky with shimmery squares that stuck to sweaty uniforms and sank into carefully tended grass.

Emmett ran toward the center and leapt; he was hoisted onto shoulders, bounced up and down, high-fived and cheered. From his vantage point, the scene read like a slow-motion movie, the joy on his teammates' faces cracking their cheeks with mile-wide smiles.

Baseball caps with the "World Series Champions" logo were tossed into the pile. Seaver snagged one and handed it up to Emmett, who smoothed back his sweaty hair before pulling the cap onto his head. The mob of jumping, cheering Mariners divided into pairings of twos and threes. The time for digesting their win would come later; this moment was about sharing one-on-one with his teammates, men who had ridden out the long grind of a season leading them to this accomplishment together. These were the spoils of victory belonging to all of them individually and as a group. Emmett's heart was full of gratitude and love as he embraced each of his teammates and coaches. The guys wouldn't admit to it later, but there wasn't a dry eye in the bunch.

Reporters, microphones, cameras . . . so many cameras. Flashes popped all around the stadium, snapping pictures that would clog Twitter and Facebook for days and weeks to come. Interviews, speeches, trophies . . .

The crowd quieted respectfully to listen for the MVP announcement, then cheered madly for their hero, Emmett McCarty. Though it was common for the winning pitcher to be awarded the MVP award, the announcement jarred him. The phrase "beyond my wildest dreams" popped into Emmett's head and stayed there as he tipped his new cap to the exuberant crowd. He'd deliver his acceptance speech in the locker room when the trophy was officially presented, and Emmett had a pretty good idea what he would say. He was full to the brim with joy and pride but at the same time enormously humbled.

The spectators were let loose onto the field. Sawyer rushed him first, nearly knocking Emmett flat onto his back as he jumped into Emmett's arms. Two skinny little arms wrapped around Emmett's neck, squeezing him tighter than he would've imagined possible.

"Uncle Em! You did it! You did it!"

Emmett closed his eyes and locked the snippet into his mental scrapbook. "Hey, champ! Yeah, we did, didn't we?"

"This is the coolest day of my whole life!"

Emmett chuckled at the boy's passion as he returned Sawyer's feet to the turf. "Mine too, Soy."

Alice grabbed Emmett next, giant tears rolling down her cheeks. "We're so proud of you, baby brother."

"Thanks, sis. Glad you were all here to see it."

"Where else would we be?" Jasper asked, snaking his arm around Emmett's hips. "You were brilliant tonight."

"Poetry in motion," Alice added.

"Can a mother get in on this action too?"

Alice and Jasper released their grip, making an opening for Emmett's mother to push through.

"Hey, Ma."

"My god! Look at my baby!" She pulled him into a firm hug, shaking both of their bodies with her heaving sobs. "I'm sorry I'm getting your uniform all wet."

Emmett chuffed. "That's okay, Ma. It has six months to dry off."

Emmett's father moved in, wrapping his arms around both of them and planting a kiss on Emmett's cheek. "We're so damn proud of you, son. Words can't even come close."

"Thanks, Dad. I guess all those years suffering through Little League games finally paid off!"

"That's funny," his father said, "I don't remember the suffering."

"Haha, okay, Dad. Maybe when the euphoria wears off, all the not-so-fond memories will come rushing back."

"I honestly don't think the euphoria will ever wear off. You worked your whole life for this moment, and you grabbed it by the balls—"

"Francis Dillon McCarty!" Emmett's mom whacked her husband on his arm. "Need I remind you your grandson is standing next to you?"

Emmett's dad chuckled. "Big pitchers have World Series rings, and little pitchers have big ears. Anyway . . . enjoy this, son. You earned it, and nobody deserves it more."

"Thank you, Dad. Thanks for everything, both of you . . . all of you," Emmett said, including the rest of his family.

The familiar figure of Satoru Iwata worked his way through the crowd toward Emmett.

"Hey, I better talk to you guys later. My boss is heading this way."

Sawyer's little face turned to Emmett. "You mean Kyle Seaver?"

Emmett laughed. "Kyle's my teammate. Why would you think he's my boss?"

"He's always telling you what to do."

Emmett reached down and swooped Sawyer into another hug. "Yes, that's true, Soy, but the pitcher is always in charge. I can shake off any call I want."

Jasper patted Emmett on the back one last time. "I guess you have some finer points still to explain to the boy. C'mon, Sawyer. It's way past your bedtime."

There was no point looking for Edward. He was lost in the anonymous crowd.

XXX

Trey caught up with Emmett at the entrance to the long hallway leading to the locker room. "You're a popular guy tonight. I wasn't sure you were gonna have time for your lowly trainer."

Grinning, Emmett clasped Trey's right hand, tugged him into his chest, and wrapped his free arm around Trey's shoulders. "Fuck you, asshole."

"I love you too, Mac."

"I know." Emmett pulled back enough to see Trey's smirk. "Look what we did, Trey."

"Never a doubt."

"Ha! You are such a lying bastard!"

"Okay, look, I'm not gonna get all mushy on you right now . . ." Trey turned his head to the side and sniffled.

"Aw, shit. Don't make me cry again. I have to make a speech in a minute."

"Yeah, okay. I'll take a rain check. Maybe I can take you out to lunch next week and make you cry."

Emmett chuckled. "Because that'll be great for my image."

"Uh, speaking of which . . . don't freak out when you run into my guest in the locker room, okay?"

Emmett's Spidey sense engaged into full hackles-up mode. "Your guest?"

"Yes. I invited one of my honorary deputy trainers to share in your victory."

Heart skipping into an erratic rhythm, Emmett ventured the question he already knew the answer to. "And who might that be?"

Trey leaned in. "He's under my name on the visitor list, and nobody need be the wiser. I thought it would be best if you were prepared."

"Yeah, definitely." Emmett drew in a deep breath. "How the hell did you contact him?"

"I followed him on Twitter after you told me the two of you were together; he followed me back. I sent him an invitation yesterday."

"Sneaky. Wow, I can't believe he didn't say anything to me."

"He said he's pretty good at keeping secrets when he has to."

Emmett chuffed. "You can say that again."

Trey jerked his chin toward the locker room entrance. "You better get inside before the poor guy implodes. I nearly had to tie him down to keep him inside when they announced the MVP."

Emmett burst out laughing. "He might've enjoyed that a bit too much."

"Christ, did I ask to hear the sordid details of your sex life? Get your ass in that locker room before we have a code blue on our hands."

"I don't know whether to thank you or punch you in the face."

Slapping Emmett on his non-pitching shoulder, Trey answered, "Don't make me tie you down, too, my friend."

XXX

The locker room was a zoo: Japanese guys from Nintendo corporate in suits, sports writers crouched over laptops, cameras in every shape and size, former Mariners players paying their respects to the champions who accomplished what they could not. Trey snaked through the crowd, and Emmett followed closely on his heels, pausing to deal with hands thrust out to congratulate him and cries of "Mac, can we get a smile?"

Emmett felt the heat of Edward's gaze on him long before spotting him waiting in the trainers' room. Stay cool, man. Exercising restraint he didn't know he possessed, Emmett concentrated on taking slow, deliberate steps. Trey stopped about twenty feet shy of Edward, turning back and placing his hand on Emmett's chest.

"Okay, Mac. I'll keep an eye out but don't forget the walls are glass."

Emmett nodded. "Thanks, man."

While Trey drifted to the other side of the room, Emmett closed the remaining distance to his lover. Shit! Edward's eyes were brimming with tears. How in the hell am I gonna get through this?

Hearts leaping from pounding chests, the two stood toe to toe, pawns meeting on a chess board. Your move, Mac. "Fancy meeting you here, Professor."

Edward's gaze cut to Trey, and an anxious twitch tugged at Edward's lips. "We decided it'd be best not to tell you until after the game."

Emmett shook his head, grinning. "You and Trey are a 'we' now, huh? This sounds like a whopper of an unholy alliance. Please, don't tell me you two have been swapping training methods!"

Edward gave him a nonchalant shrug, but his blush told a different story. "He really cares about you."

"Mmhmm. And he's hot." Emmett waggled his eyebrows.

"Really? I hadn't noticed. I was concentrating on a little game going on outside."

"I almost believe you."

Edward offered a hand and a sly smile. "So . . . Mr. MVP, how does it feel?"

Sliding his pitching hand into Edward's, Emmett answered, "I think you might have to pinch me"—Emmett reached his free arm around Edward's shoulders, drew him in, and whispered into his ear—"later."

A firm arm closed around Emmett's waist. They gave each other a brief, tight squeeze, just long enough for Edward to set off Emmett's tears. "Emmett, I am so happy for you and feel so privileged that I can be here to share this moment."

Emmett withdrew slightly, locking tear-filled eyes with Edward and holding their joined hands against Edward's chest. "I'm a little raw here."

"I understand." Edward pulled back with a pat on Emmett's shoulder.

"I'm really glad you're here, too, and now that you are, you should come out with us—that is, if I can ever coax you out of the locker room."

"I suppose I could be lured away by the right bait."

"Are you referring to my worm?" Emmett gave him a stern look. "Sheesh! Stop with the sexy talk, will ya?"

"Mac!" Trey's warning pulled the men apart. "They're ready for you."

"Okay."

"Go," Edward said. "You have trophies to accept. What the hell are you gonna do with your new truck, by the way?"

Grinning, he answered, "No clue."

XXX

ɸ69fanatic: #whatiloveaboutbaseball: The night your favorite player is awarded the MVP of the World Series.

Wanna know what I love? The morning after the night your favorite fan finally gets to share in the joy of the moment.

Edward flexed his foot, nudging Emmett's ankle under the sheets. Stifling a laugh when the Chevy exec flubs the presentation. "It combines class-winning and leading, um, you know technology and stuff."

Chuckling, Emmett asked, "So he did actually say that? I thought I misheard him!"

"Nope, that's a quote. Scouts' honor."

Snippets of the previous night's celebration played through Emmett's mind like pages of one of his mother's scrapbooks flipped before his eyes. Settling on one very fond memory, Emmett grinned. Showering in the locker room, knowing he's sitting in the visitors' area, pretending to read his program.

"I wasn't pretending! I was memorizing the scorecard and doing a few quick calculations."

Emmett nibbled around the shell of Edward's ear. "Okay, Professor. I believe you."

"Huh." Edward's lips pursed in concentration as the gears turned in his genius head. Downing a pitcher of beer with his friends as if they were all regular people.

Emmett chuffed while he typed. The absurdly sexy feeling of knocking knees with him under the table when that's all you can do.

Almost as sexy as footsies in the taxi home.

The texts flew fast and furious now. Emmett quickly added to their list. His thorough eye fucking in the elevator.

Undressing the winning pitcher and paying homage to every muscle in his body.

"Hunh," Emmett grunted, a twitch of his cock reminding him how much he enjoyed the homage-paying. Autographing dat ass with a fat, red Sharpie.

Edward smirked, his glance shifting past his phone to Emmett, then back again. Trying to lie still as he tongue-tattoos his nickname up the underside of the boner sprung especially for him.

Finishing him off with your mouth as an appreciation gift to a brilliant coach.

Edward's lips curled into an adorable grin. Appreciating the appreciation gift very, very much. If Edward wasn't getting hard as well, Emmett would've been mightily surprised.

A certain Professor begging for more…of everything.

A certain pitcher delivering more…of everything.

The best O-face of the entire season…

Edward rolled his eyes, a faint blush painting his cheeks pink. The loudest "FUCK, I'M COMING!"…

Flipping him onto his belly and doing it all over again.

Edward lowered his phone. "What? We didn't . . ."

Tossing his phone to the floor, Emmett waggled his eyebrows.

Author's Note: THEY WON! Oh wait, you knew? Heehee! I modeled game 7 on the actual World Series last year, with very few modifications, so thank you to ESPN for posting a play-by-play. Made my job a billion times easier! And if you get a chance to google the 2014 MVP presentation to Bumgarner (after YouTube dot com slash, paste in watch?v=Ee8wY2mIqs4 ) you will be treated to the ridiculous speech made by a very nervous Chevy executive! I could not have made that shit up. As for the Sharpie bodygraphs, I did make that shit up, but then I found a great picture to accompany the idea. I've posted that today in my patch on FB if you're interested.

Special note of thanks to my back office girls for details large and small. MWAH!

So...where do we go from here? *WINK*

XXX ~BOH