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We did it, in a way. But it’s all her.
Fork Guy appears beside me, holding up a lemonade in toast. “To the queen of the diamond! And to whatever snack is next.” Brody is right behind him, wearing two rally towels like a superhero cape.
I turn to Fork Guy, lowering my voice. “Hey, man, I know you and Brody have a vibe, but you can’t bring him back to Seattle. He’s got parents.”
Fork Guy’s face falls, genuinely bummed. “But he’s got so much potential! He’s already learned the secret handshake, and he beat King at tic-tac-toe with a hot dog. Plus, he’s the only one who laughed at my fork jokes.”
“Still.” I try to keep a straight face. “Pretty sure there are laws about this. You have to give him back eventually. Maybe even today.”
Brody shrugs, totally unbothered. “My mom says I need to be home before America’s Got Talent anyway.”
Fork Guy sighs, melodramatic. “Fine. But it’s a real loss for the Seattle youth scene. Brody, if your mom ever wants to send you to summer camp, I know a guy with a lot of Capri Sun and a dream.”
King snorts, and I shake my head, grinning. “You’re not allowed to open a camp.”
Fork Guy perks up, already distracted by his next wild idea. “What if it’s a food truck that’s also a camp?”
I ignore him and ruffle Brody’s hair. “Go find your mom, bud. And maybe don’t follow strange guys in fork necklaces next time.”
Brody grins. “Okay! Go UW!”
As Brody runs off into the crowd, Fork Guy salutes with a half-eaten churro, looking like a proud, slightly heartbroken uncle. “He’s gonna go far, that one,” he says with a sniff.
King laughs, and for the first time all year, so do I. Victory never tasted so sweet. And as Fork Guy launches into a new round of introductions (“This is Jaxon—he’s with the winner!”), I still don’t know if I regret letting him come or if I owe him for the best day of my life. Maybe both.
As the last of the confetti settles and the crowd starts to thin, King grabs my arm. “Bro, let’s go!”
Fork Guy is right behind us, somehow already wearing a commemorative championship hat and clutching a T-shirt he definitely didn’t pay for. “Field trip! Literally!” he shouts, weaving through the crowd with all the subtlety of a parade float.
We snake our way down through the tunnel and out onto the field, slipping past a distracted security guard (thanks to Fork Guy loudly debating the ethics of ballpark churros). The turf is scattered with streamers and lost water bottles, the scoreboard still flashing UW 4, OU 3 in big, glorious lights.
And there she is—Camdyn, in the middle of it all, surrounded by teammates and cameras and a hundred hugs she’ll probably never remember individually. She spots me, her eyes lighting up, and for a second it’s us again, like the whole stadium fell quiet.
She runs over and throws her arms around me, nearly knocking the wind out of my lungs. “We did it,” she breathes, grinning into my shoulder.
I hold on, dizzy and happy and not caring who’s watching. “You did, girl.”
Before I can say anything else, her parents—Dalton and Charlie—are standing nearby, beaming. Dalton’s got his phone out, snapping photos, and Charlie’s waving a foam finger that says “#1 Daughter.” It’s honestly kind of adorable.
Camdyn beams. “I didn’t know you guys were coming!”
Dalton laughs and winks at her. “Wouldn’t miss it, Darlin’.”
She hugs them both, and before I can step back, Fork Guy—sweaty, glittery, and still wearing three different championship hats—takes this as his cue for a group hug and wraps his arms around all three of them. There’s no warning. One second it’s a sweet family moment, the next it’s a Fork Guy sandwich.
Dalton looks over Fork Guy’s shoulder, eyebrows raised in my direction, as if to ask if this is normal. I shrug, because honestly, it is now.
“Mom, Dad, this is, um… this is Fork Guy,” Camdyn says, trying not to laugh. “He’s… sort of our team’s unofficial mascot?”
Fork Guy steps forward, beaming, and offers Dalton a handshake with one hand and a half-eaten churro with the other. “It’s an honor, Mr. and Mrs. Bush Girl. Can I interest you in a celebratory snack? It’s a new tradition I’m starting—post-championship churros for all.”
They thankfully don’t ask why he calls their daughter Bush Girl, and I’m relieved.
Dalton goes with it, takes the churro and laughs. Charlie blinks, looks at Fork Guy, then at Camdyn, and shrugs, like she’s officially surrendered to whatever this is.
Fork Guy is now telling Dalton about his dream of someday opening a “mobile snack shack.”
I can’t decide if I regret letting Fork Guy into our lives, or if this is exactly the kind of madness that makes these momentsunforgettable. Probably both. But as Camdyn squeezes my hand in the chaos, I know I wouldn’t change a thing.