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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 moments unforgettable. Probably both. But as Camdyn squeezes my hand in the chaos, I know I wouldn’t change a thing.

King, ever the hype man, jumps in for a group selfie, nearly taking out a cameraman. In the background, Fork Guy is trying to convince a security guard to let him climb onto the dugout “for a better photo angle.”

Camdyn shakes her head, grinning, while her mom laughs and her dad mutters, “He’s not coming to Thanksgiving, is he?”

I have a feeling Fork Guy will invite himself either way.

The team gathers for a final group shot. Fork Guy somehow ends up in the front row, holding the trophy sideways and wearing three different hats.

I look around—at King, at Camdyn’s parents, at Fork Guy saluting the team with a hot dog like he’s christening a ship—and I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

I watch Camdyn in the spotlight that night, tears rolling down her cheeks. She finally achieved what she worked all year to do, and I can’t blame her for crying.

I think about where our relationship goes from here. I’ve confused her so many times she probably can’t tell my truths from my lies. I see the fear in her eyes. She wants to trust me, but isn’t sure if she can, or should.

I want to erase the bad memories she has of me. Deep down, I know whatever Camdyn and I have now will never look like what we had before. There’ll be pieces of me, pieces of her, pieces of us, but it won’t be the same.

And that’s okay.

Maybe that’s what being an ace is, really—not just being the best when everything’s perfect, but stepping up when it’s messy, when the pressure’s highest, when it matters most. Camdyn did it tonight.

She owned the moment, shouldered the weight, and carried her team to the top. She was the ace, through and through.

Just like this game, there are seasons when nothing goes right. Sometimes you have to start over, focus on the process, and trust yourself to come through when it counts. Control what you can. Let go of what you can’t.

Tonight, I watched someone I love become the ace. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll figure out how to be one for her too.