Page 94

DUGOUT

CAMDYN

The semi-protected areas down the first and third baselines where each team must remain when not playing.

I f you want to know what chaos looks like, spend a Saturday morning at a t-ball game in Georgia. My six-year-old insists on eye black, my toddler’s eating dirt in the outfield, and my baby girl is trying to eat the scorebook.

Add Fork Guy, and it’s less “field of dreams” and more “field of questionable adult supervision.”

Jaxon’s in full Dad Mode—Braves hat backward, squatting behind Maverick, coaching him through his first at-bat. And Jaxon Ryan as a dad? So fucking hot. Why do you think we have three kids in six years? I can’t keep my legs closed around him.

Jaxon and I have three kids now. Crazy, huh? Maverick, Lane, and Berkley. Yep, our little crew spells out MLB. We’re cool like that.

“All right, Mav,” Jaxon says, steadying the tiny bat. “Choke up, keep your eye on the ball—no, your real eye, not your ‘Fork Guy’ eye patch.”

“Like this?” Maverick grins, showing off the homemade eye patch Fork Guy gave him. It’s covered in glitter and—of course—tiny plastic forks.

“Yeah, buddy. Like that.”

From the bleachers, Fork Guy leads a chant, shaking a cowbell and wearing a foam finger that says “#1 Uncle.” He’s somehow convinced the other kids to call him “Coach Fork” and my kids call him “Uncle Fork.” It’s weird, I know, but whatever. We go with it.

“Let’s gooooo, Little Braves!” he yells.

Lane, our three-year-old, is supposed to be at second base but is building a dirt mountain and introducing himself to a butterfly. Every few minutes he shouts, “GO MAV GO!” then tries to eat another handful of infield.

I’m on a picnic blanket with Berkley in my lap, her chubby hands grabbing for my sunglasses and the team snack bag. She’s eight months old, adores her older brothers, has Jaxon’s dimples and my eyes. She’s the cutest baby around. You can’t tell me any different.

Fork Guy jogs over during a timeout, breathless and beaming. “Bush Girl, you got any more orange slices? Lane tried to trade his glove for a Capri Sun.”

I find it weird sometimes when you calls me Bush Girl in public, but whatever. “Yeah.” I hand him a snack pack, and he immediately peels it open for Lane, who beams like he hit a grand slam.

Jaxon comes over, sweat-soaked and happy, and drops onto the blanket beside me. “Coaching’s exhausting.”

Maverick’s running the bases—well, meandering and waving at his siblings, tripping over his shoelaces. The crowd, our family, goes wild anyway.

“He’s got your hustle,” I tease.

Jaxon grins, reaching for Berkley. “And your stubborn streak. Lane might get arrested one day, and this one—” he kisses Berkley’s soft hair—“she’s going to run the world.”

Fork Guy plops down, dusting off his hands. “I’m available for private coaching. I accept payment in pudding cups, crystals, or limited-edition forks.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is there a discount if we pay you not to coach?”

“Shocked. Betrayed.” He gasps, clutching his heart. “But yes, the rate is reasonable.”

Jaxon laughs, pulling all three kids close for a quick family selfie—with Fork Guy’s head sneaking in at the edge, naturally.

Lane flings himself into Fork Guy’s arms. “Swing me?”

“For sure, buddy. Just keep that Capri Sun down this time.”

Lane nods. “I try.”

My kids honestly think Fork Guy is their uncle.

He’s always around, loves them like his own, and would die for them.

I think back to when we met this fool and laugh at the irony.

How someone with a plastic fork stuck in his eye socket became such a big part of our lives is beyond me.

Probably because he never left… but whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s here.

I look at Jaxon and smile. “Should we tell them how we met Fork Guy?”

Jaxon shakes his head. “Let’s save that for when they’re old enough to appreciate the art of poor decision-making.”

Fork Guy winks at the kids. “Don’t worry, Coach Fork’s got stories.”

He’s not lying, that’s for sure.

Later that night, the chaos migrates home. The boys are sticky with popsicles, Berkley’s crawling under the kitchen table, and I’m hiding in the pantry, eating the good chocolate.

Jaxon’s out on the patio with Fork Guy, both of them manning the grill. Smoke billows, steaks sizzle, and every few minutes there’s a loud cackle or a curse.

I watch through the window as Jaxon, still in his Braves hat, hands Fork Guy a beer and grins. It’s the kind of easy, perfect evening that makes you forget he’s leaving again tomorrow.

Fork Guy’s miming a home run trot with the grill tongs, while Jaxon stares at him as if he can’t believe one night in an emergency room brought that kind of crazy into our lives.

Inside, Maverick is drawing a baseball diamond on the tile with sidewalk chalk, Lane is running the bases in circles around the coffee table, and Berkley’s eating a sock.

I’m not even mad. At least it’s clean. Oh, and Mookie is around here somewhere too—probably hiding from the kids.

But yeah, we kept the cat and Fork Guy, who lives in our pool house.

Our house in Marietta is sprawling and sun-washed, the kind of place nobody in our families ever grew up in.

We bought it right after Lane was born. Coming from tiny Seattle dorms where you could hear everything through the walls, the space feels surreal: wide hallways, two staircases, a big backyard with a pool.

Walk inside and you’ll find the front foyer lined with our old lives—my purple-and-gold Huskies visor tossed next to Jaxon’s battered college cleats, a framed photo of us, grinning and sunburned, after the last game at Husky Ballpark.

The built-in shelves in the living room are a jumble of our stories: my UW softball MVPs, his All-Pac-12 plaques, a signed ball from the night he got the Braves call and nearly dropped the phone.

There’s the home run ball he gave me freshman year of high school, the grand slam one sophomore year of college, the one he gave me the night he proposed, his first MLB homer, and the ball I gave him when I told him I was pregnant with Maverick.

There’s a shadow box with our college lanyards and a Braves hat that’s survived three postseason runs and two dishwasher cycles.

The family room is where the real chaos lives.

There’s a stone fireplace and a rug that cost more than my first car.

The custom stained wood floors are covered in toy trains and Lane’s collection of plastic dinosaurs.

Berkley’s newborn photo sits next to Maverick’s first day of kindergarten picture—Jaxon’s missing from it because he was in Texas—and the walls are peppered with Lane’s attempts at drawing baseball diamonds and, lately, a few dinosaurs.

The kitchen is all marble and high ceilings, but the island is cluttered with my laptop, stacks of game notes, half-written scripts for the networks I consult with, and Maverick’s glove.

Upstairs, the home office is half hers, half his: her side crowded with media guides, old press passes, and a ring light; his side with coaching books, scouting reports, and a line of minor league hats.

There’s a formal dining room, but we mostly use it for birthdays and playoff nights, the chandelier sparkling over a table covered in crayon and ketchup.

It’s a big house for a growing family, full of echoes from Seattle and dreams that started under gray skies.

You can feel the hustle everywhere—two kids with Huskies hearts who built a life on the other side of the country, filling every room with memories from the field while raising three wild kids.

“Who’s ready to eat?” Jaxon comes in carrying a plate piled high with perfect steaks, Fork Guy trailing behind with a bowl of macaroni.

“Meeee!” Both boys announce and at Lane’s request, we eat on the floor, picnic-style, with ketchup stains and laughter.

Maverick sits on Jaxon’s lap. “Daddy, why you gotta leave tomorrow?”

Jaxon kisses the side of his head. “It’s my job, buddy. I’ll be back in a couple weeks, though and we can work on your framing.”

Maverick has been dying to play catcher, like his daddy. “Okay!”

Fork Guy bumps Maverick’s shoulder while still chewing a mouthful of steak. “I can teach you a few things.”

Maverick stares at him. “Like what?”

Fork Guy shrugs. “How to eat ramen upside down?”

“Oh, cool!” And then Maverick is attempting to do a handstand.

Jaxon dodges his legs and shakes his head immediately. “Nope. Do not teach him that.”

That’s all I need is my six-year-old with a plastic fork in his eye. I’d rather not.

Eventually, Fork Guy stands to leave, giving each kid a fist bump. “If you need me, I’ll be at home.”

Home meaning our pool house. I have to admit, having Fork Guy close while Jaxon is gone is nice when you have three kids and a business to run.

Fork Guy pauses in the doorway, grinning at Jaxon. “Hey, Jax, you know while you’re gone, I’m technically the man of the house, right?” He thumps his chest with mock bravado.

Jaxon laughs, tossing a napkin at him, and then lies back on the floor where Berkley starts crawling all over him. “Yeah, just keep your hands off my wife, my man.”

Fork Guy feigns shock, hand to chest. “Nah, man, that’s bad juju. Besides, I got a thing going with Astrid up the street. She’s showing me how to cleanse my aura. Last night she did a tarot pull and said my chakras are finally open to abundance.”

Lane pipes up from the floor, climbing on Jaxon as well. “Can hims makes me pancakes?”

Fork Guy shoots Jaxon a smug look. “I’ll even make you blueberry pancakes.”

Jaxon shakes his head, still smiling at his kids climbing all over him like he’s their personal jungle gym.

Fork Guy heads out the back door, whistling, half menace, half family.

Sometimes I wonder what parents in the drop off line think when Fork Guy takes my kids to school wearing only a robe and UGGs but you know, I don’t care.

He’s special to this family and I wouldn’t change the dynamics one bit.

Although, I’d love it if Fork Guy wore his own robe and UGGs and not mine, but whatever. It’s fine.

When the last bedtime story is read and all the cups of water are filled, finally the last tiny footstep fades down the hall, the house goes still. I lean against the kitchen counter, hair a mess, T-shirt spattered with ketchup and God knows what, breathing in the silence.

The back door creaks and Jaxon steps in, cheeks flushed from the grill and arms full of leftover steak, the smell of smoke and summer clinging to him.

He sets the plate down and looks at me with a crooked grin—the one that still gets my heart racing, even after all these years and babies and sleepless nights.

“Kids asleep?” he whispers, like saying it too loud might jinx everything.

“All three. Miracles happen,” I whisper back, grinning.

He crosses the kitchen in two strides and pulls me against him, his hands finding the small of my back like he’s been waiting all day. For a second, we’re just us again—Camdyn and Jaxon, not Mom and Dad, not referee and snack lady and professional chaos managers.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against the side of my neck. “I’m gonna miss this. I’m gonna miss you.”

I shiver, tilting my head, letting his stubble graze my skin. “Mmm. You better.”

He laughs, low and hungry, and lifts me onto the counter, the rest of the world falling away.

Nights like this, there’s no t-ball schedule, no dirty laundry, no sticky fingerprints—just Jaxon’s hands on my thighs, his mouth on mine, and that same desire like we’re in college again, sneaking in late nights before one of us heads to another city.

Tomorrow, he’ll be gone, flying out for another series, chasing fastballs and home runs.

But tonight, he’s here. We’re here. Our own little dugout—messy, loud, and absolutely perfect.

And for a while, we let the world spin without us, tangled together in the quiet, stealing every last second before the next pitch.

He presses a kiss to my jaw, but I can’t help myself, slipping back into manager mode. “You need to check your email before bed—your agent sent the new media schedule for the road. And don’t forget to call the team nutritionist about the protein sponsor thing. Oh, and tomorrow?—”

He groans, nuzzling my neck. “Cam, stop, baby.”

I smirk, winding my arms around his neck. “I can’t, because every time you forget this stuff. Right when you land tomorrow you have a Zoom call with the Braves’ PR team. And they want you to post that charity video before you leave in the morning. Also?—”

He cuts me off with a laugh, dragging me closer. When that’s not enough he takes my hand and runs it down his erection. “I don’t care about any of that. You in this old Husky Baseball T-shirt need to be on my dick.”

Okay, well, he hasn’t lost his edge for dirty talking, has he?

“You, bed, now. Can my media manager pencil that in?”

I pretend to check my imaginary clipboard. “Let’s see… I could maybe squeeze you in between ‘be responsible adult’ and ‘don’t wake the kids.’”

He kisses me, slow and deep. “How about you just be my wife tonight?”

I melt a little, grinning against his mouth. “That, Mr. Ryan, I can make time for.”

He scoops me off the counter, bridal style, and carries me toward the stairs, still peppering kisses along my shoulder. I laugh, clutching at his shirt, letting the rest—emails, schedules, tomorrow—wait till morning.

“I love you,” he whispers, his mouth trailing down my jaw, his hands warm and certain.

As he guides himself between my legs, the world blurs away—kids, schedules, all of it.

I close my eyes, and for a moment I’m back in college, both of us twenty and lost in the mess of being D1 athletes, never knowing how to fit each other in between games and classes and those blurry almost-nights.

We fought too much, wanted each other too hard, and always seemed to get it wrong.

But tonight, as Jaxon’s hands slide over my skin, I realize we somehow got it right—eventually. All those late nights, long bus rides, late night texting, and whispered apologies led to this: the family we built, the life we made, the love that stuck, even when everything else felt impossible.

He kisses me again, softer this time, and I pull him closer, grateful for every messy, beautiful inning that got us here.