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UNYIELDING HAPPINESS

Amanda

“You’re vibrating with excitement,” Rae says as I stare out at the field.

“Tonight decides whether they make it to the division series.” I chew on my lower lip. It’s not just excitement, it’s unrelenting nerves.

Jamie was surprisingly calm going into tonight. But I’ve seen the difference in his mental health over the last couple of weeks. It’s strange that we’ve been together for two years, but I’m still learning things about him. Like what happens when he truly gets stressed. He’s too hard on himself. And when he feels like he needs to fix things and doesn’t know how, he panics and tries to force it—which usually makes it worse.

Looking back now, I saw snippets of that before we started dating. After our first ill-fated kiss. He didn’t know what to do, then he panicked and crashed my event because he was desperate to fix it.

Once he calms down and focuses on one thing at a time, it all comes together.

Understanding that now means I can support him better .

While Jamie was unsurprised about my rejection sensitivity, he said understanding it—and the coping skills I have to use—can help him be a better partner too.

We’re still planning to go to counseling in a few weeks when the season is done. I’ve already found someone in Old Lake Town that we’ll be going to in November. I hope it’ll give us the tools to strengthen our relationship, so we never have a repeat of this past summer.

“He’s got this,” Aaron says confidently. And that actually calms me down a bit because Aaron is great at reading pitchers in general, but especially Jamie.

Our little section—not the family area this time, but right on the first base line above the dugout—is filled with our family. Both actual and chosen. Rae, Aaron, Trevor, Chelsea, Mackenzie, Miles, Dani, and Jesse are all here along with my parents, Pete, Josh, and Jace, and, of course, Jamie’s whole family. Calvin is bouncing like someone fed him crack, and Mila is already whining, but I don’t care. The amount of love here is incredible.

The best part is knowing it’s not just for him. It’s for me too. I’m working on reframing things I see as rejection or perceived rejection, and I’m also working on noticing the small acts of acceptance and love that the people around me show. Some people—like the hive mind—are obvious with their affection. My family isn’t, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

I’m learning a lot about myself and how to manage my mental health, and I’m grateful I’m doing it now. I’ve always wanted to be the best version of myself, and I’m proud of myself for putting in the work to do that, even when it’s hard to look into the deepest, darkest pieces of myself.

Emily, the reporter who did the piece on Jamie, is also sitting in our section with her girlfriend, who is apparently a photographer. She snaps photos of everyone getting ready on the field.

Though the profile piece hasn’t been published yet—they’re waiting to see how far the Metros make it in the playoffs first—we got to read it, and it’s a beautiful piece chronicling the ups and downs of the game, the highs and lows of the first season on a major league team, the importance of mental health, and the tenacity and grit it takes to make it in professional sports.

Reading it made me even more proud of Jamie—and how far we’ve both come in the last month.

We all stand for the anthem, then watch as some person I’ve never heard of comes out to throw the first pitch. I don’t know you. I don’t care who you are. I want to see my man.

As Jamie finally takes the field, I’m on my feet and screaming. When he gets to the mound, he looks for our section, then his eyes land on me and he winks.

That confident-cocky smirk dances on his lips, and no matter how this game ends, I’m going to be on my knees celebrating him tonight.

With a lingering look, he turns away, and I watch as he sets everything aside and channels all his energy into the game.

My heart is beating out of my chest with pride.

Then he throws the first pitch, which lands with a smack in his catcher’s glove. I cheer louder than I need to, but I don’t care. I’m a goner for this man, and I want the world to know it.

Jamie

I’m the starting pitcher for the last game of the Wild Card series. At one win a piece, this is the game that decides whether we move on to the divisional series.

And I’m the starting pitcher for the team I dreamed of playing with for years.

It was a rocky start, but I know I deserve to be here, and I will fight with everything inside me to play the best possible game of baseball.

I throw my second pitch, another strike, and smile to myself. Not out of cockiness, but out of comfort. This is where I’m supposed to be, and this is what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m proud of myself, and that’s something I couldn’t say a couple of months ago.

Third pitch. Another strike. There’s nothing like starting a game with a 1-2-3 strikeout. I channel that energy and soak in the feeling of the breeze on my skin and the sense of control I have on the mound.

One batter down, two more to go.

The worst part of being the starting pitcher is having to leave the game, especially when I’m pitching well.

Today’s game has been tight, but we’ve held on to a lead all game.

The first game of the series, we won easily by a landslide. The second was back and forth and we lost in extra innings.

It’s the top of the ninth now, and even though we’re up by two runs, one inning can change that. Sure, we’d have a chance to come back, but to lose it now, when we’re this close? I’m going insane, and I know the rest of the team is too.

“I don’t know if I want to watch or look away,” Ryan says.

“Same,” I say, but my eyes are glued to the field.

When I’m out there pitching, I can breathe because at least I’m in control. Being out of control right now might give me a heart attack.

The batter fouls off the ball, and we all groan.

There’s one out and one guy on base. I’m digging deep and trying to throw all my calming pitching energy to our closer. He’s good, but I’m sure the stress is getting to him. He throws another ball, and this one is a strike.

We all breathe a collective sigh of relief. Two outs.

One more and we win.

The energy here is intense, but there’s a camaraderie too. We’re in this together, win or lose. But fuck if we don’t want the win.

My mind goes to the stands. I swear I can sense the intensity of Aaron watching from here. We’re not playing together anymore, but it still feels like he’s a part of this team too.

Amanda, I’m sure, is watching with bated breath, and looking hot as fuck in my jersey and a Metros ball cap.

The crack of a bat hitting the ball draws my focus back to the field.

“Come on,” Corey says.

Dec scoops up the grounder and sends it to second as we all watch.

When we see the umpire’s call, we all burst from the dugout.

Holy shit. The Metros are moving on to the division series.

The other team leaves the field as we all join together near the mound, celebrating.

Over my teammates’ shoulders, I see Amanda in a crowd of a bunch of other family members waiting at the gate. When security finally lets them through, we all break apart, and I soak it all in as Amanda runs across the field to me and leaps into my arms.

“You did it!”

Her lips land hard on mine before I can respond, the forcefulness of it almost knocking me over.

Laughing, I set her down, cupping her cheek with my hand.

“Were you panicking watching the end of the game?”

She lets out an exasperated breath. “Of course I was. I wanted you to get the win. You deserve this moment.”

I sweep her into my arms, holding her close as joy fills me. Not the high of the moment, but pure unyielding happiness at where I am right now.

Every step I made along the way was a play for my future. Not just standing here tonight, but standing here with Amanda in my arms. This is all part of the life we’re building together, and I can’t wait to see where it leads.