The best part of playing a series in Boston is that the guys don’t have much of a travel day. We’re back in New York and picking up Stryker by noon.
I expected Brady to go home and sleep. We did keep each other up very late last night. But he goes to Lexi’s with me to pick up my son.
“You don’t have any plans today, do you?” he asks in the cab on the way home.
“Just dinner with my mom. I’ll pick her up at five.”
“Good.”
“Why? What do you have in mind?”
“Hey, sport,” he says to Stryker. “How about we go play baseball on a real baseball field today?”
Stryker’s eyes light up and he claps. “Can I bwing my glove and wear my hat?”
“Of course you can. You need both of those to be a baseball player. Do you think your mom will want to come, too?”
“Mommy, will you play baseball with us? Girls can play, too. Right, Bwady?”
I laugh. “Gee, thanks. I’d love to go.”
“We’ll stop for a bite to eat and then drop our stuff off and grab his glove.”
I reach behind Stryker and touch Brady’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
He nods.
Two hours later, we’re walking through Central Park with a bag full of baseball gear. We come to the baseball fields and Stryker gets very excited. He’s seen these fields before and always makes us stop and watch the kids play.
Brady opens the gate.
“Can just anyone use these fields?” I ask.
“No. You have to have a permit and pay a small fee.”
“You planned this?” I ask.
“Yeah. A few weeks ago.”
I can’t help my smile. Other than bringing my son the stuffed animals, this is the first thing Brady has done that is just for Stryker. And he planned it weeks ago.
Brady puts his bag down and pulls a few things out. He puts a Hawks hat on my head. “You’re the fielder,” he says. “I’ll get him set up with the tee and he’ll hit them out to you.”
Brady pulls a large rubber tee out of his bag and puts a ball on it. Then he pulls out a small bat and a pint-sized Nighthawks batting helmet that looks just like the one he wears when he plays. He puts it on Stryker’s head and Stryker squeals in delight.
“I look just like Bwady!”
I realize how much effort Brady had to put in to this afternoon and it brings tears to my eyes. I wonder how hard this is for him. I wonder if he’s looking at Stryker wishing he were Keeton.
“Okay, sport. You stand just like this. Put your back leg here and bend your knees a little. Now hold the bat up like this.”
Stryker swings and misses.
I see Sawyer Mills walking onto the field. “You’re teaching him to hit like a girl,” he says, winking over at me. “Why don’t you let a real ball player show him how it’s done?”
“What are you doing here?” Brady asks.
“I heard you talking about it yesterday and I thought I’d come make sure you teach the kid right.”
Brady puts Stryker back in position. “Don’t take your eye off the ball.”
This time, he hits the ball and it dribbles towards the pitcher’s mound.
“I did it, Mommy! I did it!”
“Good hit, baby.”
“What are you waiting for, sport? Run around the bases,” Brady says.
He doesn’t need to show Stryker where the bases are. Stryker’s been to enough games that he knows exactly what to do. He takes off running, Sawyer right behind him, urging him on as they laugh the entire time. Brady and I both walk slowly towards the ball, giving Stryker extra time to get his home run.
Brady looks at me and touches the bill of my hat. “Have I ever told you how much I like you wearing my hat?”
“No, you haven’t. How much do you like it?” I ask seductively. “Are we talking just a little, or really really a lot?” I tease.
He looks over at Stryker to see that he’s rounding second, oblivious to what we’re doing. Brady pulls me to him and kisses me. It’s a quick, but passionate kiss.
“I like it that much,” he says, running his thumb down my cheek.
We break apart and watch Stryker cross home plate. We cheer loudly and run over to give him high-fives.
Stryker hugs my leg and then hugs Brady’s. He looks up at him. “Are you my daddy?”
My jaw drops and I watch Brady’s spine stiffen. I get down on my knees. “Why did you ask that?”
“Mommies kiss daddies,” he says.
I look at Brady. He seems to be recovering from the shock of Stryker’s words. He picks up the ball and sets it back on the tee, walking over to Sawyer so I can have a moment with my son.
“Yes, mommies do kiss daddies. But sometimes mommies kiss people who aren’t daddies, too.”
“So, he’s not my daddy?”
“No, baby. He’s not. But he is very special to me. I hope he’s special to you, too.”
“If I ask him, will he be my daddy? Ms. Helen says kids have daddies, but some don’t, like me. I want a daddy. Can Bwady be my daddy?”
I see Brady trying to look busy, but I know he can hear what we’re saying. I’m wondering just how uncomfortable this conversation is making him. Even though he’s asked me to marry him, we’ve never talked about him being Stryker’s father.
“I’m not married, Stryker. Maybe someday if I get married, you will get a daddy.”
“Can you marry Bwady?” he asks.
Brady snickers. “Yeah, Rylee, can you marry Bwady?” He winks at me.
“Not yet,” I say.
“Can I throw the ball with you and then hit another home run?” Stryker asks Brady.
“Yeah, sport, we can do that. And you can hit as many home runs as you want,” Brady says, walking over to him. He picks Stryker up and swings him around before putting him back on his feet. Then he tickles him under his arms.
Stryker falls into a fit of giggles.
Sawyer and I stand behind the pitcher’s mound watching Brady and my son toss a ball back and forth.
“Thanks for coming,” I say.
“I couldn’t let your kid learn from anyone but the best,” he says with a nudge to my ribs.
“And yet you’re standing back here with me.”
He gives me a knowing look. “It’s not that hard to see this really isn’t about baseball, is it?” He nods to Brady and Stryker.
“Thanks for that, too,” I tell him, happy that he’s letting Brady and Stryker have this moment.
“I know you don’t know me very well, and I’m sure you think the same about me as everyone else, but I hope you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt when I tell you I’m a nice guy.”
“I’m not judging you, Sawyer.”
“Well then you might be the only one.”
“People have reasons for what they do,” I say, staring at Brady.
Sawyer nods. “Yeah, they do, don’t they? He told me about Natalie and Keeton a few weeks ago, you know.”
I look at him in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah. And I’ll bet my right arm you had something to do with it.” He studies me. “You’re good for him.”
“He’s good for me. For us. Maybe someday you’ll find someone who’s good for you.”
He laughs. “Not likely.”
“Why not, Sawyer? What are you afraid of?”
He raises an accusing brow. “Are you and Murphy the baseball whisperers or something? Do you guys just go around trying to fix everyone’s shit?”
“No. I guess we want everyone to be as happy as we are, that’s all.”
“Happiness is an illusion,” he says. “Just because you love someone doesn’t mean you’re happy. And it sure as shit doesn’t mean they’re happy.”
I look at him, wondering not for the first time, what his story is.
“It’s not an illusion if you’re with the right person, Sawyer. Maybe we could find someone nice for you to go out with.”
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll take anyone out once.”
I scold him with my eyes. “Maybe we could find someone you’d like to take out more than once.”
“Again – not likely.”
“How come you never take a woman out more than one time?” I ask.
He ignores my question and nods to Brady and Stryker. “Your son seems to be taking to him.”
I smile. “He does.”
I stand back and watch the two of them bond, trying my best to stave off the tears.
Two hours and one tired kid later, we make our way out of the park, Sawyer going off in one direction and the three of us in another. Even as exhausted as Stryker is, he’s got a permanent smile on his face. I think Brady and Sawyer just gave him the best day of his life. He wouldn’t let Brady put all the baseballs back in his bag, he’s still holding one. I wonder if he’ll ever give it up.
“You’ve created a monster,” I tell Brady.
“The best kind of monster,” he says. “Nothing is better than a kid who loves baseball.”
When we exit the park, I see a police car down the street, pulling my attention to the flashing lights momentarily. When I look back at Stryker, he’s not at my side. My eyes dart around and then I scream as I watch my son run after his baseball right out into the busy street.
“Stryker!” I scream, running after him, not even thinking about how I’m most likely going to get hit by a car.
Everything happens so quickly. I get pushed down to the ground and then I hear car horns and screeching tires. I get up and scream his name again, running out into the traffic that has now come to a stop. I’m terrified at what I’m going to see when I come around the cars. Visions of my son’s bloody body flash through my head. I’m crazy with fear and the world goes in slow motion as I run across the street.
I fall to my knees as I see Brady’s large body wrapped around Stryker. Brady’s arm is bleeding with numerous scrapes down one side. He’s holding onto Stryker for dear life. When I make it to them, Brady releases him but looks over every inch of his body, just like I do.
“Is he okay?” I ask frantically, as I check Stryker’s head and then each arm and leg.
“He’s fine,” Brady chokes out, a tear running down his cheek as he watches Stryker pick up the ball he was after like what just happened is no big deal.
He picks Stryker up and walks us both back to the sidewalk where he finds a bench to sit down on.
I pull my son onto my lap and squeeze him tightly. “Thank God.”
Then I talk to him sternly. “Stryker, you can’t run out in the street like that. You can’t chase a ball. We can replace a baseball, we can’t replace you.”
As soon as I say it, I realize how those words might affect Brady and I glance at him to see if he noticed.
“Your mom is right, sport. You can’t ever do that again. She would be lost without you. I would be lost without you.” He puts his arm around us. “Both of you.”
Stryker starts crying. I think we’ve scared him. “It’s okay, baby. You’re okay. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
Brady runs his hand down Stryker’s back, helping me soothe him as onlookers ask if we’re okay.
I remember the scrapes on Brady’s arm—his pitching arm—and reach my hand out. “Oh, Brady, your arm.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” he says. “My arm’s okay, Rylee. And even if it wasn’t, I’d still do what I did. I’d do anything for you. Both of you.”
“Thank you,” I say, lacing my fingers with his.
“How do I apply for the job?” he asks.
I look at him like maybe he hit his head on the pavement. “What job?”
He nods at Stryker. “The one that puts my name on his birth certificate.”
My eyes snap to his. “You’d … really?”
“Really,” he says. “I want him. I want you. I want this.”
“I love you,” I tell him.
“I love you, too.”
“Mommy?” Stryker says.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Are you gonna tell Nana I got a home run?”
I laugh, thinking how quickly children can move on from one thing to the next. “No. I’m not going to tell her, but you can.”
“Good. I can show her my lucky ball,” he says, still holding onto it.
I shake my head at his lucky ball thinking how much worse this could have turned out.
“Can Bwady come eat with Nana?”
I look over and raise my eyebrows.
“Yes, I’d love to eat with Nana, sport. Family dinners are the best, aren’t they?” He stands up and holds his arms out to Stryker who happily hops up to be carried home.
Brady throws his baseball bag over his shoulder and takes my hand in his. I notice a few people snapping pictures of us and wonder what they must think, the playboy of baseball walking down the street with a child in his arms. But I don’t care about the attention we’re getting. I’m half tempted to ask one of them to send me a picture so I can see for myself what we look like as a family. The family I’ve always dreamed of.