Bodacious

You’re waiting for him after the game, standing with a dozen others—family members and friends. Everyone is eager for the players to come out. When your phone buzzes, you ignore it and focus on the tunnel.

Then you see him.

Ernie is still in his uniform, his cap pushed back. He looks tired but a bit energized too. His bag hangs from one shoulder, and his smile barely reaches his eyes as he scans the crowd.

Looking for you.

When he sees you, his expression changes completely. His smile turns genuine. He starts moving before you can wave, squeezing past teammates with “sorry, sorry,” almost tripping over someone.

“Hey,” he says, his voice cracking.

“Hey, superstar.”

He drops his bag and pulls you in tightly. You can feel his heart racing. He is so warm. When he buries his face in your neck, he finally exhales.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he says into your skin.

“I can.” You pull back to look at him. “I knew as soon as you swung.”

His eyes shine as he laughs, sounding breathless. “I need to relax. Can we just go home?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

He takes your hand and doesn’t let go until he picks up his bag.

The car is quiet at first.

Ernie tosses his bag in the back and sinks into the passenger seat with a big exhale. You start the car, and the radio comes on softly. He stares out the window, replaying everything in his head.

Two blocks away, he starts talking.

“Bottom of the sixth, two outs.” His hands begin to move. “I wasn’t even thinking about a home run, you know? Just trying to make contact, get on base, keep us alive.”

You glance over. “And then?”

“And then I felt it.” He hits his fist into his palm. “Perfect connection, sweet spot. I didn’t even look—I just knew.”

“The crowd went crazy.”

“I couldn’t hear anything.” He grins. “I could see people standing up, mouths open, but it was silent in my head. Then I’m rounding first, and the noise comes back. Everything.”

You place your hand on the center console, palm up.

He takes it immediately, lacing his fingers with yours. For a moment, he plays with your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles and tracing lines on your palm. The energy shifts.

“I was so scared,” he says softly.

“Yeah?”

“Right before, in the on-deck circle.” He looks at your hands. “My stomach was churning. I kept thinking, what if I strike out? What if I ground into a double play? What if I mess it up?”

You squeeze his hand.

“And I looked up at the section behind first base.” He glances at you. “You had on that blue hoodie you stole from me. You were standing, hands together like you were nervous or something.”

“I was,” you reply.

“I saw you, and I just—” He hesitates. “I thought, okay. She’s here, watching. Whether I hit a home run or strike out, she’s still going to be there afterward.”

Your throat tightens. You bring his hand up and kiss his knuckles, keeping your eyes on the road.

“That’s what got me to the plate,” he says. “Knowing you were there.”

You take the long way home.

The apartment is dark when you unlock the door. Ernie heads straight to the bathroom. The shower starts. You move through the space almost on autopilot.

You turn on the soft lamps, avoiding the overhead lights. You grab the fuzzy throw blanket from the bedroom, the one he pretends to dislike, along with pillows from the chair.

You create a cozy nest on the couch, arranging and rearranging until it feels right.

The shower stops. You know he is probably looking at himself in the mirror, still seeing that pitch.

When he comes out, he’s wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt. His hair is damp, sticking up everywhere from the towel. He looks younger this way, more like the guy who is clingy and soft than the one who just hit a home run.

“Come here,” you say, patting the couch.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Ernie settles next to you, and you pull the blankets around you both. He shifts until he’s against your side, his head on your shoulder and his arm around your waist. You feel him starting to relax.

For a while, you sit there, breathing together.

“I almost choked,” he whispers.

You don’t respond, just put your hand on his arm, your thumb moving in small circles.

“Standing there, watching him wind up, I almost stepped out, almost called time.” He laughs softly. “My hands were shaking. I was terrified I was going to swing and miss and look like an idiot.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I could have.” He turns to look at you. “That’s what people don’t get. Every at-bat, I could fail. Every play, every throw, I’m one mistake away from being the guy who messed up.”

Your chest aches. You touch his face. “Ernie.”

“Everyone expects me to show up. Every single game.” His eyes shine. “I’m supposed to be the guy who delivers. Today I did, but-” He stops, swallowing hard. “What if tomorrow I don’t? What if I’m the one who chokes when it matters? One bad moment, and that’s all anyone remembers. That’s all I become.”

You turn to face him, placing both hands on his face.

“Hey. Look at me.” You wait until he does. “One bad game doesn’t erase everything. It doesn’t erase today.”

He stays quiet, looking at you as if he wants to believe it.

“I mean, people know you. Not just from today, but from all of it. The way you...” You pause, searching for the right words. “You’re not just one swing, Ernie.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do.” You shake your head. “I’ve watched you every day. The way you show up even when you’re scared. The way you care so much. Maybe too much.”

He exhales shakily.

“So yeah, you could have a bad game. You probably will at some point.” You’re stumbling through your thoughts, but you mean every word. “But that’s not who you are. One bad moment doesn’t define you.”

He closes his eyes.

He makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, pulling you closer. His face buries into your neck, and he breathes you in deeply.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispers.

“Good thing you don’t have to find out.”

You hold him tightly, one hand in his damp hair and the other tracing patterns on his back. Outside, the city hums through the night. Tomorrow, there will be another game, another chance, and another battle with his doubts.

But right now, wrapped in blankets in the soft light, he is just Ernie. Not the athlete, not the home run hitter, not the guy trying to prove himself.

Just yours.

The field lights are still on when you get there, casting everything in that soft, almost hazy glow that makes the whole place feel a little unreal.

You weren’t expecting him to still be here this late, but then again, when Ernie’s stuck in his head, he lingers, You’ve learned that much about him. 

He’s out near the dugout, bat resting against his shoulder, not even swinging it. Just standing there, staring out at the empty field like he’s replaying something over and over.

“Hey,” you call, your voice echoing faintly.

He turns immediately. The second he sees you, something in his expression shifts, tight to relieved in a blink.

“Hey sweetheart,” he says back, softer.

You walk over, leaning against the railing. “You gonna tell me why you’re still here?”

He exhales, glancing down at the dirt. “Just needed a minute.”

“You’ve had, like… two hours”

That earns you the smallest huff of a laugh.

There’s a pause, then he looks back up at you, something tentative in his eyes. “Go with me?”

You raise a brow. “Where?”

He jerks his head toward the field. “Out there. Just wanna walk it.”

You glance out at the empty diamond, then back at him. He’s not joking. He actually looks a little nervous asking.

So you tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “Only if you hold my hand.”

You expect him to roll his eyes, maybe tease you.

Instead, he says, “Okay,” way too fast, already reaching for you like he didn’t even need a second to consider it.

Your hand barely meets his before his fingers lace through yours, grip warm and steady and just a little tight.

“you agreed to that really quickly,” you point out

“Yeah” he shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “It didn't seem like a bad idea.”

You let him pull you along, hopping the low railing and stepping onto the field with him. The dirt crunches softly under your shoes, the grass cool and slightly damp as you cut across the edge.

For a minute, it’s quiet. Just the two of you walking, your hands swinging slightly between you.

“You had a bad game?” you ask gently.

He makes a face. “I’ve had better games.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He squeezes your hand, like he caught that. “Yeah. I did.”

You nod, not making a big deal out of it. “Happens but you’ll have a better game tomorrow”

“Yeah, but it’s-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you’re still here thinking about it.”

He glances at you, then down at your hands. His thumb starts brushing over your knuckles.

“I just hate feeling like I left something out there,” he admits. “Like I should’ve done more.”

You slow your steps a little. “You can’t fix it tonight.”

“I know.”

“But you can not be out here alone stuck in your head.”

He exhales, shoulders easing just a little. “Yeah,that’s why I asked you.”

You give his hand a small squeeze. “Good.”

You end up near the pitcher’s mound, stopping there without really planning to. The field feels even bigger from the center, the stands stretching out empty around you.

Ernie looks out for a second, then back at you.

“Thanks for coming,” he starts, and then softer, almost like he’s admitting it to himself, “If there was ever anybody meant for me, it’s you.”

For a second, everything else fades,the lights, the field, the empty stands.

It’s just him.

“Ernie…” you breathe, your voice gentler now, your fingers tightening around his.

He looks like he almost wants to take it back, like he said too much all at once. His shoulders shift, a little unsure, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“I just” he starts, then stops, shaking his head with a quiet, nervous laugh. “You show up for me. Even when I don’t really say what I need.”

Your heart pulls at that.

You step closer without thinking, closing the small space between you until your joined hands are pressed lightly between your bodies.

“You don’t have to be perfect for me,” you tell him softly. “You just have to be you.”

His gaze flickers up to yours, something warm and a little overwhelmed settling in his expression.

“I know,” he says, barely above a whisper. “That’s kinda the point.”

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles, slow and reassuring, mirroring what he’d been doing to you the whole walk out here.

“You’re allowed to have bad games,” you add gently. “It doesn’t change anything.”

He exhales, and this time it sounds like something loosening, like he’s finally letting himself believe that.

“Yeah,” he says. “Feels different when you say it.”

You smile a little, soft. “Good. I’ll keep saying it, then.”

That earns you a real smile,small, but steady.

He shifts closer, not rushing it, just enough that your shoulders touch. His hand doesn’t loosen, if anything, his grip softens in a way that feels more intentional, more certain.

“You know I meant it, right?” he says after a moment. “What I said.”

You tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “I know.”

“And?” he nudges gently, a hint of that familiar warmth creeping back in.

You huff a quiet laugh, but it’s fond, your forehead dipping just slightly toward his.

“And if there was ever anybody meant for me,” you say softly, “it’s you too.”

That does it.

Something in him settles completely, like the last bit of tension finally lets go. His thumb brushes over your hand again, slower now, almost absentminded.

“Good,” he says softly.

You stay like that for a moment, standing in the middle of the field, hands laced together, the quiet wrapping around you in a way that feels less lonely now.

Then you nudge him lightly.“C’mon. You’ve had enough dramatic sad staring at the field for one night.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, you’re probably right”

But he doesn’t let go when you start walking back.