ernie clement x reader
she’s a social media influencer in Toronto. her and ernie have done a few interviews and stuff together & are secretly dating (friends know, just not fans) with their fans shipping them
she’s invited to throw out the first pitch at the game & ernie catches it
your phone is glowing on the nightstand, screen buzzing over and over, pale light catching on the rumpled white sheets twisted around your ankle. you’re lying on your stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow that smells like detergent and a little like him—like the warmth of skin and the crisp tang of last night’s cologne. your finger scrolls through tiktok, the sound off but the captions rolling by in frantic all-caps: “so are they or aren’t they??” “ernie clement did NOT just drop the fire emojis under her thirst trap.” “i’m so here for this ship.”
you press your face harder into the pillow to stifle the laugh bubbling in your chest, because the bed dips behind you and you feel his hand flatten between your shoulder blades. his palm is dry and warm, trailing slow down your spine until his thumb hooks in the waistband of your sleep shorts. he’s not even awake awake yet—you can tell by the way he hums, low and scratchy, before clearing his throat and mumbling something you can’t quite catch. the beard scrapes lightly along your shoulder when he shifts closer.
you lift your phone just enough for him to see. “congratulations,” you say, voice still raspy with sleep, “you broke the internet.”
he squints at the screen, icy blue eyes bleary, hair sticking up in chaotic angles that make you want to smooth it down. he huffs out a little laugh, the exhale warm against your bare skin. “they’re gonna figure it out eventually.”
you snort. “they’ve basically figured it out.” your thumb hovers over the comments. “look at this one—‘if they’re not dating i’m deleting this app.’”
ernie leans in to read it, his beard brushing your neck so you shiver. he kisses the spot absently. “tell them not to delete it. your engagement numbers would drop.”
you elbow him lightly, and he finally laughs for real, husky and sleepy, before tugging you onto your side so he can bury his face against your collarbone. you can feel the smile against your skin. your phone buzzes between you, the screen lighting up with another tiktok notification. he groans. “put that thing away.”
“you’re the one who commented the fire emojis.”
“yeah,” he mutters, pressing another kiss into the hollow of your throat, voice going rough and muffled, “’cause you looked good.”
—
by the time you’re at the stadium the sun is high and relentless, glaring off the glass of the dome and baking the sidewalk until the air feels like it’s shimmering. you have your hair pulled back tight, makeup set to withstand anything, and your nerves crawling up your spine in little pricks of static. your name is on the big board. your name, in lights. you take a slow breath, the scent of freshly mown grass and hot concrete and popcorn drifting around you as you try to look nonchalant.
ernie meets you at the tunnel, already in uniform—white pants, blue jersey, the logo snug across his broad chest. the cap shadows his eyes but when he tilts his head back to look at you, they’re bright, that frosty blue that makes you want to kiss him stupid. you see the twitch of his mouth like he’s trying not to grin.
“you look—”
“don’t say it,” you cut in, shooting him a look. “if you say ‘nervous’ i’m gonna smack you.”
he just shrugs, easy. “was gonna say gorgeous, sweetheart, but alright.”
you roll your eyes, but you’re biting back a smile.
“you ready?” he asks, voice low. you can hear the murmur of the crowd, the call-and-response of vendors, the crackle of the announcer’s voice over the PA.
“as i’ll ever be.”
he nudges your arm. “you’re gonna be fine. just throw it.”
“wow. amazing advice.”
“that’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
you snort, but your fingers brush his as you walk out toward the field. the grass is so green it almost hurts to look at it, cut short and sharp, the dirt of the mound dry and powdery under your sneakers. you hear the hush of the crowd, the growing wave of noise as they see you.
you inhale. slow. your heart hammering against your ribs.
ernie crouches behind the plate, glove out, cap low, eyes on you like there’s nobody else in the whole damn place. he gives you the tiniest nod. your fingers tighten on the ball.
you wind up. let it go. it’s not perfect—wobbles a bit, but it makes it to him. the sound of leather smacking leather echoes and he holds it up triumphantly, the crowd cheering.
he straightens, grin spreading wide enough you can see it all the way from the mound. and then he’s jogging up to you.
the stadium noise swells, like a held breath.
you’re smiling so hard it hurts your face when he reaches you. he curls a hand around your waist, careful but firm, sweaty glove discarded, and leans in.
the kiss is quick, but sure. lips brushing warm and solid over yours. the roar of the crowd goes sharp and delighted, a collective whoop and scattered applause.
when you break away, his beard tickles your cheek and you realize you’re on the jumbotron. you can see it in your periphery—the two of you framed against the bright summer sky, the little smudge of his thumbprint on your chin from where he cupped your face.
you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear, “we’re so busted.”
ernie snorts, eyes crinkling at the corners, the tiniest flush climbing his neck. “you think they didn’t know?”
you breathe out a laugh, tucking your head against his chest for a second, letting the noise of the stadium wash over you. the scent of dirt and grass and his laundry soap clings to him, warm and steady.
and when you finally turn and wave at the crowd, he lingers just behind you, his hand pressed light to your lower back, grounding you while your heart tries to beat out of your chest.
