Page 143 of The Third Baseman

Jupiter Reeves, my boyfriend.

Jupiter Reeves who belonged to me.

Again.

Finally.

EPILOGUE

JUPITER

Four months later

“Marnie! Will you move your ass?!”

“Calm down, Grouch,” Marnie said as she walked calmly out of the house, putting on sunglasses like I hadn’t been waiting outside for fifteen minutes. In fact, ‘excels at waiting outside for women’ should be put down on my résumé for whenever the time came for me to retire. “What’s the rush?”

“I’ll show you Grouch.” She squealed as I slapped her ass. “Get in the car before I put you over my knee, and you make us even later.”

She slowly pulled the sunglasses down her nose, her eyes glinting mischievously, and I nearly,nearly,made good on my promise… but I had more important things to do.

Wehad more important things to do.

I slammed her car door shut then ran around to mine and hopped in. If there’d been dust on my driveway, it would be swirling through the air with the speed at which I’d hit the gas. Marnie was too busy fiddling with the music to notice I was having a mini panic attack while running through a mental checklist to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. But as long as Marnie was sitting next to me, and the small velvet covered box was burning a hole in my pocket, then I figured everything else could be bought.

“You wanna listen to pre-game commentary?”

I shook my head, picking up her hand and kissing it. “Nope, I’m good. You’re in charge of music, and I’ll be in charge of the volume.”

“If you change your mind...”

Saluting the security guard at the gates as we passed, I turned right onto P.C.H., and away from the private estate where I lived.

Orwelived.

Because when we weren’t in New York, Malibu would be our residence. We were now officially bi-coastal. The season had ended two weeks ago; Marnie and I had spent a week packing our things and then hopped on a jet to the warmth of California.

More specifically, the season for The Lions had ended two weeks ago, in the first round of the playoffs. We’d lost against the Cubs.

We’d lost, but you’d never know it from the celebration, which lasted three days – five if you counted the amount of time Ace went missing for, only to resurface at the Hard Rock Hotel in Atlantic City. Penn Shepherd certainly knew how to throw a party.

And boy had we partied.

The last time the New York Lions had made the postseason was fifty years ago, and we made sure everyone knew it.

It had never happened in my lifetime.

Never in the lifetime of any of the current team members, or the executive board.

What we’d achieved, not only as a new team, but a team made up of guys who’d never played together before, was immense. Virtually implausible.

The formerly almost washed-up, almost forgotten about Lions, were once more walking proudly with their heads held high.

New fans cheered loudly, old fans cheered even louder. The flags flying along Lions Boulevard flapped hard in the breeze.

The team New York had long considered a joke was now a serious contender for next year’s World Series. We’d had a taste of victory, and there was no way we wouldn’t do everything in our power to beat ourselves in the standings.

Especially as we had The Edge.

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