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Hiss. Pop!
“Nice, Reg,” Luke calls out from behind the plate in the bullpen as he catches Reggie’s first warm up pitch. They’re just over the left field wall at Dodger Stadium like he’s done before nearly every home game for the last five years.
Five years as the Dodgers’ starting catcher. Five years since his childhood dream came true in the most improbable of ways. It’s one thing to make it to the majors before your twenty-first birthday, it’s another thing altogether to do it with your childhood best friends and something else entirely to end up on the same team.
The odds are astronomically low. It’s never happened before, likely will never happen again and he’s just one lucky son of a bitch, maybe the luckiest in the world.
Hiss. Pop!
Reggie’s fastball is humming tonight as he warms up.
And it’s a good night for it because tonight is the first game of the World Series and Luke will be behind the plate to catch, with Reggie on the mound and Alex patrolling in centerfield, just like back in Little League and high school and then in the minors and, now, on the biggest stage in the game. Hometown boys playing for their childhood team, four wins away from becoming legends.
Back behind him, over the wall, his teammates are being introduced, part of the pomp and pageantry of a World Series game.
Distantly he hears NIck, their leadoff hitter, being introduced and then Alex, second in the batting order.
Then...
“Batting third, the catcher, in the bullpen, number eight, Luke Patterson!” the announcer calls out, echoing over the constant buzz in the stadium, an electric crowd, fans that have been with them since Opening Day and during the sweltering dog days of August and into the cooler air of late October.
There is nothing like baseball in October, even in Los Angeles.
The crowd lets out a chant of his name, a deep and resounding, “Luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke” that sends goosebumps up his arms.
Hiss. Pop!
Gotta focus up though. They’ve gotta go out there in the top of the first inning and set the tone, sit the Yankees down one, two, three and get back in the dugout and put a couple across the plate to give Reggie some breathing room.
That’s the plan, but it’s baseball and baseball rarely goes the way you plan. That’s the beauty of the game. You can follow it through history from the late eighteen hundreds to now and none of it makes sense until you look at it all together.
Hiss. Pop!
“And batting ninth, warming up in the bullpen, number sixty nine, Reggie Peters!”
“Reg-gie! Reg-gie! Re-gie!” the crowd calls, but Reggie, who sometimes has trouble focusing, doesn’t seem to hear it.
Hiss. Pop!
A slider with a wild fucking cut to it.
Reg is on.
Oh, tonight’s gonna be fun.
“You good, bro?” Luke calls, falling to his knees and pulling his mask up over his head.
Reggie shoots him a thumbs up and Luke pops to his feet just as the announcer’s voice pulls his attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please rise and remove your caps as the Los Angeles Dodgers welcome Grammy winning recording artist and hometown girl, Julie Molina to sing our National Anthem!”
“Luke,” Reggie says, walking down from the mound toward him, taking off his cap as they stand together, facing the flag. “Did you know your girl was singing tonight?”
Elbowing Reggie in the side, Luke shakes his head.
So yeah, maybe he has a slight crush on Julie Molina and maybe the crush has been since high school when the boys used to make sure one of her songs would play every time he walked up to the plate and in the minors pictures of her cut out of magazines or printed off social media would randomly be taped inside of his locker.
Hell, when they got called up to the show, Reggie had asked, probably only half joking, if it meant he was gonna get his agent to call her agent and set them up because apparently that’s a thing famous people do.
Luke...wasn’t going to do that. He does have some self-respect.
Still, he side eyes Reggie like maybe he had something to do with the girl who is walking out of their dugout, waving to the crowd who lets out a roar for her. There are very few people in the world who don’t know who Julie Molina is and even fewer who don’t like her music. How could you not? She’s basically a human wrecking ball of musical talent.
And yeah, maybe she’s also the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever seen.
But Luke’s always respected her talent first. He plays guitar and sings a little bit. He, Alex and Reggie even started a little team band. Nick joins in sometimes on guitar. Sure, they really only ever get to jam during their off days, rain delays and the breaks between the odd double header, but he really loves it and he knows talent when he sees it and Julie Molina might be the most gifted musician in the world.
And now she’s here, standing just in front of home plate, where he’s going to spend half his night, and Luke can practically feel Alex’s eyes staring at him from his spot on the third baseline as the teams wait for the anthem to begin.
He’s never regretted being a catcher until this moment, not when he’s taken a foul ball to the face or knocked senseless by a baserunner or even the creak in his knees that’s begun at the ripe old age of twenty five. Right now, though, when he’s more then four hundred feet away from his dream girl, five minutes before the start of the biggest game of his life? Luke wishes he’d picked literally any other position back when they were kids. Because if he had, he’d been right there next to Alex instead of straining to see her from his spot in the bullpen.
Finally he gives up and glances at the jumbotron above his head. The camera is focused on her and he nearly swallows the sunflower seeds he’d popped into his mouth earlier. She’s got on a Dodger jersey, but not just any jersey. His jersey with a big blue PATTERSON written across her shoulders and a number eight below it that takes up most of her back.
That’s...definitely a fantasy he’s had before and not one he ever expected to play out in real life. Granted, the fantasy had been more about her wearing the jersey and then it ending up on his bedroom floor, but still...
Holy shit.
And then she opens her mouth.
Normally, he’s impatient for the anthem to be over, just wanting to get the game started. He’s never been a particularly patriotic person and the song has taken on a bullshit meaning over the years, but Julie Molina singing about stars and stripes has those same goosebumps from the crowd’s love earlier springing to life over his skin.
Holy fucking shit.
“...and the home of the brave,” she sings that final note, holding it out just long enough to have the crowd roaring behind her in approval and appreciation and anticipation of the game to come.
“Alright, let’s go,” Luke says, holding a fist out for Reggie to bump. Julie owned the anthem, now they need to go own this game.
Together, they walk out of the left field gate and over the grass, the cheers of the crowd building with every step they talk. Luke’s caught every single one of Reggie’s starts since they were kids, except for one time in the minors when some shithead coach thought Reggie was too dependent on him and tried something new.
It did not go well.
Reggie’s the kind of pitcher that needs the right person behind the plate, that can understand how his brain works, as much as anyone can ever understand Reggie and Luke’s that guy for him, Reggie’s tendency to lose focus counteracted by Luke’s ability to hyperfocus.
They jog down into the dugout together, the clack of their metal cleats against the cement somehow louder than the crowd which means one thing for Luke, his mind is in game mode, fully dialed in on the nine innings in front of him.
Fist bumps and handshakes greet him as he makes his way down the dugout, their usual pre-game ritual as Reggie grabs a quick drink of water.
Then the music shifts and Luke nods to his manager before taking the steps and shouting over his shoulder to his teammates, “Let’s go, boys!”
But as he hits the top step, his cleat catches and he trips a little when his eyes land on the girl sitting in the seat directly beside the dugout.
He manages to gather his feet underneath him just in time, avoiding falling flat on his face, but he doesn’t miss that she didn’t miss it, a small smile spreading over her mouth and he rolls his eyes at himself, before shooting her a quick wink.
“You gonna take the field, Patterson or is Peters just gonna pitch to air tonight? Or maybe we should ask this young lady?” Caleb, his manager asks, gesturing over to Julie who then flat out giggles and suddenly making an ass out of himself in front of fifty six thousand fans in the ballpark and millions more at home isn’t so bad.
“Maybe she should catch, skip,” he quips to his manager, but keeps his eyes focused on Julie. “She’s got the jersey and everything.”
“Don’t tempt me, Patterson,” Caleb mutters, but when Luke turns to look at him, he can see the amusement in his eyes before turning and jogging out onto the field.
He’s got a game to win.
Julie’s cold. It’s late October in LA and it really shouldn't be this cold out yet, but apparently the baseball gods believe it’s unnatural to play a World Series game in weather that doesn’t require a couple of layers and a hot chocolate or two, which she can indulge in now since her job for the night is over.
The anthem is sung, the players are out on the field and now Julie can just enjoy the game.
One of the better kept secrets about her, whatever secrets are left after nearly a decade in the spotlight, is that she really loves baseball. Her dad’s a huge Dodger fan, and so was her mom before she died, and Carlos, her little brother, is a freshman at Vanderbilt, recruited to play third base.
Baseball is as much a part of their family as music is and when the Dodgers asked her to sing the anthem at the game tonight, it was a no brainer.
She did, however, debate what she should wear because her publicist and her stylist and Flynn (who here’s with her tonight, but is back in the suite behind the stands where it’s warm) had opinions about her wardrobe, but the only thing she could imagine wearing out onto the field was her favorite pair of ripped jeans and her well-worn Luke Patterson jersey.
And that’s another one of her better kept secrets. Her incredibly silly crush on the Dodgers’ All Star, switch-hitting catcher.
It started during her first global tour five years ago, lonely on the road without her dad or Tia with her for the first time, she made it a point to watch a Dodger game wherever she was, just to hold on to a piece of home. They called him up in late April and he took the league by storm, catching for a veteran pitching staff, hitting for power and average and winning over fans with his hardnose play, perfect smile and the way he somehow looked even better with dirt smudged on his cheeks and sweaty hair matted down by his catcher’s mask.
Then the team called up Reggie Peters and Alex Mercer, two other LA kids who’d grown up with Luke and their story became the story in baseball. It was so easy to root for them, three kids who grew up not far from her, around her age, who made it together against the odds.
Her schedule’s a mess though and she never has a chance to get to games, until tonight, five years after she started following their careers.
So yeah, the Patterson jersey was an easy call, though she kind of wishes she’d thought to wear a long sleeved shirt underneath it.
When the Yankees go down one, two, three in the top of the first, she stands up, intending to run to the suite where Flynn and her manager and a bunch of people from the label are hanging out and send someone to buy her a jacket from the concession, but as she does, she hears a voice from the dugout to her left.
“Leaving already?”
She knows that voice. She’s heard it in hundreds of interviews over the years, usually echoing through the tiny speaker on her phone while she’s on a tour bus or tucked into a hotel room bed.
In person, it’s so much better, deep, a little bit gravelly and very, very close.
“You should stick around,” Luke Patterson says from the other side of the dugout fence, a helmet on his head, bat in his hands.
“Oh! I wasn't leaving, I was just…” she trails off, rubbing her hands up and down her arms and bouncing on her toes to try and keep warm.
“Cold?” he asks, his eyes running over her.
“Freezing,” she admits.
He holds up a finger and turns back into the dugout, a batboy nodding to him and running back down into the tunnel that leads to the clubhouse, as Nick Gerson, the Dodgers leadoff hitter, walks to lead off the inning.
“You should stick around,” Luke says, as Alex steps up to the plate and Julie watches him dig in to face the Yankees starter. “Might see some fireworks in a bit.”
The bat boy comes sprinting back up to him, a bright blue bundle in his hand. Luke takes it from him and then turns to face her, moving up the steps toward the on deck circle.
“Fireworks, huh?” Julie says, liking the way he smiles when he looks back at her and then nods to the security guard at the gate to the stands, handing it off and pointing to her.
“Yeah,” he says, with a wink, “fireworks.” The unmistakable sound of the ball hitting the bat echos through the ballpark, the ball rattling around in the outfield as Alex motors into second and Nick into third. Two runners on, nobody out and it’s Luke’s turn up at bat.
The security guard hands her the jacket and she sends him a polite smile before pulling it on over her shoulders. It’s...way too big. And it clicks in her head that this jacket, it smells a bit like leather and grass and dirt and it definitely belongs to him.
Julie settles back into her seat, tugging the jacket tight against her, it falling almost past her thighs and she has to roll up the sleeves to free her hands from it as the Yankee pitcher holds at the belt and then delivers the pitch.
Crack!
For a split second the crowd hushes, the way her fans do at her concerts when the lights cut just before she walks out on stage and then what follows is a roar so powerful the concrete below her feet vibrates as the ball flies long and far and deep into the Los Angeles night, disappearing into a sea of waving arms and full cups of beer flying through the air.
Fireworks, indeed.
Luke trots around the bases, an easy gate that he’s clearly perfected over the years, not so fast that he can’t celebrate the moment, but not so slow it pisses off the opposing pitcher and the next guy up gets a fastball to the ear as payback.
It’s three nothing Dodgers and Julie’s pretty sure that Luke Patterson just hit a home run for her.
He’s high fiving his teammates at the plate and then they’re jogging back to the dugout together to the roar of the crowd and he tips the rim of his helmet to them which only makes them cheer louder. Then, just as he hits the top step of the dugout, he points directly to her.
She claps her hands together harder and yells in his direction, watching a megawatt smile grow wide over his face. The sheer force of that look being directed at her is almost enough to knock her off her feet and as he moves down the dugout steps into the gauntlet of high fives and forearm bumps and hugs that awaits him from his teammates, she finds her seat, her cheeks flush and her head spinning.
The game seems to fly after that and eventually Flynn braves the cold to sit next to her and show her what’s going on on social media, where apparently word is spreading about whatever just happened with her and Luke. Gifs of her pulling on his jacket, their smiles at each other before he stepped up to the plate in the first inning. It’s the stupidest grins she’s ever seen on her face, probably even worse than when she used to stare longingly at her middle school crush from across the hallway, back before she was an international pop star and definitely not cool enough for the captain of the lacrosse team.
It’s only fair though that he's just as bad, a smile so wide it’s taking up most of his face, his gray green eyes twinkling at her with joy and mischief and, whatever else is there, she’ll have to wait to find out.
There’s even a hashtag with their names combined, #Juke is trending in LA and New York and by the fourth inning across the US and by the eighth, around the world.
As the game rolls along the Dodgers only increase their lead, Reggie Peters holding back a powerful Yankee offense and his lineup tacking on runs behind him when the Dodgers pull him for their closer she’s one of fifty six thousand strong to rise to their feet and applaud him on a job well done, but when he gets into the dugout, after he gets a bunch of butt slaps and handshakes from his coaches and teammates he motions to her and then passes a ball to the security guard, the same one who handed her the jacket, and shoots her a crooked grin.
Once she has it in her hands, she bites her lip, reading the scrawl across it.
He’s been crushing on you for years. Put us all out of our misery.
LP: 310-555-1995
She laughs and saves the number in her phone, then pockets the ball for safe keeping.
Once the game is over, she’s ushered out of the ballpark and he’s probably stuck in interview after interview, after catching a gem and going three for four at the plate with a home run, two doubles and five RBIs. A couple of more games like that and he’s a shoo in for World Series MVP.
As the car that’s driving her home pulls into the driveway, she takes a deep breath and taps out a message.
Nice game.
Reggie gave me your number, I hope it’s okay.
- Julie Molina
And yeah, maybe signing it is a little bit cheesy and awkward, but her stomach stops climbing up into her throat when he answers immediately.
More than okay.
I promised you fireworks, didn’t I?
You did.
I always keep my promises.
Can I expect more tomorrow night?
Only if you promise to wait for me after this time.
Off day after Game 2.
You just want your jacket back, don’t you?
Nah, looks better on you anyway.
Maybe we could grab a late dinner tomorrow night after?
Julie grins down at her phone and bites her lip, writing out her response and then pressing send before she can second guess herself.
And then breakfast a few hours later?
Yeah? With some fireworks in between, if you want.
Promise?
Like I said, I always keep my promises.