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she was baseball-mad

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There’s something that just feels right about being in a ballpark, the hard plastic seats uncomfortable beneath sweaty thighs, a bucket of popcorn clutched in one hand and an overpriced hotdog in the other.

Sherlock’s elbow pressing into her own, threatening to overturn her popcorn with every movement of his body.

Jacob de Grom on the mound, Pete Alonso manning first base (finally healthy), and the stadium finally packed.

Joan wouldn’t have it any other way, really.

 


 

Abbie rests her fountain soda on her knee and reaches over, patting Ichabod on the arm.

“If a foul ball comes into our section, you gotta promise me you’ll catch it,” she says. Abbie carefully balances their daughter, Rose, on her other knee. “My arms are full.”

“Right,” Ichabod agrees, tugging at the lacing of his brand new leather baseball mitt. “I’ll catch the ball. I’ve never caught a ball before.”

“You’ve played softball before. It’s kinda like that,” says Abbie.

Ichabod reaches over and ruffles Rose’s curly hair with his free hand. “I think we’ve established that I am not much of a sportsman.”

Abbie laughs, warmly, and presses a kiss atop Rose’s head. “You’ve got a point.”

Ichabod peers up at the sheltering blue sky that stretches protectively over Citi Field, nary a cloud in sight. “Today is a good day for baseball,” he muses.

 


 

Ginny pops out of the Citi Field dugout to the cheers and murmur of the Mets’ fans—and the loyal group of Padres fans that follow the team from stadium to stadium. Livan springs out beside her, tugging his mask down over his face.

“Good to be back, huh,” Livan says, tapping Ginny on her shoulder with his glove.

“Missed it,” she says, sparing a glance at the L-shaped scar on her elbow. “It’s been too long.”

Livan nods at her. “Let’s remind ’em who Ginny Baker is.”

Ginny grins at him and taps him back on his padded chest protecter. “I don’t think they forgot.”

“No,” Livan agrees, and she can see his smile from behind the cage of his mask. “I don’t suppose they did.”