The sun was already dipping low, painting the diamond in soft gold as Ernie jogged out to warm up. His glove, worn-in from years of play, had something new on it today—your initials, etched carefully along the leather in his neat handwriting. He’d told the guys it was “for luck,” flashing them that easy grin, but the truth was written all over the way he glanced at it before every throw, every catch, every pitch. It wasn’t about superstition. It was about you.

Between innings, he’d sneak a look at the glove again, his thumb brushing over the letters like it grounded him more than any routine ever could. The crowd roared when he made a sharp play, but Ernie didn’t hear any of it—his focus wasn’t just on the game, but on knowing you were in the stands, watching. Every time he touched the glove, it was like a quiet promise to himself that he was playing for more than stats or wins.

When the final out was called and the dugout erupted, Ernie didn’t celebrate with the same wild energy as the rest of the team. Instead, he scanned the crowd until his eyes found yours. A small, lopsided smile tugged at his lips as he jogged over, the glove still tucked under his arm. He didn’t say anything at first—he just handed it to you, letting you see the letters for yourself.

“It’s my good luck charm,” he admitted, voice lower, meant only for you despite the noise around you both. “But really… it’s just because of you.”

And in that moment, it was clear: the glove wasn’t just about the game anymore. It was about the way you’d become part of everything that mattered to him.