Dodger Stadium was packed wall-to-wall, the iconic sea of blue jerseys filling every row like a living wave of loyalty and anticipation. The scoreboard glowed under the night sky: Game 7. Dodgers vs. Yankees. World Series. And somewhere in the middle of it all, in Section 117, Jake and Raelene stood side by side, decked out in matching Dodgers jerseys and rally towels already spinning in their hands.

Jake wore his backwards cap and a Mookie Betts jersey, while Raelene had painted tiny white baseball stitches on her cheeks and wore a cropped Dodgers hoodie over ripped jeans. Her excitement was contagious—bouncing on her toes, yelling at every play, singing along to the stadium songs without missing a beat.

“I can’t believe we actually got tickets,” she shouted over the roar of the crowd.

Jake laughed, nudging her. “I had to bribe three people, sell my soul, and hit refresh on the ticket site for two hours—but totally worth it.”

They sat, stood, and jumped up again through every inning, living and dying with every pitch. The score was tight, tension so thick you could cut it with a hot dog. Every strikeout made Raelene squeeze Jake’s arm. Every close call had him shouting at the ump like they could hear him from the stands.

By the 8th inning, the Dodgers were down by one. The stadium felt like it was holding its breath.

“Okay,” Raelene said, crossing her fingers tightly. “If they come back right now, I’m never complaining about your morning breath again.”

Jake turned to her. “That’s a big promise.”

“I’m serious. And I’ll even watch your weird sci-fi shows without talking.”

“Now that’s real love.”

In the bottom of the 9th, with two outs, the Dodgers hit a deep shot to right field. The ball soared, the stadium froze—and then it cleared the wall.

Home run.

Game tied.

The crowd exploded.

Raelene screamed so loud she practically launched her hat into the air. Jake grabbed her, spinning her in a circle before pulling her into the tightest hug of their lives.

“I think I’m gonna pass out,” he shouted over the chaos.

“You better not! Not before the walk-off!”

And then… it happened. Next batter. First pitch. CRACK. Another deep hit—this time to left field. It soared, soared—

Gone.

Walk-off home run. Dodgers win.

The stadium lost its mind. Fireworks erupted overhead, players flooded the field, and Jake and Raelene stood there, eyes wide, hands over their mouths, until she jumped into his arms, laughing through tears.

“We saw that!” she screamed. “We were here for that!”