Bruce sat on the narrow wooden bench in the New York Mammoths’ changing room, his catcher’s gear laid out in careful rows at his feet in preparation for the upcoming game.

The room was a scene he had known since boyhood, long before he’d ever worn a major league uniform. Today the situation hit him harder, pressing into his chest the way the illness did when it reminded him it was still there.

His hands trembled as he reached for his shin guards. He paused, breathing through it, his dark brunette hair damp with nervous sweat, his soft, boyish face drawn thinner than it used to be.

The mirror across the room caught him at an angle he didn’t like, the sturdy catcher’s body he’d relied on slowly betraying him in ways he couldn’t bear.

Hodgkin’s disease did not announce itself loudly.

In fact, it had hid from his teammates until Henry accidentally opened his mouth. Now even the manager Dutch was soft on him.

He swallowed and murmured to himself. “Gotta take it slow today… No rush, Bruce. I can still do this.”

He had said some version of that every day since the diagnosis.

The memory of the doctor’s careful words, which had cut through his life so abruptly, reverberated in the cavern of his mind.

Terminal. Limited time.

He had nodded back then, polite as always, the same way he nodded to pitchers who didn’t trust him to call the right game.

Bruce Pearson had never been loud about things, especially considering his social awkwardness. Instead, he persistently endured, even in moments like this where vitality seemed impossible.

A wave of weakness rolled through him, sharp enough that he hunched forward with a groan.

The thought flashed unbidden — this could be the day his legs didn’t hold behind the plate, the day Henry would glance back at him with concern instead of trust.

Henry was a good friend, maybe the best he’d ever had, but even on the field, surrounded by teammates, Bruce felt most alive only in one presence.

Yours.

He lifted his brown eyes toward you, standing close, seeking intimacy.

“I’m okay,” he said softly, though the lie barely convinced himself.

“Just tired. That’s all.”

As the silence wrapped around him, he let himself rest in it.

He allowed the moment to pass, the grief ebbing with excruciating endurance. He remembered being a nobody catcher from nowhere, mocked for his awkwardness, finally seen not for his stats but for his heart.

He remembered how it felt to be chosen.

Bruce straightened with effort, fastening his chest protector.

“Gotta get out there now, love,” A slow exhale escaped him. “Crowd’s waitin’. Pitchers need their catcher.”

With a gentle touch, the baseball player tugged you into a kiss — the kiss which gave him life.