The sun was blazing over Dodger Stadium, just like it always does during Opening Week.
Jack's standing by the visitors' dugout now, wearing the road grays of the Detroit Tigers. You watch from the stands as they call his name.
"Jack Flaherty!"
The crowd erupts.
It’s not just polite applause. It was genuine. The kind that says, We remember. And honestly how could they not? Jack was a key part of last year’s World Series team. It was the season of his life. He grew up just miles from here. Used to come to games with his mom and brother.
And now here he is, back on this field. Wearing the wrong colors.
He tips his cap as he walks towards Mookie, Freddie, Shohei, Miguel, Kike, Austin Clayton and Blake . The ring box and gold jersey waits for him. A symbol of everything he worked for, everything he lost, and everything that brought him to this exact moment.
You can see his jaw tighten even from up in your seat. He takes the ring, smiles for the cameras, and even shares a quick hug with Mookie and Freddie. But when he turns to walk back toward the Tigers' dugout, there’s something in his eyes.
That look—the one you know all too well. The one that says this hurts more than I thought it would.
Later, after the Tigers lose 5-3, you wait for him outside the locker rooms. You made the trip because you knew he'd need you today, even if he pretended he wouldn’t.
He walks out wearing a hoodie pulled up over his head, hands buried in his pockets, trying to blend into the crowd. But to you, he looks like a storm cloud trying to walk away before it rains.
"Hey," you say softly when he spots you.
He tries to smile. It’s weak.
"Hey." His voice is rough. "Thanks for coming."
"Of course. I wasn’t going to miss this. You got your ring, Jack."
"Yeah." He lets out a shaky breath. "I got it."
You step closer, sliding your hand into his. His fingers close around yours instinctively, like they’re searching for an anchor.
"You want to talk about it?" you ask gently.
He shakes his head at first, then nods. "I don’t know what to feel. I’m happy—I should be happy. I got the damn ring and the jersey. I’m playing for a great organization. But it felt like I was a stranger out there. Like... this isn’t home anymore. I grew up here for fucks sake and it doesn't feel like home."
You squeeze his hand. "It’s okay to feel that way. This place meant everything to you."
"It still does," he admits quietly. "That field... I grew up dreaming about standing on it. I finally did. And now I’m watching someone else take my spot in the rotation. It’s like—" He swallows hard. "It’s like the chapter ended before I was ready. I knew they were gonna get Sasaki and go after Snell but I just hoped deep down I could be in the talks about getting resigned"
You wrap your arms around him and feel the tension in his body slowly melt into you. He buries his face in your shoulder for a moment, not saying anything, just breathing. You run your fingers up and down his back, soothing, steady.
"You’ll always be part of this team’s history," you whisper. "No one can take that away. And they remember, Jack. Did you hear them cheer for you?"
"Yeah," he murmurs. "That helped."
You pull back enough to look at him. "And now you get to be a leader in Detroit. You’ve got guys who look up to you. You get to show them what it means to play like a champion."
He gives a small smile, finally. "I just miss it so much"
"I know. But I’m proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself too."
He leans down and kisses you—soft, lingering. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."
"Good thing you’ll never have to find out," you tease lightly, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
Jack exhales slowly, the weight still there, but lighter now with your arms around him and your voice grounding him. He glances down at the blue box in his hand.
"You want to see it?" he asks.
You nod.
He opens it, revealing the World Series ring—massive, glinting, impossibly heavy with meaning.
"Looks good on you," you say.
He chuckles. "Looks weird with this uniform."
"Maybe. But it looks right with you."
He closes the box again and pockets it. Then he takes your hand again and nods toward the parking lot. "Let’s get out of here."
"Where to?"
"Anywhere that doesn’t smell like pine tar and heartbreak," he says, only half-joking.
You smile and walk with him into the evening light, knowing that whatever team name is stitched across his chest, he’ll always carry a little piece of home with him—just like you’ll always be there to remind him who he is.
Requested by venerim I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading and requesting as well as your patience! Feel free to leave a request.
