Homerun
Ernie Clement x f!reader
warnings - none, just fluff.
finally wrote Ernie again since i'm really obsessed with the blue jays rn <3
You’re waiting for him after the game, standing with a dozen others—family members and friends. Everyone is eager for the players to come out. When your phone buzzes, you ignore it and focus on the tunnel.
Then you see him.
Ernie is still in his uniform, his cap pushed back. He looks tired but a bit energized too. His bag hangs from one shoulder, and his smile barely reaches his eyes as he scans the crowd.
Looking for you.
When he sees you, his expression changes completely. His smile turns genuine. He starts moving before you can wave, squeezing past teammates with “sorry, sorry,” almost tripping over someone.
“Hey,” he says, his voice cracking.
“Hey, superstar.”
He drops his bag and pulls you in tightly. You can feel his heart racing. He is so warm. When he buries his face in your neck, he finally exhales.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he says into your skin.
“I can.” You pull back to look at him. “I knew as soon as you swung.”
His eyes shine as he laughs, sounding breathless. “I need to relax. Can we just go home?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
He takes your hand and doesn’t let go until he picks up his bag.
The car is quiet at first.
Ernie tosses his bag in the back and sinks into the passenger seat with a big exhale. You start the car, and the radio comes on softly. He stares out the window, replaying everything in his head.
Two blocks away, he starts talking.
“Bottom of the sixth, two outs.” His hands begin to move. “I wasn’t even thinking about a home run, you know? Just trying to make contact, get on base, keep us alive.”
You glance over. “And then?”
“And then I felt it.” He hits his fist into his palm. “Perfect connection, sweet spot. I didn’t even look—I just knew.”
“The crowd went crazy.”
“I couldn’t hear anything.” He grins. “I could see people standing up, mouths open, but it was silent in my head. Then I’m rounding first, and the noise comes back. Everything.”
You place your hand on the center console, palm up.
He takes it immediately, lacing his fingers with yours. For a moment, he plays with your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles and tracing lines on your palm. The energy shifts.
“I was so scared,” he says softly.
“Yeah?”
“Right before, in the on-deck circle.” He looks at your hands. “My stomach was churning. I kept thinking, what if I strike out? What if I ground into a double play? What if I mess it up?”
You squeeze his hand.
“And I looked up at the section behind first base.” He glances at you. “You had on that blue hoodie you stole from me. You were standing, hands together like you were nervous or something.”
“I was,” you reply.
“I saw you, and I just—” He hesitates. “I thought, okay. She’s here, watching. Whether I hit a home run or strike out, she’s still going to be there afterward.”
Your throat tightens. You bring his hand up and kiss his knuckles, keeping your eyes on the road.
“That’s what got me to the plate,” he says. “Knowing you were there.”
You take the long way home.
The apartment is dark when you unlock the door. Ernie heads straight to the bathroom. The shower starts. You move through the space almost on autopilot.
You turn on the soft lamps, avoiding the overhead lights. You grab the fuzzy throw blanket from the bedroom, the one he pretends to dislike, along with pillows from the chair.
You create a cozy nest on the couch, arranging and rearranging until it feels right.
The shower stops. You know he is probably looking at himself in the mirror, still seeing that pitch.
When he comes out, he’s wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt. His hair is damp, sticking up everywhere from the towel. He looks younger this way, more like the guy who is clingy and soft than the one who just hit a home run.
“Come here,” you say, patting the couch.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Ernie settles next to you, and you pull the blankets around you both. He shifts until he’s against your side, his head on your shoulder and his arm around your waist. You feel him starting to relax.
For a while, you sit there, breathing together.
“I almost choked,” he whispers.
You don’t respond, just put your hand on his arm, your thumb moving in small circles.
“Standing there, watching him wind up, I almost stepped out, almost called time.” He laughs softly. “My hands were shaking. I was terrified I was going to swing and miss and look like an idiot.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could have.” He turns to look at you. “That’s what people don’t get. Every at-bat, I could fail. Every play, every throw, I’m one mistake away from being the guy who messed up.”
Your chest aches. You touch his face. “Ernie.”
“Everyone expects me to show up. Every single game.” His eyes shine. “I’m supposed to be the guy who delivers. Today I did, but-” He stops, swallowing hard. “What if tomorrow I don’t? What if I’m the one who chokes when it matters? One bad moment, and that’s all anyone remembers. That’s all I become.”
You turn to face him, placing both hands on his face.
“Hey. Look at me.” You wait until he does. “One bad game doesn’t erase everything. It doesn’t erase today.”
He stays quiet, looking at you as if he wants to believe it.
“I mean, people know you. Not just from today, but from all of it. The way you...” You pause, searching for the right words. “You’re not just one swing, Ernie.”
“You don’t know—”
“I do.” You shake your head. “I’ve watched you every day. The way you show up even when you’re scared. The way you care so much. Maybe too much.”
He exhales shakily.
“So yeah, you could have a bad game. You probably will at some point.” You’re stumbling through your thoughts, but you mean every word. “But that’s not who you are. One bad moment doesn’t define you.”
He closes his eyes.
He makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, pulling you closer. His face buries into your neck, and he breathes you in deeply.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispers.
“Good thing you don’t have to find out.”
You hold him tightly, one hand in his damp hair and the other tracing patterns on his back. Outside, the city hums through the night. Tomorrow, there will be another game, another chance, and another battle with his doubts.
But right now, wrapped in blankets in the soft light, he is just Ernie. Not the athlete, not the home run hitter, not the guy trying to prove himself.
Just yours.
And that’s enough.
