**“When I first met Bre, I’ll be honest—I didn’t think too much of it…”**
That’s how most stories begin, right? The ones that end up mattering most. You walk into a moment thinking it’s ordinary, another Tuesday, another day on the calendar—and without knowing it, something shifts. Something permanent.
**Bre did that. Not all at once, and not the way a thunderstorm rolls in.**
No, she was more like the sun after a long, bleak winter. Quiet. Constant. You don’t realize how much you needed the warmth until it’s there. And when it is, it feels like it’s always been.
—
## Life Before Bre
Back in 2014, I was a different person. I mean, I was still *me*—still Merrill, still obsessed with perfecting my delivery, still chasing a dream that at times felt like it had outrun me. I had just returned from playing in Korea, fighting tooth and nail to stay relevant, to stay hopeful, to keep the fire alive even when the road ahead looked nothing like I’d imagined.
MLB wasn’t just a dream. It was the dream. My life revolved around velocity, pitch counts, shoulder recovery routines, and film sessions. I didn’t have time for much else, and honestly, I didn’t want to.
Romance? Relationships? They felt like distractions. Temporary things, soft places that could lull you into comfort when what you needed was discomfort—pain, grit, sacrifice.
So when I met Bre at a mutual friend’s dinner gathering in Arizona, I wasn’t looking for anything. I showed up because I had the time and nothing better to do.
She was there—laughing softly, listening more than she spoke. There wasn’t some dramatic slow-motion glance across the room, no fireworks, no cheesy rom-com setup. She wasn’t what I expected. She didn’t talk about the Game. She didn’t fawn or flatter. She didn’t even seem to care what I did for a living.
She just asked real questions.
About where I grew up.
About why I loved baseball.
About the quietest moment I could remember in the last year.
And I realized—I couldn’t even answer that. I hadn’t had a quiet moment in a long time.
—
## Slow Beginnings
Our first conversations weren’t flirtatious. They were curious. Bre didn’t try to impress, and maybe that’s why I found myself thinking about her after we said goodbye. It wasn’t about physical attraction, though she was—and is—beautiful in that way that sneaks up on you. The kind of beauty that deepens every time you get to know her more.
No, it was something else. She listened with intention. In a world that glorifies noise and distraction, she had mastered presence. That was new for me.
We started talking more. Texts turned into phone calls. Coffee into dinner. Baseball season was heating up, and I was getting stretched between cities, starts, stat lines—but somehow, I kept making time.
I didn’t even notice I was doing it at first. It just…happened.
—
## The In-Between Spaces
What struck me about Bre was how comfortable she was in the *in-between* moments. She didn’t need things to be dramatic or thrilling. She liked walks at dusk. She liked reading a few chapters in silence. She liked cooking together with no rush to finish. She made ordinary things feel sacred.
There was one night in particular—July, 2015. I had just come off a rough start. Gave up four earned in five innings. Felt like crap. I was moody, irritated, mentally beating myself up in a way only athletes understand. And Bre?
She didn’t try to “fix” it. Didn’t launch into pep talks or silver linings. She just sat with me. She put on a Miles Davis record. Made tea. And we just…existed. Together. She didn’t try to pull me out of the darkness. She waited there with me until I came back.
That’s when I realized—I’d never known someone like her.
—
## The Shift
I’d always thought that being an athlete meant building walls. You don’t let people in too close. You keep your world tight. Coaches. Teammates. Maybe your agent. Everything else is temporary. That’s the life. That’s the cost.
But Bre challenged that. She made vulnerability feel less like a threat and more like a relief.
She saw me—the whole me. Not just the pitcher. Not just the box score.
And over time, I found myself wanting to show her more of who I was beneath the uniform.
I remember standing in the visitors’ locker room in Cincinnati, phone to my ear, asking if she wanted to come visit on the road. My voice shook. Not because I didn’t think she’d say yes—but because I realized I was no longer protecting myself from connection. I was *choosing* it.
—
## The Seasons Between Us
We didn’t have it easy. No couple does.
Baseball is relentless. The schedule is merciless—city to city, flight after flight, media, rehab, training, highs, lows, the grind of 162 games. Relationships are tested constantly.
But Bre never asked me to slow down. She didn’t try to compete with baseball. She *understood* it.
She knew that some mornings, I’d wake up in a hotel in Miami feeling like a failure. She knew the difference between silence that meant “leave me alone” and silence that meant “just be near me.” She knew that success didn’t soothe the soul the way *truth* did.
In 2019, when I made my MLB debut at age 30, there was no one prouder than Bre. But she never made it about the spotlight.
“I loved you when nobody knew your name,” she said that night, when we got back to the apartment. “I’ll love you when they forget again.”
—
## The Decision to Build a Life
Somewhere along the line, our relationship stopped being about visits and FaceTime calls—it became home.
I proposed in the offseason after my second year in the majors. No cameras, no flash. Just us on a trail in Sedona. She laughed, cried, said yes with this teary grin that still brings a lump to my throat every time I think about it.
We built a life that was honest. Not perfect. Not storybook. But *real*.
Mornings where I’d stretch on the living room rug while she read next to me. Nights where I’d come home sore and she’d have already drawn a bath. Arguments that ended not with winning but with understanding. Silence that wasn’t awkward but filled with safety.
We learned each other’s rhythms. Our anxieties. Our joy.
—
## A Love Letter in Motion
I don’t believe in fate. I believe in choice. In showing up every day, especially when it’s inconvenient. I believe in doing the hard things—on the field and off it.
Bre taught me that love isn’t a firework. It’s a lantern. It stays lit when the night is cold and endless. It flickers but it doesn’t die.
When I take the mound, I carry more than my jersey. I carry every quiet moment we’ve shared. Every Sunday morning walk. Every conversation about the future. Every day she chose to stay beside me—even when the future felt uncertain.
—
## Where We Are Now
Today, our life still balances on the edge of a baseball season. I’m older now, more aware of how fleeting all of this is—both the career and the moments we share in between innings.
We’ve talked about kids. About life after the Game. About where we want to grow old.
Bre still isn’t flashy. She doesn’t seek attention. Most fans don’t even know her name. But that’s okay. She’s not here for the spotlight.
She’s here for the man beneath the glove. The man who once thought love was a distraction.
Now I know—it’s the anchor.
—
## Final Thoughts
If you’d told 25-year-old me that I’d find a partner like Bre, I would’ve laughed it off. I would’ve said I didn’t have time. I would’ve said baseball didn’t leave room for anything that vulnerable, anything that lasting.
But love—real love—finds you when you’re ready to stop performing and start being seen.
And for me, that happened when Bre walked into my life.
She wasn’t loud.
She wasn’t flamboyant.
She was real.
And now, so am I.
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