Page 103 of Mom Ball

They hurry onto the field. She stands by the fence, and Aniston joins me. The score is now eight to seven, with us in the lead.

The other team isn’t batting as well this time, and Aniston laughs.

“What?”

“Remind me to tell you what all he’s saying later.”

“Would you need to repent afterward?” I ask.

She wavers her head.

“I’ll take your word for it, then.”

She laughs harder.

Our rolling technique continues to prove successful until they get back to the big guy. He chokes down on the bat and snorts. His nostrils flare like a bull. Good thing our jerseys are gray and not red.

He hits the first pitch deep into the outfield. Angel covers her face with her glove. Time stands still as every eye follows the ball. It lands perfectly in her glove.

Our team goes nuts. And so does their team’s coach, but in a different way. His speech pattern goes into overdrive, reminding me of the time I tried to listen to an audiobook on double speed. Except my book was in English, with a more soothing tone.

Aniston grabs me and hugs my neck. I’m still in shock. We beat the big, scruffy Moonshine Mariners.

* * *

“Champs on three.” Morgan sticks out her hand, and ten dirty little hands slap on top.

She lets Angel count them down. We all yell, “Champs!” Someone growls in the background, but I’m afraid to see who.

“Let’s get out of here before someone slashes our tires,” Easton suggests.

I nod.

“Carlton is coming from work and said he’d buy us all a celebratory dinner at Catfish Camp!” Georgia beams.

Crap, Georgia. I’m so ready to get on the brighter side of the county line. But the kids are excited. Maybe that’s her plan, since they didn’t care for her fancy dark chocolate truffles.

“Let’s get a move on,” Morgan says.

The adults have everything packed up, so we travel in a pack to the entrance of the park.

“Where’s Mama?” Precious asks.

“I’ll get her.” Easton frowns at me and Aniston. “She may need a doctor.”

He meets us in the parking lot with Tami hanging on him. She’s holding her baseball heels in her hands and laughing through hiccups.

“I better drive her,” he says.

“You’re not riding alone with that!” Aniston protests.

“Then she needs to ride with you. I’ll take her kids and ours.”

“Okay.” Aniston takes Tami to their van, while Easton gathers her girls.

I climb in the car with Timothy.

Georgia’s Mercedes slows, and the window lowers. “Follow me.” She grins, then zips the window.

---