Page 44 of Mom Ball

“Georgia here would like to buy Timothy’s number?” Aniston taps the top of Georgia’s high ponytail.

“Wait, what?”

Georgia bats her eyes. “It’s nothing personal, just that sixteen is a special number to our family.”

“Yeah, I think Timothy only chose sixteen because it’s Nate’s number,” I say.

A sad little laugh-cry comes from Georgia’s clenched jaw.

“Ladies.” Aniston moves between us and hooks an arm around our shoulders. “Step into my office. Let’s negotiate.”

She walks us to the kitchen area and stops at the edge of the counter. Georgia takes a seat on a bar stool, and I watch Aniston grab a napkin and a pen from near the sink.

“Okay.” She returns to her spot at the end of the counter, between us. “Both boys want number sixteen, but right now Timothy’s got it, correct?”

Georgia nods slowly.

“Let’s see, he is a coach’s son, so technically he should have first pick.” Aniston glances at me and lifts the corner of her mouth.

I want to protest that I’m not officially a coach. I’m simply the person keeping Jeffrey from killing Morgan. However, I’m more eager to see how this plays out.

“I met my husband for the first time when I was sixteen, on the sixteenth of March, at the sixteenth hole of a golf tournament.” Georgia beams.

I don’t have to respond, because Aniston does it for me. “Then we have Timothy, who has no father figure to look up to and nobody to help him with ball until a kind pro athlete moves down the road and offers him a positive role model.”

Aniston did a great job of painting my son’s point of view like a sad Hallmark story. Georgia squirms in her seat. So much of this is messed up that I can’t begin to comprehend it all.

“So the question to be answered is what is this number sixteen worth to the both of you.” Aniston points the pen at me, then Georgia. “Georgia, write down your price.” She sets the pen on the napkin and slides it toward her.

Georgia twists her mouth and scribbles something on the napkin. She slides it toward me.

Aniston intercepts it. “I think you can do better than that.”

Georgia grabs the napkin and adds a zero. She drops the pen beside it and pushes it across the bar. “That’s my final offer.”

Aniston studies the napkin as my stomach flips. Our eyes meet, and her lips curve into a devious smile.

“What do you think, Brooke?” She taps the edge of the napkin as she shows it to me. “For this price, could you possibly break the news to your son that he won’t get to wear his role model’s number for his inaugural ball season?”

I sigh. “You know, he will be disappointed, but I think this price shows how much it means to Georgia’s family.”

Georgia’s large white teeth shine like Chiclets. I nod, and she gives me a huge hug. “Thank you so much, Brooke. You are just precious!”

When she moves back, I let out a breath. Georgia jumps from her stool excitedly. “I’m going to write you a check.” She holds up a finger. “Let me get my wallet from the golf bag.”

Aniston watches her hurry toward the opposite end of the room. I pick up the napkin and widen my eyes to make sure I’m reading it correctly. “I would’ve given it to her for nothing,” I whisper.

“Good thing you got a friend like me, then, huh?”

I shrug. “It appears so.”

Georgia returns, fanning a check in my face. I take it and stare at the number. It has the same zeros as the napkin. Not that I care, but she has a reputation of not doing things by the book.

“I’ll go tell Morgan the good news.” Georgia grins.

“Tell me what?” Morgan sticks her head in the doorway before Georgia makes it there.

“Timothy and Herrington are trading numbers.”

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