Page 110 of Mom Ball

“What do you mean roll the ball?” I raise my brow skeptically.

“That’s how we beat the team that fielded better.”

I shake my head. “Winning is good, Timothy, but learning to play the game correctly is more important.”

He nods slowly, as if mulling it over before agreeing.

“Why don’t you get your glove and we’ll work on the short hop.” I point to him. “Not for rolling the ball, but for true grounders.”

He smiles and nods bigger this time, then disappears into their house. I lean one arm against the door of my truck and sigh. Between the flight and appointment, then driving like a maniac to get here, I’ve barely had a minute to catch my breath.

Timothy returns with a ball and the mitt I gave him. I grab a glove from my toolbox.

“Take a few steps back.” I motion where I want him in the yard.

I throw some balls and comment on his form, letting him know what he’s doing right and what can improve.

“Have you practiced this any since I left?”

“Some high school softball girls helped us on the T-ball field. One of them played first and showed me some stuff. I throw a ball against the barn and catch it sometimes too.”

I grin at the memory of throwing the ball for myself as a kid. At least Timothy has the broad side of a barn to work with. I would toss the ball on the roof of our mobile home and let it roll off. More than once, I had to admit to Mom that’s why her wind chimes got so tangled.

“You’re doing good.”

“Thanks.” He stands a littler straighter after my compliment.

Brooke’s car pulls beside us and slows. She sticks her head out the window. “This is a nice surprise.” She continues into the garage.

I toss Timothy the ball and signal him to hold it, then follow her car. By the time she opens her door, I’m standing beside it.

She gets out and smiles widely. I grab her face and kiss her gently for a second, then hug her close. Her hospital scrubs give off a stench of cleaning supplies and rubber. But her hair still has the usual floral, springy scent I find intoxicating. I lean back and smile down at her.

“I didn’t expect you to come out here.”

I shrug. “I convinced the team to let me have a couple days off after my appointment.”

“Have you seen your mom yet?”

“Nope. You were my first stop.” I tap her tiny nose with my fingertip, then step back for her to shut the car door.

“I have some chicken and rice in the Crockpot if you want to stay and eat.”

“I do.” My nerves flare when I hear those words come from my mouth. It probably would’ve made more sense to say “sure” or “thanks.” Even a head nod would’ve worked. But I’ve spent four hours alone in my truck today, daydreaming about what life married to Brooke might look like.

Luckily, she didn’t sense the weirdness in my word choice. She yells for Timothy to come inside, and he meets us in the living room.

Brooke’s carriage house has a homey feel not yet present in my mansion. She has pictures and Bible verses hanging on the wall. Cookie-smelling candles stay lit on the mantel and kitchen counter whenever she’s home. And she has actual curtains and throw pillows.

I used to think of those as women things, but they’re starting to grow on me. I’d never admit that to anyone and risk lowering my masculinity. But living in an actual house, especially one the size I own, is different from a sleek city condo. A little coziness could make it more comfortable.

Brooke sets her purse on the couch and heads toward the tiny kitchen.

“Do you need any help?” I ask.

“No, all I have to do is slice the chicken and put everything on our plates.”

“I can fix drinks.” I follow her.

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