Page 111 of Mom Ball

I’m not wired to sit and have people wait on me, even if I am a guest. That’s one thing Ace never understood. He’d tell me to relax whenever we were at an event. I’d go refill my own drinks and throw away my empty plates instead of leaving them on the table.

He’d argue we were major leaguers and didn’t have to do that anymore. In my mind, what you do for a job and how much money you make has nothing to do with how you act.

I pour everyone a glass of sweet tea while Brooke fixes bowls of rice and chicken.

“Timothy was catching good today.”

“I know he was happy to see you too. When did you get in?”

“Maybe thirty minutes before you. Not long.”

My mouth goes dry as I watch Brooke carry our plates to the table. From the mundane conversation about our day to eating dinner together, I get a glimpse of what being married to her might be like.

And it’s wonderful.

The only problem is I have a whole team celebrating the recovery of my arm. I’m an actual contender for pitching Opening Day. That might complicate things if I were to elope.

“What time do y’all practice tomorrow?” I ask, after deflating my own daydream with reality.

“Seven.” Brooke sets forks by everyone’s bowls, and I pass out teas. “Timothy, you want to pray?”

Timothy bows his head and thanks God for the food, baseball, and me coming to eat with them. My heart inflates like I’m the Grinch catching on to Christmas. He’s one special boy, and I’m honored he thinks so highly of me.

“Y’all start at seven?” I ask as we eat.

“Yeah, Morgan wanted to hold out for a bigger field. It was either that or the T-ball field again. We couldn’t do it right after school since most of us work.” She drinks some tea, then adds, “More like all of us work except Tami.”

I shove a forkful of chicken and rice in my mouth and try not to imagine how Tami fills her day.

“Why don’t y’all come to my place around five-thirty when everyone gets home. That way you can be done before seven, and you and I can have that date in Tuscaloosa.”

Her closed lips curve into a faint smile as she chews.

“Mama, that sounds like a good deal for all of us,” Timothy says.

We both laugh.

“It really does,” Brooke agrees. “Sold!”

* * *

Brooke

Cars line the edge of Nate’s yard as everyone arrives for practice. I watch Tami hoist her youngest on her hip and tiptoe down the hill in her heels. This time they’re covered in black leather instead of baseball leather. She wobbles a little with the baby, and I stand in case I need to run and try to catch her.

After a few close calls, they make it to flat ground and the baby coos happily. I sigh with relief. That will be one resilient child. Good thing she didn’t bring her to the game in Moonshine County.

Half the kids are in their own little world, and the other half crowd Nate, asking about the Braves. Morgan walks up to the group and lets out a whistle so loud that Nate plugs a finger in his ear.

The remaining kids come running, and chatting parents pay attention. Morgan turns to Nate with a face that silently says, You. Are. Welcome.

I swear, she would’ve made a great teacher. Or prison guard.

Nate slaps his hands together and scans the group, who now have their full attention on him.

“It’s good to be back with y’all. Coach Morgan and I had a talk, and I’ve come up with some things to help with what each player needs to work on.”

Morgan nods as she paces behind Nate with her hands laced behind her back. She’s totally giving me prison guard vibes.

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