Page 19 of Mom Ball

Morgan must read my confusion, because she leans closer and whispers, “You’d be surprised at the people who try and scam us out of a hundred bucks.”

“After the snake-arm guy, I don’t think so,” I whisper back.

She laughs so hard she snorts, making me laugh too.

“That’s all, guys.” Morgan stacks our paper on top of more in a folder.

“When do we practice?” Timothy asks.

“Slow your roll, slugger. We haven’t even announced teams yet. It will happen soon enough . . . believe me.” Her final two words ooze with exhaustion.

“See you soon,” I say.

She nods, then turns her hospitality on for the next person. Funny how she’s never this courteous when checking people out at the Pig. And to think that’s her actual paying job.

We leave Morgan to work her magic and pass Jeffrey, who’s standing high and mighty in front of a field. His two sons are nearby dressed in jerseys with more accessories than I wore in my pageant days. But to their credit, I don’t see any fake eyelashes or nails.

I watch one pitch to the other. A lump forms in my throat as I imagine a ball coming that hard at my son’s head. Yes, he will be wearing a helmet to bat, but that still makes me antsy.

“Mama, look, it’s Mr. Nate the—” Timothy pauses, before spouting out, “the Great.”

My eyes follow his across the parking lot toward the batting cages. Nate stands in the sunlight, a T-shirt taut across his chest, his forearms muscular and glistening with sweat.

Ugh. I sound like the deprived single mom in a Nicholas Sparks novel. In particular, the one where she took care of dogs and the movie version included Zac Efron.

“He looks busy,” I say. Then I use that as an excuse to watch him dig dirt with a shovel a few more seconds.

Before I can snap out of my admiration trance, Timothy jets off in that direction.

I have two choices. I can go to the parking lot and hope he comes to the car after a quick hello, or I can run after him.

In true helicopter-mom fashion, I choose the latter. My ponytail bounces as I clutch my sling bag to keep it from banging against my chest. By the time I reach Timothy, Nate is leaning on his shovel, smiling.

His whole arm is glistening in the sun, and there are a few wet marks on his shirt, outlining his chest muscles. I clinch my teeth and silently scold myself for picturing him shirtless. Besides, we’re nearing thirty. He can’t look the same as he did at eighteen.

Maybe he looks better.

I grunt, and both guys stop talking and stare at me. I clear my throat and hope my face is flushed from running to cover my blushing. “Sorry, my throat is dry.”

“Here.” Nate lifts a water bottle in front of my face.

“That’s nice, Mr. Nate, but Mama shouldn’t share your germs.”

“You’re right, son, thanks.” I dip my head as Nate lowers the drink.

Poor kid has no idea he’s made up of half Mr. Nate’s germs. For everyone’s sanity, I’ll keep that to myself and pretend he has cooties.

Unfortunately, I raise my head at the exact moment Nate decides to raise the end of his shirt and use it to wipe his forehead. I clamp my eyes shut.

“I was telling Timothy that—” he says, then pauses. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

My eyes pop open to him staring at me. The good news is his shirt is back on his body. The bad news is I caught enough of a glimpse to confirm he looks even better now.

“Of course,” I say nervously.

“Okay. I was saying that I need to finish flattening this area in front of the cages.

“Don’t they make machines to do that kind of work?” My question is more rhetorical, as I know they do.

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