Page 70 of Mom Ball

He slips on the chest protector without removing his signature cowboy hat—impressive. When it’s over his head, he grins. “Got certified last night online.”

“Don’t you have to go through some kind of process with the county to make it official?”

His grin turns into a mischievous smirk. “I am the county official.”

I shrug. Can’t argue with that.

“Are you coaching the Gray ’Dillas?”

“No, just helping them practice. Morgan is coaching.”

“Morgan Archer?”

“Yeah.”

He shakes his head. “Better keep my handcuffs handy. That woman is a handful.”

I laugh. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Keep her in line for me tonight.”

“I’ll try.”

Bradley starts buckling his gear.

“I’ll see you from the sidelines.”

He glances up as I walk away and calls out, “Good seein’ ya, big dog.”

I head to the home dugout, where Easton is giving the kids a pep talk. It’s actually pretty inspiring. He finishes on a high note, and I attempt a slow clap, but it doesn’t catch on.

They’re too young to appreciate a special moment.

Morgan hands him the book and Aniston the lineup.

I crane my head inside the opening. “Good luck, guys. Y’all got this.”

They offer fist bumps and high fives. Charlie’s hand leaves mine sticky. He immediately picks up a frozen pickle pop.

I slide back from the dugout and wipe my hand down my shorts. Brooke stands near the fence, smiling at me. My knees buckle, and I lean against a bleacher to steady myself. Other than speaking to her briefly Sunday at church, I haven’t spent any time with her since she sprayed my shirt.

And we almost kissed again.

I don’t want to come off as too eager to be with them. However, she did text and invite me to the game. I can thank Morgan’s scheming for that. My phone hasn’t seen any sign of Brooke in almost a decade.

Bradley brings the head coaches and the other umpire to the plate and goes over rules. The Mud Cats coach snarls at Morgan like they’re opposing gang members.

This should be fun.

On that note, I go to the concession stand and buy a bag of popcorn.

“Wassup, Nate,” Tami calls to me from inside the window.

I duck my head to find her scooping nacho cheese with one hand and bouncing a baby on her hip with the other. She’s wearing a tight, short jean skirt and baseball heels. That’s something you don’t see every day.

“Hey, can I get some popcorn?”

“Slim!” she yells over her shoulder.

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