Page 82 of Mended Hearts

“Okay, old man,” I tease, rolling the ball in my hand. I dig my toes into my makeshift mound and push in a little deeper, drawing my line out even more. He crouches back down and I take my stance. I do everything the same again.

Just faster.

I push into the ground even harder with my right foot, giving me more height as my left foot flies in front of me. Left foot lands. Arm swings around once. Right foot slides up from behind. Arm swings around halfway. Hand releases ball. Ball instantly slams into Dad’s glove, knocking him on his ass.

“Holy shit, Mom,” I hear from behind. “You are badass.”

“Dylan,” I say with a laugh.

“Sorry. I’m just referencing what Dad said.” Dylan shrugs like that gets him off the hook.

And sadly, it does.

I look back at Dustin, who walks up to our son and places his hand on his shoulder from behind.

“Sorry.” He shrugs, just like his son had. “But you are badass, Striker.”

I just shake my head. I’m so in trouble with these two. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I get lost in staring at the boys in my life. Dylan is a replica of his father—in every way. It amazes me how alike they are when they spent over a decade apart.

Apparently, genetics go beyond looks.

And these handsome, stubborn, goofy, blond-haired, blue-eyed babes are all mine.

“Dustin,” my dad says, walking up to my boys. He extends his hand out. Dustin has his arms draped over Dylan, and sticks his right hand out, shaking my dad’s.

“By chance you were a pitcher as well when you played ball?” my dad asks sincerely, wanting to know. Baseball has always been his thing. That’s why I was pushed into it at such a young age. I knew that he and Dustin could bond over the love they shared for the sport back when we were in high school, but that was only if my dad could get over his stubbornness.

But it took that long for me as well.

Guess it’s one of those genetic things.

“No, sir. Third base.”

“Ahh. Just like good ole Chipper Jones.”

“Yes, sir. He was my idol.” Dustin smiled, gripping Dylan’s shoulder with his hand. I love how close the two of them are already. It’s like this long-lost, instant connection.

“I happen to have tickets for the game next week. I’d love for us all to go. But understand if?—”

Dustin stops him. “Sir,” he says as he playfully wraps his arm around Dylan’s neck in a chokehold and rubs his forearm across the top of his head, messing his hair all up. “I believe you had us at ‘tickets.’”

I laugh and walk over to my boys, standing next to them with my arm around Dustin.

“There’s only one condition,” my dad says, tossing the ball up in the air. Dylan breaks free of his father’s hold to catch it. “No more calling me sir.”

Dustin grins then. “I’ll try, but no guarantees.”

Dylan yells, “Hey, Dad! Watch this!” And Dustin stops and does just that, giving our son his full attention. “I bet you can’t do this,” he says as he begins juggling the softball and what looks to be a tennis ball.

“You got me there, son.” Dustin laughs, holding up his handless arm. I giggle at the lightheartedness. Dustin has come a long way in such a short time. I know it’s because I was right. He might be missing his hand, but that wasn’t the problem. It was his wounded heart that was the issue. It just needed to be mended.

All of ours did.

Dustin continues watching our son with such pride and adoration. I know he would have been the most amazing dad from the beginning. I hate that we were robbed of that. I plan to give him that experience one day. It’s one I know he’d truly cherish.

My dad holds out his hand, and Dustin places his in it. As they shake hands, my dad puts his other one on top, fully enclosing Dustin’s. “Thank you for serving our country. You truly are a hero in and out of the uniform. We are blessed to have you as part of our family.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dustin replies stoically. He usually waves off being called a hero. I’m so proud that he didn’t this time. My father cocks a brow at Dustin’s use of sir again, and I giggle to myself. “Mr. Price.”

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