Page 59 of Forget Me Knot

These sportsball parents are crazy. Griffin Lovett and his brother have not only started their own childish chants in the hour since this game started—We need a catcher, not a booger snatcherandGive us a pitcher, no more booty itchers—aimed at Jackson and Owen, respectively. But they also seem to be collecting stats for every child as if they were professionals, with all kinds of chatter over RBIs and hit percentages and unrealized potential.

I feel like maybe I should remind them the kids we’re cheering on—at least seven of which I’ve seen pick their nose and eat what they found—are between the ages of four and eight. But what do I know? Their wives seem to be on board, too, screaming like their heads will explode if Theo so much as tips the ball with the end of his bat. And that same kid’s grandparents are a whole different story. Maybe this is all a kooky, but well-respected piece of the small-town puzzle that I’ve yet to acclimate to. Give me a few years, a toddler, and my mini-megaphone, and I’ll be hollerin’ with the rest of ‘em.

Not to mention, sweet little Theo who yells like a loon each and every time Molly makes any kind of play out there. Hecomes by it honestly, that's for sure, out-yelling my sister—who cheers at a respectable, yet enthusiastic decibel in my opinion—by a mile. And Molly—rocking the cutest sports getup I've ever seen, strawberry blonde French braids, and a backwards baseball cap—is positively smitten by Theo’s attention.

Honestly, I don’t have to love any sport to love the joy on these kids' faces or the energy of the crowd, the sense of community as parents holler and cheer, and the aroma of fried snacks in the atmosphere. Jackson has been catching the ball all afternoon, high-fiving every kid who comes to bat, pumping his fist in the air when one makes contact—no matter how small—and joining the chatter from the box, ribbing his brother on the mound and his friends at first and third base.

And I am enjoying the show.

He demonstrated how to properly wear a hat backwards for Molly somewhere between the first inning and the snack break everyone took a half hour ago, and now it would be absolutely criminal to take my eyes off him. Remember when I thought forward-facing hats were kind of sexy and maybe a little mysterious? Yeah, that girl was new to sports. To baseball. To Jackson Jones. She was a fool. Because, from where I’m sitting now, all the romance books I’ve dedicated my life to studying have been spot on. Backwards ball caps are in a category of their own, and it is a steamy one. I swear, he does this to me on purpose.

He's carefree, laughing, and seems so very strong today. Completely in his element. And so am I.

During snack time, all the Badger Bites competitors were asked to set up tables and samples for spectators so votes could be cast on flavor, presentation, and compatibility with the team.

Though I know I had stiff competition when it came to the Banner brothers’ tater tot nachos, the fried donut holes Mrs. Holmes entered, and a frozen dipped-banana stand with everytopping you could dream of, I'm proud of my entries. The response was amazing and my table quickly ran out of samples

The winner will be announced at the end of the game, earning a two-year contract as the official snack for the Honey Hill Badgers.

Win or lose, though, I'm just plum happy.

It looks like the game is about to begin again, though the coaches still seem nonchalant on the field. A few kids practice-swing in their chalk bubbles—I'll learn what they’re called eventually—while another receives instruction from Jackson at home plate.

He kneels down at the little girl's eye level, tapping her helmet and lifting her chin with his finger. His face is stern but soft, and I know he's likely giving her an inspirational speech of some sort. The kind you see in sports movies that end in a slow clap and smack on the rear. Which, obviously wouldn't be appropriate in this case, but inspirational, nonetheless.

The little player nods enthusiastically, wrapping her arms around Jackson's neck in a tight hug, and all the women in the stands collectively swoon. I am honestly proud, and equally shocked, that I don’t take the opportunity to stand in the middle of the bleachers right now and claim my territory. I’ll plant a flag with my name on it at his feet if I need to, but when he finds me in the crowd and throws me a flirty wink, I’m feeling far too satisfied with my current state to care what anyone thinks. That’s my man. The wink and the backwards hat are just for me, ladies.

The kids begin taking their places. Maloy and Nate goof off then convince half the players to take a lap around the fence before play starts again. When someone calls his name from the other side of the fence, Jackson turns from where he’s still kneeling, giving me another glimpse of the dazzling, charming grin that drew me to him in the first place.

I catch his eye but freeze when I see the bat swing behind him. The bat that he doesn't register until my eyes widen, and I see panic flash across his face. I think I scream his name, but it’s too late. Jackson turns his head back—a defensive impulse—facing the threat head on. The sickening thud of the bat hitting his skull is the last thing I hear before he falls and my world explodes in a deafening silence.

20

CARRY YOU HOME

ALEX WARREN

JACK

The pain in my head thrums to the steady beat of a noise I can’t quite place. It’s shrill and constant, an annoyance that won’t dissipate, only adding to the dull ache in my skull. I try to speak, to reach out and throw that incessant alarm against the wall, but my mouth is dry and fuzzy and my arms feel weighed down.

“Take your time, man,” Owen says, voice calm, but edged with concern. It’s the same voice I remember waking up to years ago… or am I experiencing some kind of loopy déjà vu? “You’ve been out for a few days. Don’t rush it.”

I start to fight against the heaviness in my eyes, blink… blink… blinking as fast as they’ll allow. One feels swollen shut, which can’t be good. When the first sight I recognize are the paneled LED lights on the ceiling above and the monitor in my peripheral—the source of that beeping, now getting faster—I panic. Nausea turns my stomach, and I heave into a pan Owen sticks below my chin just in time.

I don’t know how I ended up back here, but I need to get out. My hands fumble across my body, digging at anything I can toget unstrapped from this hospital bed but finding only resistance and Owen’s stronger hands on my chest, holding me down with enough pressure to calm but not to cause injury.

“Listen to me. You have to calm down. You’re okay, Jacky.” His hand moves in a soothing circle against my sternum, and he starts the breathing exercises he’s practiced with me a hundred times before. “Breathe in and out. That’s good, bud. You got it. Mom and Dad just stepped out to get something to eat. Winnie’s at work, but she’ll be back tonight and—”

“Di… Din…” I stutter, still feeling as if my mouth is full of cotton balls.

“We basically had to force Dinah to go get some rest. She hasn’t left your side since it happened. I’ll call her right now, though. You just have to calm down for me.”

I slowly nod my head once in agreement, feeling like I might topple over at the exhaustion swooping in. I can calm down. I trysilence, solitude,andsafe,but those words haven’t been calming for me in a long time. Instead, I think about daisies, pretzels, Dinah, and the dang cat I wish I could hold to my chest right now.

Daisies. Pretzels. Dinah. Chipper. Family. Faith. Safe.

Three words simply won’t do. Not when it’s taking everything in me not to crumble under the anxiety ripping through me.

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