Page 133 of Hot Shot

My brows quirk in confusion. “You don’t?”

Her face is pure determination, though her cheeks are smudged with color. “No. I don’t want to let my team down.”

My chest aches. “I know, bug. Are you sure?”

She nods once, her lips set. “You said to keep doing the right thing and everybody would see it and believe me. So if I play her and don’t be mean, everybody will see that I’m not mean. I’m not scared of her. I can do it.”

“I know you can.” I pull her into a hug and squeeze like I’m squeezing my own heart. “I’m proud of you. No matter what, I’m proud of you. And if you want to go, just tell me. Maybe we could make a code word.”

When I let her go, she steps back, thinking. “What about…pancakes?”

“Got it. You ready?”

Another nod.

“Then let’s go.”

And then I follow her back into the dugout for the longest hour and fifteen minutes of my life.

One issue is the distraction of Cricket herself. I find myself constantly watching her for signs that she’s upset, but she seems to work hard not to look at the other dugout, despite the mean, disruptive chants they scream at the top of their lungs.

Honestly, the girl’s dad is worse. I don’t know his name, but I decide it’s Chad when he sets up camp behind home plate to overcoach his kid. When she moves to her position at third, there he is at the fence, yelling orders at her over her coaches, who seem to fucking hate him. Four times, he gets into arguments with the ump.

Thanks to a grand slam from my baby girl, we take the lead in the last inning. She cracks a line drive past third base that none of them can get a hold of, and when she crosses home, all twelve girls scream at the absolute top of their range. They’re jumping and laughing, the cutest hysterical children I’ve ever seen.

This makes the bully’s dadbigmad. All of a sudden, he’s at the fence behind home plate, red faced and barking at the ump. When the game clock runs out and we’re still on top by a run, he flips his shit.

He charges through the gate and onto the field, beelining for the ump. I’m too far away to make out what he’s saying, but I heargrand slam, foul,andcheating, but it’s not until I hear Davenport that I full on frown. The kids are starting to notice, their celebrations dying down and eyes on the adult having a tantrum over a 7U game. His wife snaps at him, but he ignoresher. Cricket’s bully is crying furious tears from the dugout, burning holes in Cricket from across the field.

I glance at Cass and jerk my chin in Cricket’s direction, and she nods, hurrying onto the field with a cheerful smile to herd the kids away and get Cricket to her grandparents so they can get her out of here. Remy, Tate, and Grey are watching closely near the dugout. With a deep breath, I stride in their direction in the hopes I can defuse whatever’s going on.

Should have stayed out of it.

When the guy looks at me, he’s out of his mind pissed. His gaze snaps back to the ump. “That ball was foul—Avery didn’t even go for it because it wasso obvious.”

“Listen, mister—” the tired old ump starts with a sigh.

Ragedad takes a step, jamming his finger in the ump’s face. “No,youlisten—I’ll have your fucking job for this.”

A spark of rage flames in my chest, and like an idiot, I get between them. “Now, hold on a minute, man?—”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” he scoffs.

My brows drop, my eyes narrowing and voice low. “Dude, come on. Let’s just take a minute, okay? The kids are seven. It’s not that deep.”

“My point,” he says between his teeth, “is that we don’t lose, especially not to some shitty rec team. What’d you do, pay off the ump?”

I make a face. “Seriously? Why would I do that?”

“Maybe you want to embarrass us, since your kid embarrassed you by assaulting Avery.”

“Whoa, man. First of all, I’m a hundred percent sure my kid had nothing to do with yours whacking her hair off in the bathroom. Secondly, I’m not in the business of embarrassing little girls.” I wave my hands. “No. This is crazy. Come on—let’s let the ump go home, and if you and I need to talk this out, let’s do it somewhere a little more private.”

When I reach out to clasp his shoulder, he swats at my hand. “This is bullshit,” he spits, looking between me and the ump. “You must haveletthem win because Davenport played for the Dodgers. I swear, everybody in this town acts like he’s God when the truth is that he’s just some washed up has-been with a bullying, bastard kid?—”

Oh my God, I am so fucking pissed. “That’s enough,” I command, reaching for his shoulder again, but he doesn’t bat me away.

This time, he swings.

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