Page 68 of Hot Shot

“Nothing! That was the last one!” She’s bouncing and holding her pencil and paper in the air.

“You’re free!” Cass says. “Go put it in your backpack so you don’t forget it.”

“Okay,” Cricket answers and slides off the stool—I hop up to help her, worried she’ll fall.

She doesn’t need my help any more than Cass does. But I’m realizing just how hard it is to have a piece of myself walking around in the world where I can’t always save them from what might hurt them.

“Hey,” I start, “wanna play catch while we wait for dinner?”

Cricket’s grin is snaggletoothed and wide. “Yeah!” The kid is a walking exclamation point sometimes, and the sight fills me with relief and pride as she runs off to her room where her backpack is.

That’s another thing. She runs everywhere. It’s bananas.

Cass chuckles at the cutting board, using the knife to transfer celery bits to the pot. “What’d you do all day?”

“I’m working on building a batting cage in the back for Cricket.”

She pauses and looks at me, that sass smile on her face. “For Cricket or for you?”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“She’s in tee ball?—”

“Coach pitch,” I correct.

“Coach pitch,” she repeats. “Whatever, just please don’t knock her out with a pitching machine, okay? I’ll never forgive you if you do.”

“I won’t.”

She shakes her head. “Batting cage. So extra.”

“My kid wants to play ball, my kid is gonna play ball.”

“What all did you get her?”

“Pitch back, tee ball stuff, a couple of swing trainers. Bat, helmet. I got her a glove too. “Look.”

It’s near the back door, and I show Cass the little orange Rawlings glove I’d been breaking in since I learned she wanted to play. It’s oiled and molded, been under my mattress with a ball in it for a week. The palm is curved perfectly, the mitt bending easily.

“Oh my God, it’s so tiny,” she coos, taking it from me. Her eyes go all soft. “You broke it in for her and everything.”

“‘Course I did. I’m not an animal, Cassidy.”

One of her brows arches and she wobbles her head like it’s debatable. The slap of Cricket’s feet interrupts us.

“Okay, I’m ready!” she says.

Cass hands me the glove, and I turn for the door, opening my free hand near Cricket without thinking. Her little hand fills mine, and I don’t think she thought about it either.

My fuzzy heart feels like it might explode into confetti.

It’s warm out, but the side yard is shady, so that’s where we head. I snag a baseball on the way, stopping her under a tree. I put maybe ten feet between us.

“All right. Just watch the ball and put your glove where you think it’s going.”

She nods, crouching down a little, at the ready. Her face screws up like when she was doing her math. “Ready.”

I’m deliberate with my movement as I underhand toss the ball to her. Her eyes follow the arc, widening as she holds her glove out and the ball lands with a smack in her palm.

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