Page 9 of The Umpire Strikes Back

I’m perched on a rickety stool in the locker room’s tiny umpire prep area, struggling to re-tie my ponytail for the third time. My hands are shaking, which I keep telling myself is purely from the leftover adrenaline of last night. My Google obsession. I now know everything there is to know about Ripley ‘Riptide’ Johnson.

I glance at my phone propped up against a bottle of sports drink. Bristol’s face fills the screen, half of it obscured by a neon-pink scrunchie in her hair.

“I don’t get it,” she says, pushing the scrunchie aside so I can see her skeptical expression. “Why are you so nervous? You’re an ump, you do this all the time. Just call the game and move on.”

I blow out a breath, reaching for a fresh hair tie. “That’s the problem. Iusuallydo this all the time, no issue. But now… Ripley’s going to be on that field. Last time we saw each other, we nearly came to blows.”

Bristol snorts. “You mean he nearly came to blows, and you casually reminded him you have all the power with your rulebook.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not helping.”

“Look,” she says more gently, “you just gotta do your job, same as always. Don’t overthink it. So he’s got pretty eyes and a killer smile—whatever.”

I flinch. “Bristol!”

“Hey, you said it yourself, he’s easy on the eyes,” she teases, waggling her eyebrows. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Ugh.” I rub my temples, feeling a headache threatening. “I gotta go. The game starts soon, and I still need to finish getting my gear together. Thanks for the pep talk… I think?”

She laughs. “Anytime, sis. Go knock ‘em dead.”

I hang up and stuff my phone into my bag. Within minutes, I’m suited up and heading out into the corridor. The din of the crowd grows louder with each step, that familiar mix of cheers, popcorn smells, and restless energy that I usually love. Except today, my stomach is doing an Olympic-level gymnastics routine.

Once I’m on the field, my mask in hand, I do my usual routine—check the baselines, nod to the other umps, confirm the lineup cards. But all I can think about is Ripley “Riptide” Johnson. He just looks so darn good strutting around the pitcher’s mound. When the game finally starts, I’m hyperaware of every move he makes.

During the top of the second, he’s on the pitcher’s mound. From behind the plate, I can see the set of his shoulders, the way his uniform fits just right, and…Kali, focus.I should be watching the batter, but I find my eyes drifting to his stance, his posture, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. A crack of the bat jolts me back to reality, and I nearly flinch before I call “Foul!”

The rest of the game goes by in a blur of baseballs, dusty cleats, and shouted signals. Every time I make a call, I half-expect him to glare at me like he did the other day. But he keeps it civil, which somehow makes my nerves buzz even more. Is he ignoring me on purpose, or is he just being professional?

By the eighth inning, I’m fairly certain we’re both on autopilot. The tension sizzles, though, like an invisible current between us. When the final out is called, the crowd roars their approval—another win for his team. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and prepare to hand off my umpire gear for cleaning.

But before I can slip away, I hear a small voice calling my name: “Kali! Coach Kali!”

I turn to see Juniper darting across the grass with a huge grin on her face, her blonde curls bouncing in the late afternoon sun. Ripley’s a few steps behind her, trying to catch up, but it’s clear Juniper is on a mission. My heart does a strange little twist at the sight of her beaming at me.

“You were so cool, Kali!” she exclaims, skidding to a stop in front of me. “I saw you calling strikes and outs and everything! Will you be here for every game?”

I glance up at Ripley, who stands there with his arms folded, a bemused look on his face. I force a light laugh. “Well, yes, I’m the umpire, so I’ll be around.”

“Good!” Juniper says eagerly. She casts a quick look up at her dad, then back at me. “Hey, want to come to our house for dinner? Daddy’s making tacos or something. I told Daddy you loveStar Warstoo.”

My jaw drops for a split second. I was not expecting that. “Oh, Juniper, that’s really sweet, but?—”

Ripley straightens, clearing his throat. “Junebug, maybe Kali has other plans?—”

“But Dad,” Juniper whines softly, “she’s nice. And she’s my coach. And I want her to see how I practice at home.”

A wave of heat rushes into my face. I open my mouth to politely decline again, but her eyes are so pleading, and there’s a part of me—much bigger than I’d like to admit—that wants to say yes. Then Ripley surprises me by shrugging, a faint challenge in his eyes.

“Yeah, maybe she should come,” he says, his tone half-wary, half-inviting. “You know, if you’re not busy.”

I sputter. “I—um—I don’t want to impose.”

Juniper claps her hands. “Yay! She said yes!”

I blink. “Actually, I—” But by now, both Johnsons are looking at me with an odd combination of expectation and reluctance, and I find myself swallowing a thousand objections. “All right. Fine. But I need to run home first to change. And please, only if you’re sure.”

“Sure,” Ripley says, a slight curve to his mouth that might be a grin. “We’re pretty sure.”

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