Page 25 of The Double Play

June’s steps quicken toward what I think is our section. I’m supposed to be leading her, but all I know is what the security guard I asked said. The large, muscular man seemed confused when I asked where home plate was. He gave a few vague directions and now we’re walking down a long series of stairs toward a giant black net.

“I see Daddy!” June yells, somehow moving too fast with her tiny legs for me to keep up .

“You’re going to pull my arm out,” I say with a laugh.

She looks up at me with wide eyes. “You candothat?”

I laugh even more. “No, sweetie, I was exaggerating. Let’s slow down a little though, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies with a sweet smile and slows just a touch.

I work to keep up with her without losing hold of her hand. There’s no way I’m letting her out of my sight with this many people here. My gut twists at the mere thought of her disappearing in the crowd.

We make it down to the bottom. I say a flurry ofexcuse usandsorryas we go to our seats.

“Remember, we’re in seats three and four,” I tell June.

She points with her hot dog at the number three seat. “Found them!”

“Good job, sweet pea,” I say as I sit down.

June settles in next to me, her feet dangling as she scoots all the way back in her seat. I tuck the bag with our water bottles beside me, the cold plastic pressing against my leg.

“You said you saw your dad?” I ask June.

“Yep, he’s throwing the ball to Mister Emerson.”

I search for a number eighteen, since I found out while showing June highlights that it was Emmett’s number. Sure enough, he’s throwing to number seven. He’s wearing his baseball hat, along with a white and green uniform that hugs his figure much tighter than I expected. On TV it’s not as noticeable, but it certainly is in person. He’s pure, sculpted muscle, every inch of him. I bite the inside of my cheek. This does not bode well for my crush situation.

Emmett turns in our direction and seems to look straight at us. He runs his fingers over the brim of his hat, then points. My heart skips, and I raise my hand up halfway to wave, but then I see June do the motion back to him and realize he wasn’t pointing atme. Of course he wasn’t, why would he do that?

I duck my head and tug at the frayed edges of my overalls, embarrassment heating my face more than the afternoon sun. What would it be like, I wonder, to be someone worth pointing out in a crowd?

“I see the mascot,” June says, pointing to a platform above where some of the players are. I lift my gaze. Sure enough, there’s a giant wolf wearing a red baseball uniform dancing around.

“Oh, look, there’s your dad’s mascot,” I say and point to the opposite side, where a puffy-looking cowboy is pretending to lasso someone in the crowd.

“Don’t tell Daddy, but I like the wolf better. His mascot looks silly.”

I laugh. “I agree, sweet pea.”

There’s something weird about the idea of a man inside a suit made tolook like a man. Whoever made the team the ‘Nashville Cowboys’ didn’t think that through.

We watch the mascots battle for the crowd’s attention. The wolf seems to win, but since we’re in the New York Wolves’ stadium, that makes sense. All around us is a sea of red and black. A few seats down is a man wearing a full-onwolf head. Little June in her green and white jersey stands out like a rose against freshly fallen snow. I, on the other hand, have failed to look supportive. I did put on a green t-shirt under my overalls. It’s not the correct shade of green, but it was all I had for this unexpected trip.

It’s not long before I’m far too warm to enjoy any of the pre-game festivities. I sigh in relief when the gamefinallystarts. Emmett winds his arm at a speed I didn’t even think was possible and throws the ball.

“Strike!” June yells with all the vigor of a warrior storming the battlefield. I let out a surprised laugh. My laughter fades, however, when the pack of wolves around us starts hurling insults. At least, Ithinkthey’re insults. My only clue is their angry tone.

“In what zip code is that considered a strike?”

“You need your eyes checked, Blue!”

“He couldn’t have hit that with a ten-foot pole!”

In spite of the sweltering heat, I instinctively wrap an arm around June. She seems unaffected, but all this anger is disconcerting. I’m used to watching football games surrounded by the Lawson family in their private box. They get heated, sure, but not to this level.

Hopefully, it won’t be long until halftime. June and I can go seek refuge in the shaded tunnel away from angry fans. Maybe find some ice cream.

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