MEG
 
 We’re down tothe final out of the game. Krew’s on the mound pitching, and the bases are loaded. From what I understand, if the Hitmen get a hit—which is literally their name—they’ll win the game. I'm so nervous I can't sit still. I don't know how moms do this all the time. At this point, the game probably means more to me than it does to the kids.
 
 Tyler asks for a time-out from the umpire and walks to the pitching mound. He bends down, hands on his knees, and says something to Krew that makes him laugh. They both turn their heads and look at me with huge smiles on their faces. I have the feeling that whatever Tyler said had nothing to do with baseball and everything to do with me. He taps the tip of Krew’s hat and walks back to the dugout.
 
 Krew throws the first pitch.
 
 Ball one.
 
 Ball two.
 
 I cup my hands around my mouth. “Let's go, Krew! You’ve got this.”
 
 Strike one.
 
 Strike two.
 
 Ball three.
 
 It’s a full count, and I'm dying. Krew lifts his knee. His body lunges forward, and he releases the last pitch. The batter hits the ball, a grounder to the second baseman. I hold my breath in anticipation as Zander scoops up the ball and tosses it to Noah at first base. The umpire calls the runner out…
 
 And the Stealers win.
 
 Everyone is cheering. Heck, I'm standing, jumping up and down with Hillary like a maniac. I don't even recognize myself right now. The entire team rushes to the mound where Krew is, and I'm so happy I actually have tears in my eyes.
 
 Then Tyler looks at me.
 
 Me.
 
 His lips move into a huge smile, and he pumps his fist. I give him a thumbs up. There's probably something cooler than two thumbs up, but I’m new at this.
 
 He said there were two types of coaches, and the fact that he looked at me before celebrating tells me a lot. He joins his team on the field, lifting Krew onto his shoulder.
 
 And that's the moment I become addicted to Little League Baseball.
 
 * * *
 
 The boys are huddledup after the game, listening to Tyler while all the parents wait patiently to take them home.
 
 “Ms. Johnson,” Beverly Ulrich says. She’s dressed in black yoga pants, a black sports bra, and a pink athletic jacket. The front zipper of her jacket is zipped to just below her chest, leaving a perfect view of her perky cleavage. “I had no clue you’d be at the game today.”
 
 “Noah and the boys asked if I would come and watch,” I explain. “I like to go to as many events of my students’ as I can.”
 
 “That’s nice of you.”
 
 “I didn’t see you during the game,” I say. “Were you sitting in the outfield?”
 
 She points to the bleachers. “No. I was actually sitting behind you.”
 
 I panic.
 
 My mind races through the entire game, to every moment when Tyler smiled at me, or he came over between innings and talked to me. If Bev is looking for things to gossip about, I gave her plenty to work with.
 
 “And did I see you climb out of Tyler’s car?”
 
 Oh, no.
 
 “Krew begged me to ride with them, and it’s kind of a hard field to find.”