My stomach does a weird little flip. It’s good news that a team is interested in him, right? That means his dream of coming out of retirement is one step closer.
But Nashville? Uprooting our entire lives to move to a city where I have no friends, no family, no connections? And more importantly . . . no childcare help? That thought is terrifying. I’ll have four kids soon. Researching new schools, pediatricians, ob-gyn . . . all of it.
Anxiety settles into my chest, making my heart beat faster.
“Becca?” Owen says, his voice closer now.
“That’s great,” I hear myself say, but my voice sounds far away in my own ears, like I’ve lost another piece of myself.
Too many more of them, and I fear there will be nothing left of me.
2
* * *
OWEN
“You ready, Barnsley?”
Kyle Barnsley is a freckle-faced kid with a bad attitude who would much rather be playing Minecraft at home than Little League at the park. He glares at me like I asked him to eat dirt.
Awesome. We’re off to a fantastic start.
It’s our last game of the season, and I’m thankful for that. When I volunteered to coach, I had no idea what a time commitment this would turn out to be.
I turn the baseball in my hand as I get into position to lob it less than ten feet toward Barnsley’s outstretched bat. In moments like these, I have to remind myself that some people aren’t cut out for team sports. But then I remember that these people are five- and six-year-old children. They aren’t cut out for much at all yet.
“Lift your elbows, kid.”
It’s a lost cause. Kyle lifts his arms way too far over his head, and the weight of the bat tumbles him backward. Soon, he’s flat on his ass, crying wet tears all over his freckled face.
“It’s okay, man. You’ll get it next time.”
I nod to Jordie, my catcher for the day. Normally, Grant is my assistant coach, with one of his own kids on the coed team. But he took the weekend off to celebrate his anniversary with Ana a month early in upstate New York, hiring a nanny to take care of their kids.
Becca and I really gotta do that. We’re due for a vacation. Somewhere with a warm beach and a great view and no rush to get out of bed. Christ, what I would give to spend the day in bed with Becca. But that means we’d need to find a nanny, and fuck if I know where to even start with that. Plus, the twins are probably too young to part with at this point.
There goes that thought.
“These kids suck, dude,” Jordie grumbles with zero remorse after helping Barnsley up and shooing him back to the dugout.
With a stern look, I say, “Watch your attitude around the kids.”
He rolls his eyes, still very much the rookie in his maturity level. “Whatever. Lemme pitch or I’m gonna die of boredom.”
“Isn’t Harper here?”
Nonchalant, he shrugs like I don’t know how head over heels he is for his wife.
I glance over at the bleachers, catching Becca’s eye. She waves to me with a weak smile on her face.
Ever since I told her about Nashville, she’s been distant. And for Becca—sweet, brave, love-of-my-life Becca—that’s out of character, and I’ve felt a weird sense of dread ever since. I don’t like her being distant. She’s always been my biggest cheerleader, my most vocal supporter. We need to find the time to have an actual conversation.
“Be nice,” I say firmly, tossing the ball to Jordie as I turn toward the bleachers. “Fisher, you’re up! Parrish, you’re on deck.”
Bishop is tucked away in the shadowy dugout, but my kid’s face lights up like a damn beacon at the sound of our last name.
He rushes toward me, latching onto my leg. “I want you to pitch!”
“I will, bud. I’ll be right back.”
I ruffle his dark hair before carefully detaching his strong little hands from my leg. This kid is a force of nature, even at six years old. He’d be a killer goalie, I think, grinning at the thought.
Now, where the hell are my other kids?
Becca had dressed them in matching yellow onesies and blue coats this morning when I came home from my workout—our team’s colors. A quick scan of the bleachers reveals that Elise has one of the twins in her lap, and Justin is carrying the other, fast asleep on his shoulder.
Elise has been an amazing aunt, filling the role naturally with her big heart and her background as a preschool teacher. I always think that I know Justin better than anyone—he’s my best friend, after all—but it still surprises me how good he is with kids. After that one chick from bumfuck nowhere tricked him into thinking he was a dad, I assumed Justin would be scarred for life. But no, he’s totally comfortable with kids, great even. They’re holding off on having offspring of their own, which I respect. It’s hard work.
I jog the rest of the way and sit next to Becca, cracking open a bottle of water from the cooler at her feet. She has a cup of tea hanging limply in her hands while she zones out, staring at the diamond with an empty expression.
“Earth to Becs. You doing okay?” I ask, nudging her knee with mine.
“Yeah,” she says quickly. “You?”
I nod. “Just needed a break. Jordie’s good with the kids.”
We watch Jordie face-palm as the Fisher kid tries to swing the bat like it’s a golf club.
“You think?” Harper says, sounding a little skeptical from where she’s sitting on the other side of Becca.
I don’t blame her. Jordie isn’t the most mature of our group. But maybe I’m wrong. Harper and Jordie have been going strong for years now, and I’m sure she knows him better than I do.
Still, the frown on her face gives me pause. Is something up between the two of them? Guess that’s something I’ll have to investigate later.
“Good enough for Little League,” Becca says, and we all chuckle at that.
Soon, Bishop is up, kicking the plate dejectedly and staring back at us on the bleachers as Jordie tries to coax him into swinging.
“That’s my cue.” I drop a kiss on Becca’s head before I head back down.
“I want Daddy,” Bishop whines to Jordie, who forces a grin.
“Of course you do. He’s the Little League expert, after all. A decade of professional hockey is basically the same thing on a résumé.”
“What’s a rezz-you-may?”
I pat Jordie on the shoulder and give him a look that says, Thanks, but fuck off. And fuck off he does, tossing me the ball and grumbling to himself. Someone’s got his panties in a twist.
“You ready, bud?” I give my little guy a smile.
Bishop nods enthusiastically, his face set in the familiar determination of a Parrish at work.
Man, I love this kid.
The first pitch results in a swing and a miss, but that doesn’t distract Bishop from the task at hand. I give him a proud grin. It’s hard not playing favorites when your son is so damn cool.
“All right, buddy, you got this one. Bend your knees. Just like we practiced.”
A simple adjustment later and Bishop taps the bat against the airborne ball, sending it wobbling toward third base like the champ he is. He looks up at me from under his loose baseball cap with a wide, toothy grin.