Page 58 of One Hot Daddy

I'm not the only one who gasped as Errol's feet left the ground.The man seems to hang midair for an impossible moment before crashing back to earth with a triumphant shout.Fletcher stares at him with wide eyes, and I can practically read his thoughts:Am I supposed to do that?

"Is that...normal?"I ask weakly, clutching my lemonade like it might protect me from witnessing my husband's attempt to perform similar acrobatics.

Rae pats my arm reassuringly."That's just Errol showing off.Most of these men haven't played properly in years.They're just here to have fun and relive their glory days."

"Errol always was the dramatic one," Chelsea adds with a fond eye roll."Emery says he was crazy like that.All flash, no subtlety, but plenty of heart."

I watch as Fletcher takes his position at the crease, his posture shifting into something more confident, more familiar.Despite his years away from the game, there's muscle memory at work.He squares his shoulders, plants his feet just so, and raises the bat with a fluid motion.

"Look at that stance," Chelsea murmurs appreciatively beside me."Your husband hasn't forgotten a thing."

The bowler---I think it's Chance Dixon---charges forward with surprising speed for a man his age.The ball flies from his hand in a blur of red.My heart leaps into my throat as it hurtles toward Fletcher.

Then---crack!---the sweet sound of bat meeting ball echoes across the field.Fletcher connects with a powerful swing that sends the ball soaring.The men whoop and holler as he takes off running.

"Go, Fletcher!"I shout, leaping out my chair to whistle and wave my arms in the air.

Yeah, I think my hubby will do just fine tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Fletcher

On this warm and lovely day in Millbrook Valley, Nebraska, the apocalypse has finally arrived.I expect to see demons pouring out of the heavens at any moment.Maybe I had performed reasonably well on the pitch yesterday, but that was a practice game.The shot of Thane's whisky those tossers gave me yesterday has worn off this afternoon.Dominic suggested I should try another swig of that elixir, but I declined.If I'm going to die today, I might as well be sober.

The players for this match have jogged onto the field.All except me, that is.

Dominic slaps my arm as he hurries past me."Time to crush the competition, eh, Fletch?"

"Are you out of your mind, you demented bastard?"

Errol Murdoch halts beside me, grinning."Dinnae fash, mate.You've got the fire starter on your side, not to mention Damian the fortune teller and all three Dixon laddies.We cannae lose!"

If you say so, you raging lunatic.

I do like Errol, but his manner of playing cricket is...unusual, to say the least.

The moment I've reached my position on the pitch, I begin to sweat.The sun blazes down on us, and I wonder if I can fake a sudden bout of food poisoning to escape this ordeal.Jennifer waves from the sidelines, surrounded by the American Wives Club.Even from here, I can see the encouraging smile on her face.I'd hate to disappoint my bride by making a complete arse of myself.

"All right there, Murgatroyd?"Declan shouts from across the field while tossing a cricket ball from hand to hand with infuriating ease."You look like you're about to faint."

"Sod off, you wanker.I'm bloody fantastic," I lie, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand."I'm contemplating your team's imminent defeat."

At the periphery of the pitch, I see my family.Henry jumps up and down shouting, "My dad's going to win!Nobody else can beat him!"

I can't resist grinning and chuckling at my youngest son's enthusiasm.What if I let my family down by cocking up this match?No, I could never do that.I'll win this death match for my children.

"Get ready, gentlemen," shouts the umpire, Dane Dixon, who volunteered for duty and seems far too calm about the whole affair.Cricket can be hazardous, after all."Let's have a proper, gentlemanly match!"

"Since when is cricket gentlemanly?"Damian Petrescu hollers while smirking.

I ignore him and take my position at the crease, gripping Declan's borrowed bat like it's a life preserver.We're on opposite teams, yet he made sure I had a good bat.The weight feels foreign in my hands despite yesterday's practice.My palms are slick with sweat too, and every pair of eyes on the field remains focused on me.

Rory MacTaggart takes the ball for the opposing team, rolling it between his massive hands with the casual confidence of a man who played at university level---but I've heard he never played the sport until recently.The Scot is built like a bloody tree trunk, all shoulders and arms that could probably launch a cricket ball into orbit.

I swallow hard as Rory settles into his bowling position.When he begins his run-up, I swear the ground trembles beneath my feet.

"You've got this, Fletcher!"Jennifer's voice cuts through the havoc of my thoughts."Massacre the enemy, baby!I want that grass to turn red!"