“Really,” I say. “Except maybe Wes. That guy can take a hike.”
Her laugh is so throaty, I want to pull over and kiss her. She runs a finger over the back of my hand, tickling it. “I don’t know. Him sleeping on the couch isn’t theworstthing that ever happened.”
The sensation from her tickling my hand travels up my arm and through my body. It’s not like I forgot she and I don’t share a bed, but waking up with her was the most natural thing in the world.
I’m finally sharing a bed with my wife because of her twerp brother.
“Fine. Wes can stay.”
She laughs.
“Permanently.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
KAYLA
I’m still riding the emotional high from the baby shower when my family shows up at the stadium a few hours later. It’s the second inning, and we’re already leading three–zero. Since Fletch moved Lucas to starting pitcher last month, we’re on a tear, as Sean says—more strikeouts, fewer walks, actual momentum.
Attendance is up, too, and not just because it’s Sunday afternoon. It’s been trending up since the wedding, and I know I have Sean to thank for that. He thinks it’s just a passing fad thanks to his NHL debut. But I know it’s simply him. The Blue Collars and those of them with families come to games now. More of the people from church, too (including Clementine on the organ). People are giving me the benefit of the doubt because I married the best man any of them know.
Including me.
I hug his arm as we walk from my office down the main concourse to the Owner’s Seats right behind home plate—premium field-level seating that puts us in the middle of everything. I typically let the coaching staff or player’s families use my seats, but today, they’re all mine.
I love watching from the Owner’s Box, but there’s something about being in the stands. The stickiness of the concrete underfoot and crunch of peanut shells. The smell of kettle corn, sunscreen, and grass. Calls of vendors selling lemonade and sweet tea. It feels like being part of something.
My brothers are standing on top of the home dugout, Hunter still in the hot pink McLadyPants shirt Tripp loaned him.
I groan and sit beside my mom. “Who gave Hunter a T-shirt cannon?”
“Oh, he brought that with him,” she says with a sigh.
Sean lets out a laugh—a sharp burst that earns him twin looks from both of us.
“Please don’t encourage him,” Mom says, only mostly joking.
“What T-shirts is he even shooting?” I ask, shielding my eyes to squint at him.
“I wish I could tell you,” she says. “He said it was ‘sponsored content.’ I didn’t have the courage for follow-up questions.”
On the field, Lucas winds up and delivers a pitch that zips across the plate. Rivers catches it with a solid thwack.
“Ball one!” the ump calls.
I throw my hands out. “Are you kidding me? That was dead center!”
Sean grimaces. “It was high.”
“Okay, maybe it clipped the top of the zone.”
Sean points to a little graphic on the scoreboard near first base. It shows a big square, the strike zone, and a tiny red dot just above it.
“The dot says it was too high,” he says. “Means the ump got it right.”
I huff. “Barely.”
“Only you could argue with a robo-ump,” he says, grinning.
