“Yes, you are.” Leighton pats her knee.
“She’s never had a baby.” Callie looks at me. “Tell me the truth, Penelope.”
“You’ve probably got about a year,” I answer truthfully. “But who cares? You look amazing.”
“I’ll be pregnant again by then if Foster has his way.”
Leighton’s head whips around, and I inch out to meet her gaze.
“What did you say, Callie?” her mom asks from down the row. Ellis is strapped to her chest with her little headphones on.
“Nothing, Mom.”
“I think she said more babies, right?” Mrs. Carlisle’s eyes glisten with excitement.
“I don’t listen to them anymore,” Lake says in a typical annoyed teenage girl voice. “I don’t know why I have to come to every game. I love Hayes, but come on, I have a life too.”
I smile to myself, remembering those days, although I never minded coming to my dad’s games. Then again, the guys were usually close in age to me, so it had its upside.
We’re already up one run, which is good. Hazel and Monroe play with their Boston terriers as if they’re fighting while Lincoln chats with Callie’s dad.
The guys take the field, and on the way, the Jumbotron zeros in on Decker jogging to third base.
The announcer’s voice rings throughout the stadium. “Ladies and gentlemen, can I please have your attention on the Jumbotron? The Colts organization would like to formally apologize to anyone who just spilled their beer. Yes, that’s our third baseman, Decker Davis, the new face of Noir Cologne, and frankly, we’re not sure the stadium is big enough for this billboard. Noir Cologne. Available everywhere. Decker Davis, unfortunately, is not.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Carlisle says.
“Relax, Jennifer, he’s the same age as your son,” Mr. Carlisle says.
“Seriously? That’s our Decker?” Callie leans forward and squints.
“How do they make him look so sexy in jeans and a white tank?” Leighton pretends to fan herself.
“It’s the bare feet,” a woman in the row behind us says. “There’s something sexy about bare feet.”
“Not all bare feet,” Mrs. Carlisle says. “Wait forty years, and you won’t be saying that.”
“Are you suggesting my feet aren’t sexy?” Mr. Carlisle asks.
“This is so embarrassing,” Lake says, covering her face and lowering in her seat.
“Never, you have beautiful feet,” Mrs. Carlisle says. “They’re just more distinguished.”
Mr. Carlisle leans over and looks at Lake. “Her nice way of saying she doesn’t like my feet.”
“Close your mouth,” Leighton whispers in my ear, and I straighten.
“It’s the way his hand is on his lip, the other one pressed down at his side so his muscles are all flexing,” the woman behind us keeps going.
“And his hair. That shaggy kind of unkempt look,” her friend chimes in.
“I can think of another word besides unkempt,” the woman says.
Meanwhile all I can think about is how I want to climb off these bleachers, scale the fence, run over to him on third base, and offer myself up to him.
“You getting hot over here?” Callie says softly.
“I’m fine.” I set down my water. “It’s a good billboard. He looks good.”
