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Don’t know about that, but I sink back on my haunches again, explaining the difference between a two- and four-seam grip and how it changes the rotation of the ball. I help them learn how to use the different grips and practice how to position their arms to throw. Then I jog a few paces away and ask them to throw.

Gabriella’s throw hits my glove, but I give her a couple pointers for the next time before directing Noah to give it a shot.

He fires one hard enough that I stagger back in surprise when I catch it.

“You’ve got a rocket on ya,” I tell him after another few rounds of practice for both of them. “You pitch?”

He nods. “I’d like to.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“And you play travel ball?”

“First year.”

“You like it?”

He smiles so brightly, it almost pains me. “I love it.”

“Keep up the good work.”

He immediately swings around and waves his arm for someone’s attention. “Mom! Mom!”

Lots of heads pop up, assuming they’re being called. But only one woman stands up from her seat. A petite thing with a booming voice. “Yeah?”

“Austin said I have a rocket on me!”

The woman raises her arms, dancing a little in place. “Woo-hoo!” Which singles her out, and Flash makes his way over to her. He takes her hand and leads her down to the dirt, where they dance to “Motownphilly” by Boyz II Men.

It’s captured by a camera, casting it onto the massive screen at the back of the field.

I cross my arms, glued to the video of this rhythmless woman with her shoulder-length red hair pulled back into low pigtails on either side of her head under a backward baseball cap. She wears shorts and Chuck Taylors on her feet, appearing barely old enough to have a child, let alone a ten-year-old. “That’s your mom?”

Noah laughs when she tries to moonwalk like Flash. “Yep.”

Then Flash does a cartwheel, inviting her to follow. She does and lands right on her ass, which makes her toss her head back and let out the loudest laugh I’ve heard in my life. Like a witch’s cackle.

It’s adorably weird.

The dimple in her cheek? Even cuter.

She radiates sunshine and joy, and it speaks to the darkest, most cynical parts of me, knocking loose a deeply buried desire inside me to shed all the responsibility and disappointment for wonder and…smile. To be more like her. To laugh and enjoy everything around me.

And when she stands up, dusting off the dirt and grass from her legs and butt, she turns, revealing the name and number on the back of her jersey.

Ashwood.

14.

My name.

My number.

Mine.

CHAPTER 2