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“You’re really adorable, you know that?” I tell her.
“That’s sweet,” she says. She’s still not looking at me. “Now get back in the game. Hustle. Move it. Go.” She finally looks me in the eye. “Don’t make me come out there.”
“Behave!” I tell her.
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“Make me!” she taunts. She leans her forehead against the fence so she can glare even harder at me. Then she grins and it’s so damn cute that I can’t help but laugh.
“I tried, Ump,” I tell the umpire as I jog back to first base.
One more out, and it’s our turn at bat.
I swing, and get a strike on the first ball. “Your last name should be Straw, Shepherd,” Wren calls. “You suck!”
I point the end of the bat at her and stare down the length of it with one eye closed, like I’m setting her in my sights. “You’re going to be in serious trouble, Miss Vasquez,” I warn.
She points to her chest. “Who, me? If you had the potential to actually swing and hit something, I might be worried.”
I widen my stance, and wait. My bat makes contact with the ball with a loud thwack and I pull my cap off my head so I can watch the ball fly over the fence. I run the bases, and when I get back to the dugout, I find Wren standing there. She jumps up and down and then, suddenly, she leaps into my arms and wraps her legs around my waist.
I freeze. She pulls back, but I have her ass in my hands and she’s hitched up around my waist. “Wow,” I remark. “That’s all I had to do to get your legs wrapped around me?” I chase her lips with mine, but she’s already leaning away.
“Sorry, I got really excited.” Her voice is suddenly quiet.
“I could tell.”
“This is awkward.” She lowers her legs from around my waist. “Nice hit,” she says, and she pats my shoulder.
She runs back to her spot by the fence and resumes her cat-calling.
I don’t hit another home run, so she doesn’t jump in my arms again. But she’s there the whole time, and she’s having so damn much fun that I can’t even scold her.
When the game is over, a guy in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt arrives with pizzas, sodas, and beer. “What’s this?” the boss asks.
“A snack,” Wren says as she takes a piece of pizza from the box and lifts it to her mouth. “Go ahead,” she says around a hot bite. “I got it for the team.” She swallows and turns around. “Hey, Ump!” she calls out. The umpire turns to face her. “Want some pizza?”
He grins and comes over to eat with us. Wren climbs up on the top of a picnic table and sits down. Her delivery guy hands her a lime soda, and she takes it from him. He sits down at the edge of the group and tries to look like he belongs. “Don’t mind him,” she says. “He’s with me.”
“Anybody with you, Wren, can stay,” my boss croons as he pulls her baseball cap from her head and ruffles her hair. Her security guard jumps to his feet, but she quickly quells him with a look. He sits back down, but he watches her closely.
I climb up onto the table and sit down next to her. “Thank you for the pizza,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugs. “Your team put up with me.”
“Barely.” I laugh.
She winces. “I forgot to tell you how much I love baseball.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.” I nudge her shoulder with mine.
Her face colors. “Our dad used to take me and Star to all of Tag’s games when we were little. And then when we got old enough, we played too. Well, we did until…you know.”
“Your birth parents died in a car accident, right?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Did you play any after they died?”
