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“Nervous?” Willa bumps my hip, coming to stand beside me with Briar on her hip. Archer’s sitting between his boys with Clem standing between his knees as he patiently explains to my new niece what Uncle Devy is doing.
Gosh, sharing this day with these kids… I sniff the sentimental tears back. “Ridiculously so,” I admit. “He’s second in the batting order, Will.”
“Because he’s fast and has a good eye. He earned that spot, Nov. He was born for this.”
The leadoff hitter strikes out, and Devin saunters to home plate to the fanfare of our families, the sold-out crowd, and Bad Blood by Taylor Swift.
Willa shoots me a questioning look, and I laugh. “I may have made him listen to her entire discography during our road trip.”
“So I’ve been told.” She shakes her head. “That man loves you.”
“That man is whipped.” Crew calls from his seat behind Archer, making him the second family member to earn a swat to the back of his head from Aunt Amber today.
A freight train settles where my heart resides as Devin goes through the pre-batting routine I became so familiar with over his two months of play last season. He tugs on his gloves, tightens the velcro at his wrists, stomps his cleats in the batter’s box, and swirls and taps his hand over the ink on his forearm twice as he eases into position over the plate. The camera zooms in, filling the Jumbotron with his handsome face, and I smile at his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he waggles his bat over his right shoulder.
The pitcher winds up, releases, andCRACK!
Yeah, Devin Hawthorne was born for this.
the end
