“Oh!” I drop my phone on the desk with a clatter. “Hi. Hello there. Hi Silas!”
He comes running around my desk andlaunches himself at me with the confidence of a thirty-pound wrecking ball who knows he’s going to be caught by his target.
Laughing, I pull him into my lap before glancing at his parents in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Sinclaire winks at me, so like her father in that moment that my heart squeezes. “We wondered if you wanted to sit with us for the game.”
“Oh, I…” I glance at my phone, where a video clip of Jeff is playing on repeat. “I have work to do.”
Trick frowns. “Watching the game is your work.”
“I mean, I have other—” I cut myself off. Because itcanbe work. I had questions for Christine, I could have questions for Trick too. “You wouldn’t mind?”
He glances at Sinclaire with such fondness, such adoration and longing and desire, that I’m pretty sure I’m seeing the answer to my internet query come to life.
Some crushes last forever.
The best ones do.
I’m sitting in the family section, two rows behind home plate, with Sinclaire on my left and Trick on my right with a very squirmy Silas on his lap.
Down on the field, Jeff is pacingalong the third base line with Christine, deep in conversation about something that has him frowning. But then, as if he can sense us watching, his eyes cut across the space and find mine.
The frown disappears.
His whole face softens. His eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s just a brief moment of connection before he slides his attention to his grandson and waves. Silas loves that, giggling and waving back.
Jeff drags his attention back to my face, holding my gaze until I smile and wave as well, which puts a tender warmth in his expression that I love so much it makes my throat tight. The noise of the stadium fades. The thousands of people around us disappear. It’s just him and me, and the love I feel is so, so big.
Then the pitching coach says something, and Coach’s focus snaps back, all business again. I love that intensity on his face too.
Sinclaire leans in and murmurs, “You two are disgustingly cute.”
“Shhh.” But I can’t tear my eyes away from my husband. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “It’s nice. Dad deserves this.”
“I don’t know how we’re going to keep it a secret.”
“Do you have to?”
I don’t have a chance to answer her before the team is introduced, and we all stand for the national anthem.
Our reasons for keeping our relationship quiet made sense when we first discovered the accidental wedding oops. When it was an oops and we were still processing the consequences of that mistake.
But it doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore.
The game starts, and I try to focus on the action. But my attention keeps drifting to the dugout.
And every so often, Jeff glances up at the family section.
Each time, I feel that connection between us. This is real. This is right. This is everything.
But on the field, everything is not right.
By the sixth inning, we’re trailing by four and the late afternoon crowd is already thinning.
Someone throws garbage onto the first base line, and while the play is stopped to clean that up—and for security to escort the disgruntled fan out of the stadium—Jeff looks up at us again, and this time, the cameras catch it.
