Emily turned to see a boy sprinting toward them, baseball glove flopping on his hand, jersey hanging past his knees. He launched himself at Jake with the full-body commitment of an eight-year-old who hadn't learned restraint yet, and Jake caught him like he'd done it a hundred times. Swung him up, held him there for a beat, then set him down.
"Hey, buddy." Jake crouched to his level. "You ready?"
"I'm gonna strike out. I always strike out."
"You got a hit last game."
"It went four feet."
"A hit's a hit, buddy."
Jake's laugh was different from the ones Emily had heard before. Unguarded. The laugh of a man who wasn't performing for anyone, who had nothing to prove, who was here because an eight-year-old expected him to be.
"Maybe today's the day," Jake said.
"That's what you said last time." But Jacob was grinning, a gap where his bottom teeth should be. He looked past Jake to Emily, studying her with the unfiltered evaluation only small children and federal judges were capable of. "Who's she?"
"Jacob, this is Emily. Emily, this is Jacob Wheeler, future Hall of Famer."
"I'm not that good yet."
"Yet," Jake agreed. "Key word."
Emily crouched down. "It's nice to meet you, Jacob."
"Are you Jake's girlfriend?"
"Jacob." A woman's voice, warm with exasperation. "What did we talk about?"
Jacob ignored this entirely. He leaned toward Emily with the conspiratorial intensity of a child sharing state secrets. "Jake got drafted. To the pros. For real. He could've played in the MLB but he joined the Army instead." His eyes went wide, as if the incomprehensibility of this decision still staggered him. "Can you believe that?"
Jake was suddenly very interested in adjusting Jacob's cap. "Don't you have a game to play?"
"Mom says you were really good."
"Your mom talks too much." But Jake was smiling. He turned Jacob by the shoulders and pointed him toward the field. "Go. Show Emily what you've got."
Jacob punched Jake's arm with a fist the size of a plum and ran back toward his team, glove flopping, jersey flapping,completely unconcerned with anything except the fact that Jake was here.
Emily straightened to find Erika Wheeler approaching.
She was beautiful in a understated way. Dark hair pulled back, eyes that held both warmth and the steadiness of a woman who'd rebuilt her life around a hole that would never fill. She looked like someone who'd learned to carry weight without letting it define her.
"You must be Emily." Erika's smile was genuine. "I've heard about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"He said you were brilliant and intimidating and completely out of his league." Erika's eyes cut to Jake. "He undersold it."
"Okay," Jake said. "Does anyone see me standing here?"
Erika laughed and linked her arm through Emily's before Emily could decide how she felt about that. "Come on. Let's find seats. I'll tell you embarrassing stories about Jake while he can't escape."
She led Emily toward the bleachers. Jake followed, shaking his head, and Emily caught herself smiling at the ease of it. The way Erika claimed her without hesitation. The way Jake let himself be the butt of the joke. No performance. No posturing. Just people who loved each other showing up on a Saturday morning.
They sat on the metal bleachers. Jake on her left, close enough that his leg pressed against hers. Erika on her right, already pointing out which kid was which, which parents were insufferable, which coach had no idea what he was doing.
"The one in the red cleats is Tyler Buckman," Erika said. "He's eight and already has an agent. His dad, not Tyler. Though honestly, it's only a matter of time."
