She looks up. “What do you mean?”
“What if the whole camp moves together?” I say. “Once, like a field trip. No crossing traffic. No staggered rotations.”
Her brows knit as she processes it. “To where?”
“The practice facility,” I say. “Not the main field—the turf’s getting replaced tomorrow, anyway. But the bullpen lanes andthrowing tunnels are operational. Same mound specs. Same shadow angle. Covered space.”
She leans back, chewing on it. “We don’t usually run camps out there. Parents like the stadium.” She pauses, and her eyes flick back to mine. “But if you frame it right …”
“ … it’s not a downgrade,” I finish. “It’s an insider look. Behind the scenes. How baseball actually works when fans aren’t watching.”
Something shifts in her expression—like a lock clicking open.
She sits up straighter. “Yeah. We could sell it as exclusive access. The kids never get to see the pros-only spaces or training tunnels.”
“And we keep the flow,” I add. “Same rotations, same timing, just in a safer space.”
She nods slowly. “No crossing traffic. No dead time.”
“And no kids wandering into a live bullpen,” I say.
Her lips press together, then curve faintly—not quite a smile, but close. “That’s actually good.”
“High praise,” I say.
She ignores me, already thinking ahead. “We’d need facilities approval. A staffer to walk the group over. Parent comms.”
“I can handle the kids,” I say. “They’ll think it’s cool.”
She snorts. “They’ll lose their minds.”
“Exactly.”
She takes a long sip of her milkshake, then another. “Okay,” she says decisively. “That works.”
“Great,” I say. “Problem solved.”
“One down,” she says with a pointed look.
“Whatever. I’m an angel.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Ask the church ladies at the potluck Sunday.”
She cocks both eyebrows but returns to her shake. She’s just about caught up to me, so I sip slowly, waiting for her to finally get ahead.
“What did you mean in the car?” she asks, her lips hovering slightly above the straw. “When you called me ‘Little Miss Exit Strategy,’ what was that about?”
I’m not sure how much to say, so I pick the easier truth. “I don’t know. It sounded funny at the time.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Or not,” I say.
“Don’t do that,” she says.
“What?”
