And fight talk? Jesus. Already flying from both ends of the garden, like it was a family tradition passed down through generations. Jordan had a big family. Which meantbigfamily gatherings. There were siblings, cousins, aunties, uncles. I’d lost track of who was who.
“God help us all,” I muttered, shading my eyes.
Jordan slung an arm over my shoulder, grinning like a man about to walk into battle in flip-flops. He had on a backwards cap, a pair of board shorts, and no shirt. Just sun-kissed skin and that maddening confidence of a man who still thought he was about to dominate his family in sport.
“Welcome to the Thunderdome, baby,” he mocked.
“Is this an actual match or a long-held personal vendetta disguised as tradition?” I asked.
“Both,” he said cheerfully, already eyeing off his cousin Paul like they had unfinished business.
His dad, Roger, was manning the barbecue, tongs in hand, shaking his head at the chaos. “You’d think they were playing for the bloody urn,” he muttered, but the pride in his voice gave him away.
Brody, already nursing a beer, called across the yard, “Oi, Jord, moustache won’t save you today!” Jordan flipped him off with a grin, and the kids screamed with laughter.
Jordan’s mum, Sue, was handing out sausage rolls with military precision while barking orders like an umpire. Uncle Ian, who had also cracked a beer before noon, was yelling, “SIX AND OUT, YA DOGS,” at absolutely no one, shirt already off, beer belly proud.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Jordan: tanned, nothing on his feet, shirtless, and rubbing sunscreen into his arms while he talked tactics like it was the Boxing Day Test at the MCG.
“You gonna play a bit?” he asked, looking over at me as I stood in the shade sipping a Diet Coke.
I shrugged. “Might have a bowl.”
His brows lifted. “Didn’t you say you played a bit when you were younger?”
I just smiled. “Something like that.”
What he didn’t know, what no one here knew, was that I hadn’t just played a bit. I’d captained Glamorgan Ladies U18s. Fastest bowling speed in the league for two seasons running. Had offers to go further, too, until uni, and life, and heartbreak pulled me elsewhere.
But some things? They were just muscle memory.
“Just don’t hurt yourself, babe,” he teased, tapping my bump with the back of his hand. “You’re growing my legacy.”
“Oh, piss off.” I laughed. “I’ll bowl one over, then sit with Sue and let her fatten me up on pastry and gossip.”
He winked, utterly oblivious, and jogged off. Clueless. God, he was in for it.
Half an hour later, Jordan’s team was up to bowl.
He called my name across the yard, smirking like he was setting me up for something cute.
“Alright, Kate, you up for a bowl?”
I peeled myself out of the deckchair, dusted the crumbs off my thighs, and stretched.
“You sure you’re okay to do this?” Sue asked, looking only half-convinced. “She’s almost five months pregnant!”
“I’m fine,” I said sweetly. “Just one or two.”
I strolled up to the makeshift crease, rolled my shoulders, and adjusted my baseball hat. The ball felt strange in my hand for half a second, then it settled. Like it remembered me.
Paul, smug, shirt untucked, chewing gum with the casual arrogance of a man about to be humbled, was at the crease. Adjusting his gloves like he was about to face Shane Warne reincarnated, not a pregnant Welsh girl with a ponytail.
I squared up. Found my rhythm. Then I let it rip.
The seam spun clean through the warm air and clipped the top of middle stump like something out of a bloody highlights reel. There was a second of total silence.
Then…
