Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
I hang up and stuff my phone into my bag. Within minutes, I’m suited up and heading out into the corridor. The din of the crowd grows louder with each step, that familiar mix of cheers, popcorn smells, and restless energy that I usually love. Except today, my stomach is doing an Olympic-level gymnastics routine.
Once I’m on the field, my mask in hand, I do my usual routine—check the baselines, nod to the other umps, confirm the lineup cards. But all I can think about is Ripley “Riptide” Johnson. He just looks so darn good strutting around the pitcher’s mound. When the game finally starts, I’m hyperaware of every move he makes.
During the top of the second, he’s on the pitcher’s mound. From behind the plate, I can see the set of his shoulders, the way his uniform fits just right, and… Kali, focus. I should be watching the batter, but I find my eyes drifting to his stance, his posture, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. A crack of the bat jolts me back to reality, and I nearly flinch before I call “Foul!”
The rest of the game goes by in a blur of baseballs, dusty cleats, and shouted signals. Every time I make a call, I half-expect him to glare at me like he did the other day. But he keeps it civil, which somehow makes my nerves buzz even more. Is he ignoring me on purpose, or is he just being professional?
By the eighth inning, I’m fairly certain we’re both on autopilot. The tension sizzles, though, like an invisible current between us. When the final out is called, the crowd roars their approval—another win for his team. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and prepare to hand off my umpire gear for cleaning.
But before I can slip away, I hear a small voice calling my name: “Kali! Coach Kali!”
I turn to see Juniper darting across the grass with a huge grin on her face, her blonde curls bouncing in the late afternoon sun. Ripley’s a few steps behind her, trying to catch up, but it’s clear Juniper is on a mission. My heart does a strange little twist at the sight of her beaming at me.
“You were so cool, Kali!” she exclaims, skidding to a stop in front of me. “I saw you calling strikes and outs and everything! Will you be here for every game?”
I glance up at Ripley, who stands there with his arms folded, a bemused look on his face. I force a light laugh. “Well, yes, I’m the umpire, so I’ll be around.”
“Good!” Juniper says eagerly. She casts a quick look up at her dad, then back at me. “Hey, want to come to our house for dinner? Daddy’s making tacos or something. I told Daddy you love Star Wars too.”
My jaw drops for a split second. I was not expecting that. “Oh, Juniper, that’s really sweet, but—”
Ripley straightens, clearing his throat. “Junebug, maybe Kali has other plans—”
“But Dad,” Juniper whines softly, “she’s nice. And she’s my coach. And I want her to see how I practice at home.”
A wave of heat rushes into my face. I open my mouth to politely decline again, but her eyes are so pleading, and there’s a part of me—much bigger than I’d like to admit—that wants to say yes. Then Ripley surprises me by shrugging, a faint challenge in his eyes.
“Yeah, maybe she should come,” he says, his tone half-wary, half-inviting. “You know, if you’re not busy.”
I sputter. “I—um—I don’t want to impose.”
Juniper claps her hands. “Yay! She said yes!”
I blink. “Actually, I—” But by now, both Johnsons are looking at me with an odd combination of expectation and reluctance, and I find myself swallowing a thousand objections. “All right. Fine. But I need to run home first to change. And please, only if you’re sure.”
“Sure,” Ripley says, a slight curve to his mouth that might be a grin. “We’re pretty sure.”
Juniper bounces on her toes. “Dad will text you the address. See you soon, Kali!” She gives me a quick wave, and Ripley hands me a slip of paper with a scrawled phone number. I nod and mumble something about seeing them later, then practically flee the field, my heart pounding like I just sprinted around the bases.
Back at my tiny apartment, I dump my gear in a corner and hop straight into the shower. My nerves are a mess—why am I so worked up? It’s just dinner with a pitcher who can’t stand me and his adorable daughter. Not a big deal. Definitely not a date. Right?
I throw open my closet, combing through my casual clothes. I end up picking a light sundress, a soft pastel color that makes me feel summery and… feminine. Which is weird, because I’m usually in athletic wear or umpire gear. But something about going to Ripley’s house has me wanting to look nice. As I smooth the dress over my hips, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. For a split second, I imagine this as a date—showing up on a Saturday evening, wearing something that highlights my curves, maybe even brushing on some lip gloss.