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)
The local ball field is buzzing when we arrive. Parents unfold camp chairs, little brothers chase each other beyond the backstop, and somebody’s selling coffee from a folding table. Hattie is already waiting near the dugout, camera in hand. She greets Juniper with a gentle hug, then turns her smile on us.
“This is it, superstar,” she tells Juniper. “Give ’em the old Johnson fireball.”
Juniper giggles, proud and a little shy, then scampers off to join her teammates. Kali pulls on her coach’s cap—same navy as the kids’ jerseys—and jogs to the chalked line to start warm-ups, calling instructions in that clear, confident voice I fell for. The kids cluster around her like planets around a sun.
I drop into a chair beside Hattie. The late-summer breeze ruffles the grass, carrying the sharp scent of chalk and freshly cut outfield. I watch Juniper mirror Kali’s pitching motion—shoulder high, glove tucked—and something warm unfurls in my chest.
“Never thought I’d see the day you’d let someone else teach her the finer points of pitching,” Hattie murmurs.
“Hey, Kali’s mechanics are solid,” I say, though my grin probably gives me away. Truth is, seeing those two together—one teaching, the other soaking it up—makes my heart feel too big for my ribs. This is exactly what I pictured the night I first told Kali we needed her.
The game starts, and Juniper trots to the circle for the top of the first inning. She peers in for Kali’s sign… yes, my kid already wants signals… then whips her arm forward. The ball arcs, a little high but right over the plate. Strike one. The bleachers erupt, and Juniper’s grin could light the scoreboard by itself.
Between innings I wander to the fence. Kali meets me there, adjusting her lineup card. Sweat beads at her temples, and she looks happier than I’ve ever seen her.
“She’s crushing it,” I say.
“You mean we’re crushing it,” she corrects, tapping my chest with her pen. “This is teamwork, Johnson.”
I hook my fingers through the chain link, draw her close enough that the brim of her cap bumps mine. “I love our team.” The crowd noise fades; there’s only her smile and the faint scent of sunscreen and lemonade.
“Love you too,” she whispers, cheeks dimpling.
A polite throat-clearing behind us makes us break apart. Hattie’s snapping candids, naturally. Kali laughs, calls her players back onto the field, and jogs away, ponytail swinging.
I lean on the fence, watching my daughter throw another strike and my fiancée—yeah, I’m planning to make that official before long—clap and shout encouragement. The sky is a flawless blue, the bleachers hum with cheers, and for the first time in years there’s no itch to be anywhere but where I am.
This is happiness. Sun-drenched, grass-stained, perfectly ordinary, and absolutely everything I ever wanted.