Page 283 of Wild Card
“Mmhmm, peeing on yourself would be bad form.” Jewls side-eyes me.
“I am not peeing on myself!” I whisper-hiss, embarrassed my father-in-law heard.
“Let’s go.” April and Bex take both my elbows and I panic.
“No, I’ll miss it!”
Wyatt saunters his way to the plate, swinging his bat the way Talon taught him. Talon and Chase stand in the dugout, clapping and calling out encouragement with the other young boys screaming along.
Ace, Ford, Major, and my dad stand at the fence, watching raptly.
Wyatt looks through all of them and my chest seizes. He didn’t just gain one uncle, he gained four. And right now, it’s written all over his little face—he wants to impress them.
He takes his time swinging the bat, squatting in stance.
I don’t know who it was that worked their magic, but Wyatt was asked to join a coach pitch team for the summer. This is supposed to be all friendly competitions to warm the boys up for fall ball.
You wouldn’t know it from the male presence baring down from the fence line.
There are no trophies, awards, or championships at play.
Just good old-fashioned fun.
Or, at least, that was the plan until Talon and Chase got involved.
My brother and husband are grooming a championship team and going for bragging rights.
Wyatt takes yet another practice swing and I grip my stomach. “I love that boy with all my heart, but he needs to hurry up and hit.”
As if he hears me, he glances my way and jerks his chin.
One of the many macho moves he’s picked up from his new mentors.
Finally, he’s ready, and as soon as the coach pitches the ball, Wyatt steps back, knowing the pitch wasn’t the right one.
On the second, he swings hard, connecting with the ball, resulting in rambunctious screams of the boys.
He makes it to first base with no problem and I’ve pushed my limit. This baby obviously knows the excitement happening and decides to roll.
I climb over the bleacher and shriek when strong hands lift me the rest of the way.
“What are you doing?” Talon places me on the ground and directs me to the restroom.
“Wondered how long you’d hold out.”
“You are timing my urination schedule?”
“Been watching you the last ten minutes.”
It is useless to respond because the man is one hundred percent in tune with my body and this pregnancy.
“I’m seriously considering buying you a straightjacket.”
“Hard to carry you around without use of my arms.”
I curve down my attitude, because my bladder wins out, rushing inside the bathroom.
When I’m done, I notice how clean the ladies’ room is compared to the last time we were at the fields. The dingy walls are painted, the cracked vinyl vanities replaced, the tile floors bleached and shining. There are summer-scented soaps at the sinks with stacks of softer paper towels.
