Mom ball, p.1
Mom Ball, page 1
MOM BALL
A SWEET, SMALL TOWN ROMANTIC COMEDY
KACI LANE
Copyright © 2024 by Kaci Lane
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without written permission from the author.
For Blake and Lane — my favorite baseball players, past and present.
Also to Mark Paul (the baseball guy, not the guy from “Saved by the Bell”).
I don’t consider you my target audience, but I’m part of yours.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Since this is a work of fiction, some dates and details may not match the logical timeline or rules for real life.
I wanted the story to reflect a professional baseball player's life as accurately as possible, but still take some liberties to create the best love story for my characters. Luckily, with fiction, we can have the best of both worlds. I hope you enjoy Mom Ball.
Kaci
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Books by Kaci Lane
CHAPTER 1
Brooke
I sip sweet tea and snuggle against my lawn chair. Daisy comes into the sunroom with my cousin Erica slogging behind her.
“You’re up, Aniston.”
Aniston leaps toward Daisy like a kid in a sack race. We laugh, and she frowns.
“What? It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a massage.”
Morgan snorts. “You mean Easton doesn’t massage you?”
“Sometimes, but he doesn’t hold a candle to Daisy’s magic.” Aniston pats Daisy’s shoulder. “Pun intended.”
Daisy laughs, and I roll my eyes. However, I agree that her homemade candles take a relaxing massage to the next level.
“Come on.” Daisy exits and waves Aniston toward her.
I lean back, content with the home spa day I planned since none of us have time for a real spa day. Not that I’ve had one in years, but that’s beside the point. We’re all busy with work and kids—Erica’s kid being the orchard’s new website—and Aniston has additional obligations as president of the PTSO.
I take a big gulp of my drink and try to ignore the constant question looming in the back of my mind. The one that would likely have come up during the recent daddy-daughter dance had my child been a girl. The one that’s bound to come up sooner than later with my son.
Who’s my daddy?
Thanks to my loving family and a comfortable life at the apple orchard, Timothy hasn’t asked that dreaded question . . . yet. But I know it’s coming one day.
“Hey, where are those cucumbers I sliced for our eyes?” Erica asks as she lathers on some of the facial cream I brought.
Morgan leans up. “Wait, those weren’t snacks?”
Erica glances at me. I shrug at her, then laugh.
“It’s okay, Morgan,” I say.
“Oops.” She laughs. “Since they were on that tray with the lemon slices, I thought it was some kind of dieting charcuterie board.”
Erica shakes her head. “No, the lemon slices were for our drinks.”
Morgan raises her chin, then twists her lips. “Oops again.”
“It’s okay.” Erica gives her a forced smile.
I bite back a laugh. My cousin is such a Southern belle and Morgan is, well, Morgan. They’re cordial, but they couldn’t be more different. The only thing they have in common besides me is that Erica sometimes shops at the Pig and Morgan works there.
Morgan sits back and sucks her Diet Coke until the straw slurps against the ice. I close my eyes and soak in the sun shining through the glass room. I wiggle my nose when the heat itches my skin. I don’t want to scratch it and mess up my skin cream.
“This is nice. Us chilling while the kids play in the pasture.”
I jerk my head toward Morgan. “Pasture? I thought they were in the house with my mom.”
“The girls are. The boys went to play ball.”
“Timothy is playing ball?” I wrinkle my forehead. It feels like it’s breaking beneath the hardened cream.
“Yeah. He’s plenty old enough to play with them. My kids came out of the womb hitting stuff.” Morgan leans to one side and pulls a lemon out from under her. “I say whatever keeps them off drugs.”
“Don’t you have like a seven-year-old?” Erica asks.
“Yeah, but better to learn young.” Morgan sucks on the lemon slice.
Erica snarls before leaning back and closing her eyes. I stare outside, my stomach knotting as I try and recall the cow rotation.
The county owns that field, which connects to our land. They alternate between running a golf course and keeping cattle on it. There’s a good chance our kids will either get hit by a golf ball or worse—a bull.
I spring to my feet and tighten the sash on my robe. Morgan and Erica stare at me like I’m crazy.
“What’s gotten into you?” Erica asks.
“I’m going to check on the kids. The cows may be out, and if not, there will be crazy people driving golf carts and hitting balls.”
Morgan tugs my robe. “Land the helicopter, Brooke, they’re fine. Ethan’s in charge.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I jerk loose from her grip and head toward the door.
My flip-flops clap against the concrete on my way through the patio to the garage. Daddy keeps a four-wheeler ready to go by the house. I can maneuver it inside the pasture easier than my Corolla.
I straddle the seat and tuck my robe beneath my thighs so it won’t blow open. All I need is to flash a random Apple Cartian on my way to rescue Timothy. With one hand on the gas and the other securing my robe, I fly down the drive in third gear.
Stray hairs escape my topknot and stick to the cream on my face. I unsuccessfully attempt to blow a strand out of my eye, afraid to let go of my robe. I turn toward the gate to the pasture on two wheels, then park.
Grass hits my bare legs as I jog to the gate. Of course it’s locked. I gird my loins and climb the metal rails, then hoist my short legs over the top. I step down a few rungs and hop to the ground. Thanks to all my years as a cheerleader, I manage to land without breaking anything. Except for maybe my dollar store flip-flops. To be fair, they were living on borrowed time.
I move best I can in the near knee-high grass, which is another indication it’s cow time.
“Timothy!” I yell his name as I stagger up a slight hill.
When I come to a clearing, I spot the brains behind this outing—Ethan. And I use the word “brains” loosely. He’s your typical young teenager, obsessed with sports, outdoors, and Aniston’s niece, though he’d never admit the latter.
“Ethan!”
He comes toward me, a bat in hand.
“Miss Brooke?” He stares like I’m a swamp monster.
But with four-wheeler hair and cleansing clay on my face, it’s probably an accurate assessment.
“Do you know where Tim—”
“Mama?” Timothy bounces toward me before I can finish his name.
I rush toward him and hug him close, kissing his cheek. He laughs and pulls back. “Why are you sticky?” He rubs a smidge of cream from his cheek.
“I was worried the bulls were in here. Y’all don’t need to come out here without asking first.”
“I told my mom we were coming,” Ethan offers.
I slant my eyes his way. “That doesn’t count for Timothy.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” He nods toward the road. “We can go back. Andrew is already outside the fence getting the ball.”
“You shouldn’t send your little brother in the road by himself.”
“I didn’t, I sent Carter too.”
I press my lips together and fight the urge to scold Ethan. Sending Aniston’s nephew, who’s maybe a year older than Andrew, isn’t much better, if not worse.
“Let’s go.” I hook my arm around Timothy’s shoulder.
The three of us walk toward the gate. Both boys climb the fence effortlessly, then wait as I take my time on each rung to avoid a wardrobe malfunction. I’m facing the field, stepping down, when I hear Andrew chattering wildly to the other boys.
“He got our ball, and he said he’d show me how to pitch.”
“Cool, could you help me with my curve?” Ethan asks.
“Sure. You look like you’ve got a strong arm, young man.”
I freeze on the bottom rail. That voice travels from my ears to my toes, making my entire body shake. I’d know it anywhere. It’s the same voic
Nate
“Are you stuck?” One of the boys turns back to the fence.
A woman in a bathrobe wiggles her foot but doesn’t answer.
I cross the gravel road and stand a few feet behind her. “Need help, ma’am?”
She bends at the waist, poking her butt toward me. I blink as she dislodges a flip-flop from the fence.
Not knowing what to say, I take a half step closer in case she falls. She straightens and spins around, then jumps when she notices me.
“Brooke?”
My heart speeds up and the blood drains from my face. I’m likely as pale as she is, wearing some kind of paint on her face. Even with that, I’d recognize her anywhere.
“You know my mom?”
I jerk my head to the kid who asked if she was stuck. “That’s your mother?”
A million questions race through my mind as I turn back to Brooke in slow motion. Most importantly, why wouldn’t anyone mention to me that my ex-girlfriend has a kid?
Does she also have a husband? Does she still live here, or is she visiting family?
Granted, I never asked Mom about Brooke after she ghosted me in college. Still, you’d think her name might come up in conversation. I have a bad habit of glazing over when she spills useless Apple Cart gossip. However, Brooke’s name would’ve caught—and held—my attention.
“Hi.” Her voice is low and strained.
“Hey,” I manage to say. “Let’s get you out of the weeds.”
Without thinking, I take her hand. Her fingers curl, but start to loosen as I lead her across the tall grass. By the time we reach my side of the road, her grip is relaxed in mine.
The smallness and soft touch of her hand against my larger calloused one sends a rush of warmth through my body. It’s way too familiar and brings up emotions I’m not ready to battle.
I drop her hand like a bad habit.
A habit I’d love to pick back up.
It’s hard to tell with all that paste on her face, but I think she’s blushing.
“Thanks,” she half whispers. She dips her head, then turns to her son.
Her son. I’m still in shock that nobody told me. That’s possibly the first secret ever kept in this county.
“Ready to go back home?” she asks.
The boy stares at me a few seconds. “This man said he would help us with baseball.”
“I’m sure this man is busy.”
“It’s Nate.” I mean to clarify that to the kids, but it comes out a little sarcastically toward Brooke. Having the love of your life refer to you as “this man” is about as low of a blow as it gets.
Well, she was the love of my life. But I haven’t exactly tried to fall in love again. Obviously, she’s moved on, so I best let it go.
“I’m sure Nate is busy.” Brooke’s throat catches on my name like it hurts her to say it.
“Dude! I knew you looked familiar. You’re Nate the Great, aren’t you?” The older boy comes uncomfortably close and studies my face.
All the boys stare at me like I’m on exhibit at the zoo.
“Who’s Nate the Great?” Brooke’s son asks.
One of the younger boys pops him on the arm.
“He plays for the Braves,” the other answers.
The older boy sticks out his hand. “Ethan Archer, nice to meet you.”
“You as well.” I shake his hand and smile. “And who else do we have here?”
“That’s Andrew.” He points to the smallest kid. “That’s Carter.” He points to the slightly larger kid. “And Timothy.” He nods toward Brooke’s son.
I commit the boys’ names to memory. In particular Timothy’s. Was he named after his dad?
“Can we do ball with him, Mama?” he asks.
“I’m sure Mr. Nate is busy.” She presses her lips tightly.
I glory a split second in the fact that she said my name effortlessly this time.
“I was about to cut the grass, but it can wait.”
Brooke cocks her head toward the pasture.
“Not that, over here. I bought this house.”
Her eyes widen to the point that some of her face goop cracks. A piece of her hair sticks to it.
I lift my hand to push it away from her face, then freeze. Instead, I readjust my cap to make it look as if I never intended to touch her. Holding her hand was hard enough. I might not can control myself if I get near her face.
“Timothy, it’s play ball, not do ball.” Ethan rolls his eyes, then he smirks at me. “Kids, huh?”
I narrow my eyes, and his face straightens. Andrew and Carter are over my stardom and now preoccupied with poking a worm in the road. I watch them a second more, then focus on Brooke. “If it’s fine with you, I’d be happy to help your boys with ball sometime.”
“I only have the one boy,” she answers quickly.
I laugh nervously. An odd sense of relief covers me. Instead of hiding a slew of kids from me, Brooke only has one. And possibly a husband or ex-husband.
I try not to focus on the ex part. She chose to end our relationship when she was in college. If she is single, I doubt a chance meeting in a pasture almost nine years later would magically change her mind.
“Okay. If everyone’s parents are all right with it, I’d be glad to help.”
“My mom won’t care,” Ethan says. “Unless you charge a bunch.”
I laugh. “It’s on the house.”
He smiles.
“Can we, Mama?” Timothy clasps his hands together under his chin.
Brooke folds her arms and lets out a deep breath. He gives her a pleading face.
“Sometime.” She scans the other boys. “We’re all busy today, and I want to tell your moms first.”
I study the other three boys, trying to decide if any of them go together. I may have unknowingly committed to helping four families with ball.
All in a desperate attempt to see my ex again.
A shot of guilt hits my chest. I check Brooke’s ring finger as she uncrosses her arms. Nothing. She looks like she just got out of the shower, and there’s a good chance that’s why she’s not wearing any jewelry. Still, I choose to believe she’s single.
And I try to block the idea of her in the shower from my brain.
It isn’t working.
“Timothy, do you want to ride with me?” Brooke asks.
“If I can drive.”
She nods. “Go get the four-wheeler.”
Timothy looks both ways down the road before crossing it.
“Come on, y’all.” Ethan taps the other two on the shoulder with his bat.
They stand and watch the worm wiggle away. Ethan turns around after they walk a few feet. “Bye, Nate the Great.”
I wave and try to remember the last time someone called me that in an adoring way. Not since before my injury, or at best since my surgery. Nowadays, I feel more like Nate the Late.
Brooke stares at me, and I realize we’re alone. There are so many things I want to ask and say, but I refrain. Good thing too, since Timothy drives up.
“It was good seeing you,” she says with a sad smile.
Was it? I want to believe that, but her body language leans toward just being polite.
“You too.” I mean it.
She takes extra caution holding her robe together as she climbs on the four-wheeler behind Timothy. One of her flip-flops is busted on the side and slips off.
I pick it up and hold it out. My hand lingers for a second when she takes the shoe. She wedges it between her and Timothy, then tucks her robe beneath her thighs.
I step back and pretend I didn’t just gawk at her legs.
“Bye, Mr. Nate.” Timothy waves and grins.
