These days are typically spent with me rushing through a bit of physical therapy in the training room after flying through a handful of pitch sequences, trying to get back home as quickly as possible. At least, that’s how it used to be. But over the past month, I’ve taken my time, watched my teammates bat while we all shoot the shit before I sink into my PT, letting it do what it needs to do.
There’s been a shift. I’m enjoying the game again, every part of it. I’m content, which is an odd thing to feel after stressing for the last ten months, convinced I wasn’t doing enough as a parent.
But Max is happy. I’m happy, and there’s a common denominator as to why.
“Goddamn, Trav,” my brother says in disgust. “You look like you’ve never swung a bat in your life.”
“It’s Sunday,” Travis calls over his shoulder as he squares up at the plate once again. “I’m over this. I’m tired and ready to go home.”
“New rule! You hit a homer, you get a cookie.” Cody holds up the Tupperware container full of Miller’s cookies from our side, behind the batting cage.
Travis’s brows shoot up from under his helmet before pointing his bat to left field and the next pitch that comes his way is sent sailing into that exact section. Travis tosses his batting gear and jogs over to snag a cookie, his eyes rolling back with an over-the-top moan when it melts onto his tongue.
“If I knew my daughter’s baking would’ve had you guys hitting like this, I would’ve had her overnight me desserts years ago.” Monty joins us, taking a cookie for himself.
“Hey!” Isaiah calls out. “You’ve got to hit a homer for a cookie.”
Monty levels my brother with a look. “I don’t have to do shit. I raised the girl, and I could bench your ass if I felt like it, Rhodes.”
Isaiah gestures towards the Tupperware. “Have all the cookies you’d like, sir.”
Cody guards Miller’s cookies, treating them like a sacred prize to be earned as the team turns back to face home plate, watching the next batter.
I find my way next to Monty. “You gonna ever stop scaring the shit out of my little brother?”
“Nah. That’s just how our relationship works. I love the little shit, but I don’t need him to know that.” He takes a bite of the cookie in his hand. “Goddamn. I almost forgot how good she was at this.”
“Yeah,” I exhale. “For a moment, I think she forgot too.”
I can feel Monty’s stare lasering into the side of my face as I watch the field, pretending to not be acutely aware of Miller’s father watching me.
“What made her start baking her old recipes again?” His tone is laced with suspicion.
“Not sure.”
“Why aren’t you looking at me?”
I shake my head, eyes on home plate. “Still not sure.”
Monty is my friend, but I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t intimidating. I’m already paranoid he’s going to accuse me of getting too attached to his daughter or think I’m trying to convince her to stick around town when the last thing she wants is to settle.
“Ace, why is my daughter baking this kind of stuff every day instead of working on her recipes for the article?”
He’s clearly not going to let this go, so finally, I turn to face him. “I think maybe it’s Max.”
Monty squints in confusion.
“I think she likes showing Max the basics, letting him help in some capacity. He’s been in the kitchen with her every day.” A smile cracks on my lips. “She even got him his own little apron with dinosaurs all over it. I’m sure she’ll get back to working on the other stuff soon, but for now, they’ve been having fun doing this together.”
A soft grin slides across Monty’s face. “Good. This is the stuff that makes her happy, not all that frou-frou bullshit people pay her to make.”
Huh?
My brow lifts in realization. “Were you planning this?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He takes another bite to keep himself from speaking as he faces the field, pretending to study the batters.
“You want Miller to quit her job, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“I want my kid to be happy, just as you want yours to be. Do I think she’d be happier making this kind of stuff every day instead of living in the stress of high-end restaurant life? Yeah, I do. Did I know she wouldn’t be able to help herself from feeding the people she loves? Also yes. Did I think spending a whole summer with your sixteen-month-old would make her go back to the basics, knowing he wouldn’t eat any of that fancy stuff? Maybe I did.”