“Come on…” I breathe, wrapping my hands around the railing and watch him, the strong line of his back, the cock of his head, the slow roll of his bat before he settles into place.

“Mom.”

I ignore the command, my eyes darting from the pitcher to Chase.

“Mom,” she insists.

“Wait.” Pitch. Swing. High and left. Foul. I sigh and glance back at her. “Yes?”

“Need new marker.” Laura holds out the grape-scented stick. We named her after my mom, all other ideas abandoned once Chase made that suggestion.

“Daddy is at bat, don’t you want to see?” I bend down and pick her up, holding her against my chest until her soles rest on the railing.

“New marker.” She waves it in the air, her eyes away from the game, still stuck on her coloring book.

“She’s two,” Dad calls, from his seat next to us. “You think you cared anything about baseball at two?”

“I was young and dumb,” I remark, watching as the pitcher throws to first, trying to catch Cortez as he dives back to the bag.

“Give her time, she’ll come around,” Carla coos to Laura and lifts her away, my hand-off quick, eyes back on the field, and there is a moment of hushed silence before the pitcher curls, Chase tenses, and then…

Action.

Contact.

High and up…

Moonshot.