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Jaxon laughs, pulling all three kids close for a quick family selfie—with Fork Guy’s head sneaking in at the edge, naturally.
Lane flings himself into Fork Guy’s arms. “Swing me?”
“For sure, buddy. Just keep that Capri Sun down this time.”
Lane nods. “I try.”
My kids honestly think Fork Guy is their uncle. He’s always around, loves them like his own, and would die for them. I think back to when we met this fool and laugh at the irony. How someone with a plastic fork stuck in his eye socket became such a big part of our lives is beyond me. Probably because he never left… but whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s here.
I look at Jaxon and smile. “Should we tell them how we met Fork Guy?”
Jaxon shakes his head. “Let’s save that for when they’re old enough to appreciate the art of poor decision-making.”
Fork Guy winks at the kids. “Don’t worry, Coach Fork’s got stories.”
He’s not lying, that’s for sure.
Later that night,the chaos migrates home. The boys are sticky with popsicles, Berkley’s crawling under the kitchen table, and I’m hiding in the pantry, eating the good chocolate.
Jaxon’s out on the patio with Fork Guy, both of them manning the grill. Smoke billows, steaks sizzle, and every few minutes there’s a loud cackle or a curse.
I watch through the window as Jaxon, still in his Braves hat, hands Fork Guy a beer and grins. It’s the kind of easy, perfect evening that makes you forget he’s leaving again tomorrow.
Fork Guy’s miming a home run trot with the grill tongs, while Jaxon stares at him as if he can’t believe one night in an emergency room brought that kind of crazy into our lives.
Inside, Maverick is drawing a baseball diamond on the tile with sidewalk chalk, Lane is running the bases in circles around the coffee table, and Berkley’s eating a sock. I’m not even mad. At least it’s clean. Oh, and Mookie is around here somewhere too—probably hiding from the kids. But yeah, we kept the cat and Fork Guy, who lives in our pool house.
Our house in Marietta is sprawling and sun-washed, the kind of place nobody in our families ever grew up in. We bought it right after Lane was born. Coming from tiny Seattle dorms where you could hear everything through the walls, the space feels surreal: wide hallways, two staircases, a big backyard with a pool.
Walk inside and you’ll find the front foyer lined with our old lives—my purple-and-gold Huskies visor tossed next to Jaxon’s battered college cleats, a framed photo of us, grinning andsunburned, after the last game at Husky Ballpark. The built-in shelves in the living room are a jumble of our stories: my UW softball MVPs, his All-Pac-12 plaques, a signed ball from the night he got the Braves call and nearly dropped the phone. There’s the home run ball he gave me freshman year of high school, the grand slam one sophomore year of college, the one he gave me the night he proposed, his first MLB homer, and the ball I gave him when I told him I was pregnant with Maverick. There’s a shadow box with our college lanyards and a Braves hat that’s survived three postseason runs and two dishwasher cycles.
The family room is where the real chaos lives. There’s a stone fireplace and a rug that cost more than my first car. The custom stained wood floors are covered in toy trains and Lane’s collection of plastic dinosaurs. Berkley’s newborn photo sits next to Maverick’s first day of kindergarten picture—Jaxon’s missing from it because he was in Texas—and the walls are peppered with Lane’s attempts at drawing baseball diamonds and, lately, a few dinosaurs. The kitchen is all marble and high ceilings, but the island is cluttered with my laptop, stacks of game notes, half-written scripts for the networks I consult with, and Maverick’s glove.
Upstairs, the home office is half hers, half his: her side crowded with media guides, old press passes, and a ring light; his side with coaching books, scouting reports, and a line of minor league hats. There’s a formal dining room, but we mostly use it for birthdays and playoff nights, the chandelier sparkling over a table covered in crayon and ketchup.
It’s a big house for a growing family, full of echoes from Seattle and dreams that started under gray skies. You can feel the hustle everywhere—two kids with Huskies hearts who built a life on the other side of the country, filling every room with memories from the field while raising three wild kids.
“Who’s ready to eat?” Jaxon comes in carrying a plate piled high with perfect steaks, Fork Guy trailing behind with a bowl of macaroni.
“Meeee!” Both boys announce and at Lane’s request, we eat on the floor, picnic-style, with ketchup stains and laughter.
Maverick sits on Jaxon’s lap. “Daddy, why you gotta leave tomorrow?”
Jaxon kisses the side of his head. “It’s my job, buddy. I’ll be back in a couple weeks, though and we can work on your framing.”
Maverick has been dying to play catcher, like his daddy. “Okay!”
Fork Guy bumps Maverick’s shoulder while still chewing a mouthful of steak. “I can teach you a few things.”
Maverick stares at him. “Like what?”
Fork Guy shrugs. “How to eat ramen upside down?”
“Oh, cool!” And then Maverick is attempting to do a handstand.
Jaxon dodges his legs and shakes his head immediately. “Nope. Do not teach him that.”
That’s all I need is my six-year-old with a plastic fork in his eye. I’d rather not.