Page 5

5

Kali

I’m perched on a rickety stool in the locker room’s tiny umpire prep area, struggling to re-tie my ponytail for the third time. My hands are shaking, which I keep telling myself is purely from the leftover adrenaline of last night. My Google obsession. I now know everything there is to know about Ripley ‘Riptide’ Johnson.

I glance at my phone propped up against a bottle of sports drink. Bristol’s face fills the screen, half of it obscured by a neon-pink scrunchie in her hair.

“I don’t get it,” she says, pushing the scrunchie aside so I can see her skeptical expression. “Why are you so nervous? You’re an ump, you do this all the time. Just call the game and move on.”

I blow out a breath, reaching for a fresh hair tie. “That’s the problem. I usually do this all the time, no issue. But now… Ripley’s going to be on that field. Last time we saw each other, we nearly came to blows.”

Bristol snorts. “You mean he nearly came to blows, and you casually reminded him you have all the power with your rulebook.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not helping.”

“Look,” she says more gently, “you just gotta do your job, same as always. Don’t overthink it. So he’s got pretty eyes and a killer smile—whatever.”

I flinch. “Bristol!”

“Hey, you said it yourself, he’s easy on the eyes,” she teases, waggling her eyebrows. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Ugh.” I rub my temples, feeling a headache threatening. “I gotta go. The game starts soon, and I still need to finish getting my gear together. Thanks for the pep talk… I think?”

She laughs. “Anytime, sis. Go knock ‘em dead.”

I hang up and stuff my phone into my bag. Within minutes, I’m suited up and heading out into the corridor. The din of the crowd grows louder with each step, that familiar mix of cheers, popcorn smells, and restless energy that I usually love. Except today, my stomach is doing an Olympic-level gymnastics routine.

Once I’m on the field, my mask in hand, I do my usual routine—check the baselines, nod to the other umps, confirm the lineup cards. But all I can think about is Ripley “Riptide” Johnson. He just looks so darn good strutting around the pitcher’s mound. When the game finally starts, I’m hyperaware of every move he makes.

During the top of the second, he’s on the pitcher’s mound. From behind the plate, I can see the set of his shoulders, the way his uniform fits just right, and… Kali, focus. I should be watching the batter, but I find my eyes drifting to his stance, his posture, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. A crack of the bat jolts me back to reality, and I nearly flinch before I call “Foul!”

The rest of the game goes by in a blur of baseballs, dusty cleats, and shouted signals. Every time I make a call, I half-expect him to glare at me like he did the other day. But he keeps it civil, which somehow makes my nerves buzz even more. Is he ignoring me on purpose, or is he just being professional?

By the eighth inning, I’m fairly certain we’re both on autopilot. The tension sizzles, though, like an invisible current between us. When the final out is called, the crowd roars their approval—another win for his team. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and prepare to hand off my umpire gear for cleaning.

But before I can slip away, I hear a small voice calling my name: “Kali! Coach Kali!”

I turn to see Juniper darting across the grass with a huge grin on her face, her blonde curls bouncing in the late afternoon sun. Ripley’s a few steps behind her, trying to catch up, but it’s clear Juniper is on a mission. My heart does a strange little twist at the sight of her beaming at me.

“You were so cool, Kali!” she exclaims, skidding to a stop in front of me. “I saw you calling strikes and outs and everything! Will you be here for every game?”

I glance up at Ripley, who stands there with his arms folded, a bemused look on his face. I force a light laugh. “Well, yes, I’m the umpire, so I’ll be around.”

“Good!” Juniper says eagerly. She casts a quick look up at her dad, then back at me. “Hey, want to come to our house for dinner? Daddy’s making tacos or something. I told Daddy you love Star Wars too.”

My jaw drops for a split second. I was not expecting that. “Oh, Juniper, that’s really sweet, but?—”

Ripley straightens, clearing his throat. “Junebug, maybe Kali has other plans?—”

“But Dad,” Juniper whines softly, “she’s nice. And she’s my coach. And I want her to see how I practice at home.”

A wave of heat rushes into my face. I open my mouth to politely decline again, but her eyes are so pleading, and there’s a part of me—much bigger than I’d like to admit—that wants to say yes. Then Ripley surprises me by shrugging, a faint challenge in his eyes.

“Yeah, maybe she should come,” he says, his tone half-wary, half-inviting. “You know, if you’re not busy.”

I sputter. “I—um—I don’t want to impose.”

Juniper claps her hands. “Yay! She said yes!”

I blink. “Actually, I—” But by now, both Johnsons are looking at me with an odd combination of expectation and reluctance, and I find myself swallowing a thousand objections. “All right. Fine. But I need to run home first to change. And please, only if you’re sure.”

“Sure,” Ripley says, a slight curve to his mouth that might be a grin. “We’re pretty sure.”

Juniper bounces on her toes. “Dad will text you the address. See you soon, Kali!” She gives me a quick wave, and Ripley hands me a slip of paper with a scrawled phone number. I nod and mumble something about seeing them later, then practically flee the field, my heart pounding like I just sprinted around the bases.

* * *

Back at my tiny apartment, I dump my gear in a corner and hop straight into the shower. My nerves are a mess—why am I so worked up? It’s just dinner with a pitcher who can’t stand me and his adorable daughter. Not a big deal. Definitely not a date. Right?

I throw open my closet, combing through my casual clothes. I end up picking a light sundress, a soft pastel color that makes me feel summery and… feminine. Which is weird, because I’m usually in athletic wear or umpire gear. But something about going to Ripley’s house has me wanting to look nice. As I smooth the dress over my hips, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. For a split second, I imagine this as a date—showing up on a Saturday evening, wearing something that highlights my curves, maybe even brushing on some lip gloss.

I shake the thought away. Not a date. Not a date. I remind myself sternly. Still, I slip into a pair of low wedges, because apparently, I want to torture myself further.

The GPS leads me through a quiet neighborhood with tree-lined streets and quaint bungalows. When I pull up to the address, my heart lifts in surprise. His house is a charming little bungalow with a wide wrap-around porch, hanging ferns swaying in the gentle breeze. The porch light casts a cozy glow, making it look like something out of a small-town postcard.

I take a shaky breath before climbing out of the car, reminding myself I’m here for dinner with Juniper. That’s all. Focus on the kid. My sandals click against the porch steps, and I pause at the front door, listening to muffled voices and laughter inside. There’s a flutter in my chest, something that feels almost like hope. I can’t tell if it’s excitement or nerves, but it’s definitely there.

I knock lightly, and for a moment, my heart hammers in time with the echoing rap of my knuckles. Then the door swings open, revealing Ripley. He’s in a casual T-shirt and jeans, looking way too good for someone who’s supposed to be my nemesis. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the sundress, and something flickers across his expression—surprise, maybe? Approval?

“Hey,” he says, his voice unexpectedly soft.

“Hey,” I manage, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I… uh… nice place.”

He smiles, stepping aside. “Thanks. Come on in. Juniper’s been talking about you nonstop since we left the stadium.”

I step into the foyer, trying not to notice how close we are, or how his cologne mingles with the scent of something delicious cooking in the kitchen. I feel like an intruder in this cozy space, yet also strangely welcome. Maybe it’s the warmth of the lamplight or the sight of Juniper darting around the corner to greet me.

“Coach Kali!” she squeals, throwing her arms around my waist. “You’re here! Dad’s making tacos, and Aunt Hattie made guacamole. She’s the best at guacamole!”

I laugh, gently patting her shoulder. “Wow, that sounds amazing.”

Ripley clears his throat, shutting the door behind me. “We’ll see if you still think so after tasting my cooking. Come on, I’ll show you to the kitchen.”

And just like that, I’m following him through a hallway lined with family photos—Juniper as a baby, a younger Ripley in an old baseball uniform, a woman who looks like she might be his sister. Something about these glimpses into his life makes my chest ache, reminding me that beneath the surly pitcher is a whole person I barely know.

No. I remind myself, this is definitely not a date. But as I step into the warm, bustling kitchen, the smell of spices filling the air, I can’t help the tiny spark of excitement flickering in my chest—mixed with a healthy dose of nerves. Because if it’s not a date, why does it feel like one?