“Hi, Coop. Hi. I’m playing baseball.” Thrilled to have an audience, Keenan waved his bat and nearly caught his mother on the chin.

“Watch it, champ,” she said, and shifted out of range. “Good morning,” she called out. “Want your breakfast?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Keenan took another pathetic swing and had Coop muttering under his breath. Swung like a girl. Somebody had to show the kid how to hold a bat, didn’t they? he asked himself as he started down.

“You’re choking it too much.”

Zoe’s brows drew together. “The book I got said—”

“Book.” He cursed automatically. Keenan echoed him. “Sorry,” he muttered when Zoe gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Now listen, you learn how to add and subtract from books. You don’t learn baseball. Just like a girl.” He crouched down and adjusted Keenan’s hands.

Zoe had been ready to concede to the expert, but the last statement stopped her. “Excuse me? Are you implying that females can’t play sports?”

“Not what I said. Swing from the shoulders,” he told Keenan. Coop might have been grouchy, but he wasn’t stupid. “There are plenty of terrific female athletes. Keep your eye on the ball, kid.” He kept one hand around Keenan’s and lightly tossed the ball up in the air with the other. The bat connected with a hollow thud.

“I hit it! I hit it really, really hard!”

“Major league stuff.” Coop slid his eyes back up to Zoe’s. “I thought you were making pancakes.”

“I was— I am.” She blew out a breath. “I guess you’re taking over.”

“Well, I don’t know diddly about pancakes, and you don’t know squat about baseball. Why don’t we both do what we know?”

“Like it’s a big deal to hit a stupid ball with a stupid bat,” she muttered as she strode to the back door.

“You can’t do it.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes narrowed, turned. “I certainly can.”

“Yeah, right. Okay, Keenan, let’s try it again.”

“I believe it’s my turn.” Challenge in her every movement, Zoe slipped the bat from her son’s hands.

“Are you going to hit it, Mama? Are you?”

“You bet I am.” She held out a hand for the ball Coop was holding. She tossed it up, swung and batted the ball to the chain-link fence bordering the side yard. Keenan let out a cheer and raced to retrieve it.

Coop sniffed, smiled. “Not bad, for a girl. But anybody can hit a fungo.”

“Keenan’s too young for anything but a plastic ball.”

“No, a fungo’s when you toss it up yourself and hit it.”

“Oh.”

“I’m gonna throw it, Coop. You catch.”

“Sure, zip it in here.”

It took Keenan three tries, running in closer each time, to send the ball anywhere near Coop.

“I suppose you don’t think I could hit it if you threw it at me. . . .” Zoe began.

“Pitch it to you,” Coop said patiently. “I would pitch it to you.”

“All right, pitch it to me, then.” She raised the bat.