WHEN THE WOMAN YOU HOOKED UP WITH WORKED long, weird hours, you started living that way. He didn’t mind. It freed up his own off-time, left him choices. Work, TV sports, a long easy spell over a beer. He could mooch dinner off his mother or one of his brothers.

Or, like tonight, he could enjoy a night at the ballpark with his brothers and nephews.

Nothing hit the bell, to Ryder’s way of thinking, like minor league baseball. Sure, a trip to Camden Yards to watch the O’s play in the colorful cathedral of ball equaled a hell of an experience.

But minor league offered the intimacy, the drama and the simplicity of what the summer game was about. And when you added three young boys to the mix, it genuinely kicked ass.

He sat, munching a loaded dog, drinking a cold beer—since he and Owen had voted Beckett the designated driver—and enjoying the hell out of himself.

The crowd booed, cheered, catcalled the pitchers—including their own. The Hagerstown Suns, down two runs in the fifth, took the field. The mid-July heat that had steamed through the afternoon calmed with the hint of a breeze as the sun dropped west.

Ryder watched the pitcher fan the first batter, glanced over where Harry devoured the action, elbows on his knees, body tipped forward, face intent the way only a devout baseball fan could understand.

“Picking up some pointers, Houdini?”

Harry grinned over as the next batter stepped up to the plate. “I’m pitching Saturday, Coach said.”

“I heard.” He’d make time to be there, to watch the kid strut his stuff.

“I’m practicing my curveball. Beckett showed me how.”

“He’s got a pretty good one.”

Ryder settled back to watch the next pitch. At the crack of the bat, he moved instinctively, hauling Liam up, shooting the boy’s gloved hand in the air. He angled, and felt, as Liam did, the ball smack the sweet spot of the glove.

“I caught it!” Dumbfounded, thrilled beyond measure, Liam gaped down at the ball in his glove. “I caught the ball.”

“Nice.” Beckett sent Liam and his brother a mile-wide smile. “Pretty damn nice.”

“Mr. Hoover sucks it up. Let’s see it,” Owen demanded, and six males examined the ball as miners might a vein of gold.

“I want to catch one.” Murphy held out his glove. “Can you help me catch one?”

“They have to hit it this way. We had a high-flying foul that time.” Ryder knew better than to add they’d gotten lucky. “Keep your eyes peeled and your glove hot.”

“Ry! I thought that was you.”

The pretty blonde owned a sexy river of hair and generous curves snugged into tiny shorts and a tight T-shirt. She squeezed in beside him.

Hooking her arms around his neck she gave him a loud, cheerful kiss.

“Jen. How’s it going?”