“Ew.” I laugh, wrinkling my nose. “That’s more information than I need, kiddo.”

My disgust fills him with a prepubescent joy, and his laughter fills the car.

“Okay.” He nods in an exaggerated motion. “It’s time I go out there and show ’em what I got. Which is not much.”

We exchange a grin that warms my heart.

“You may not have much now, but you have to start somewhere,” I say.

“True. And I have an invitation from Cole to help me, remember?”

Men are the bane of my existence.

“I do, and that was super nice of him. But he’ll probably be on a plane back to California soon, so I wouldn’t put too much into that invitation, okay?”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Mom.”

“What?”

“Just because you have a crush on him—”

My jaw drops. “Ethan Wayne!”

“What?” He giggles. “You do.”

“I absolutely do not.”

He puts his glove on again and punches it in the webbing with his other hand. “What is it that you tell me?” He taps his chin with his glove. “‘You can talk to me about anything. Nothing is off limits between us.’”

His grin is smug as he watches my reaction—one that I try desperately to keep in check but fail.

“First of all, nice imitation of my voice,” I say, getting my footing. Although I don’t sound anything like that. “And second of all, that’s a one-way street, little boy.”

“No offense there, Ma, but I’m pretty sure that you’ll get better advice from me than Val. And who else do you have to talk to?” He shrugs. “Think about it.”

I have no idea what is happening in this conversation, nor why my baby all of a sudden seems like a grown-ass man. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. Not even a little.

Even though he’s right.

I point at the field. “You need to get your behind out there before you’re late. That’s no way to make a good first impression with your new coach.”

“What would you say to me here? Let’s see . . . ‘This conversation is not over.’”

“Ethan,” I say, laughing. “Get out of my car.”

He wrinkles his nose, chuckling at his own ridiculousness, and opens the car door. The cab fills with damp, cool air. I shiver.

“Zip your jacket up,” I tell him.

“I just gave you adult advice, and you’re acting like I’m a child.”

“You just overstepped your bounds, and you’re twelve. So, yeah, zip it up. Now.”

“Mom.”

“I’m not paying for a hospital bill when you get pneumonia because you won’t listen. Now zip it, kid.”

“Ugh.”

He slams the door shut. Then, while glaring at me from the other side, he jerks the zipper up his jacket with a flourish.

“Thank you,” I mouth at him through the glass.

He rolls his eyes and storms off toward a dugout where the kids are congregating.

I sink back in my seat and turn off the ignition. The car cools down almost immediately.