Ethan marches right up to a group of kids and joins their conversation. His shoulders are relaxed, his head falling back as he laughs at something one of the boys says.

I spot a set of bleachers behind home plate. A few mothers are sitting with blankets around them and travel mugs beside them.

Overachievers.

But as I look at Ethan and see how bravely he’s trying new things—maybe I need to step out of my comfort zone too.

I blow out a breath and grab a plaid blanket from the back seat. Then I fold it over my arm.

I’m still not going to be a baseball mom.

My eyes flip ahead of me as I start to climb out of my car. Then I stop.

Hand hovering over the door handle, body twisted to the side—I sit and return Cole’s stare.

He’s standing behind the dugout with a whistle around his neck. A clipboard is tucked under his arm, and the word COACH is printed on his black hat in bright-white lettering.

Coach?

I lift a brow. He lifts his too. Then a slow, hesitant smile slides across his lips.

Fuck.

CHAPTER TEN

PALMER

There’s no way.

I don’t move, despite my awkward position. Instead, I sit frozen in a half-twisted arrangement like the car yogi that I am not. Hell, my back will probably be sore from this in the morning.

The corners of Cole’s mouth turn higher and higher until they’re a mixture of dubious and smug.

There’s a half a car between us—metal, glass, and various viscous fluids—not to mention ten feet of gravel and air, and I still feel like I’m being pulled toward him.

My breath hitches, hitting such shallow depths that my watch warns me to breathe. The delicate chime alerting me to take a breath breaks the near trance of shock. What the heck?

Cole is Ethan’s coach?

Too many thoughts fly through my brain to grab ahold of any of them. I should sit back in my seat and refuse to deal with this until I can get a grasp of the situation, but that would be a very adult decision. I’m too fueled by adrenaline—and excitement and annoyance and annoyance at my excitement—to act responsibly.

I fling my door open and step into the brisk air. Forgetting all about my blanket, I cross my arms and cling to the opposite elbow in a poor attempt to keep warm.

Cole faces me head-on. He shifts his clipboard from under his arm to his hands and lets it hang at his side.

“Where’s your jacket?” he asks me.

“That’s what you lead with?”

I think if I were appropriately dressed, he would laugh.

“Seriously, Palmer. I expect to fight middle schoolers about wearing jackets, but not you.”

I stop a few feet in front of him and do my absolute best to avoid his cologne. That sure as hell won’t help anything.

“Tell me that the word emblazoned on your hat doesn’t mean what I think it means,” I say.