“Okay,” I say around the heaviness in my chest. “Get over there and warm up. I’ll . . . walk laps around the field or something.” And avoid Cole.

His face lights up, rewarding me with a megawatt smile. “Great!”

I really ought to be thankful. He’s not embarrassed by my presence and wants me there. With him. Part of his world with his friends. I know how lucky I am to still have a kid who wants Mom around.

I slip on my jacket and pointedly avoid acknowledging anyone or anything on the field except Ethan. He waves at me from right field before tossing a ball with slightly better “mechanics” to a boy with bright-green socks. As my gaze sweeps back to the outfield, I spot Cole near the pitcher’s mound next to a man wearing a visor.

The air is slightly warmer than it was this afternoon when Kirk and I walked to the shop office to see Burt. Burt had approved an invoice that was $300 too high and wasn’t too keen on his mistake being out in the open.

He was even less happy that I was the one to catch it.

I carry some of that weight with me as I walk next to the outfield fence. I wish there were a way to let the frustrations of work go when I clock out. But I find myself worrying about Kirk and the business more than I’d like.

“I wish I didn’t care so much,” I mumble as I step over a dandelion.

My steps come quicker as I find what I call a “worry rhythm.” When I finally look up, I’m nearly to the visitors-side dugout. My head is still at work, replaying Burt’s excuses, and doesn’t have time to scream at me to not look at the pitcher’s mound.

My gaze collides with Cole’s somewhere along the third baseline.

I stop walking. Stop moving. Nearly stop breathing as I get my bearings.

I’m sure he’s both used to my reaction—as he must get it wherever he goes—and wondering if it means I’ll say yes to his dinner invitation.

But what he can’t see is the knot in my stomach that refuses to unwind.

Maybe he didn’t notice that I liked his old post on social media. He might be the kind of guy who doesn’t check those things. I bet he has a million notifications anyway. It could’ve gotten buried.

The line of thought that I finally settled on around three this morning rolls through my brain. Not an hour has gone by today that I haven’t rested on this—the one plausible way out of the potential humiliation.

Cole says something to the man in the visor. The man nods and goes back to raking the dirt around the pitcher’s mound . . . and Cole walks toward me.

He saw it.