Naomi got a glimpse of Morey out in the field with a whistle between his teeth. He had everyone in a line, touching their toes in what must have been some sort of stretching routine. She shot him a little wave.
When she looked back, Ethan was staring at her borrowed glove. She’d pulled it out of her bag and tucked it under her arm on the way in.
His dark brows drew together. “Aren’t you left-handed?”
“Yeah.” Maybe Morey wasn’t the only one checking her out after all.
“That’s a right-handed glove.” He reached out and took it from her, flipping it over so she could see the thumb.
“Oh. I didn’t realize.” She was going to maim Josh. “You definitely need a glove to play, right?”
Ethan squinted at her. “Wait a second, have you ever played softball?”
Naomi snatched the glove back. “Not exactly.”
Leah had said she’d be fine. Besides, it didn’t look all that athletic on TV.
Ethan’s eyebrows climbed. “Have you ever held a bat?”
“Strictly speaking, no.” She smirked. “But I am familiar with the relative shape of the instrument.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nostrils.
“Is that gonna be a problem?” She figured a synagogue rec league populated by senior citizens would be grateful to have anyone under fifty join the team.
Naomi could tell Ethan was holding himself back from answering.
“Seriously, do you not want me to play?”
He could have told her before she’d driven all the way out here.
“I just... don’t like to lose,” he said quietly, not meeting her eyes.
A harsh burst of laughter punched its way out of her chest.
“You don’t like to lose?” Never in a million years would she have pegged Millennial Moses as a poor sport. Metaphorical insects took up residence in her belly.
He took off his hat and ran his hands through his hair. It was growing past his ears—too long for a rabbi, probably, but just right for his face. “It’s pretty embarrassing, actually. A family trait. Leah’s almost as badas I am. My mom refuses to play board games with us anymore. She literally burned our Uno deck after a particularly brutal game at brunch.”
For someone who wanted to win, Ethan had a team that didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
One of the players Morey was leading in the outfield was using a walker. Though she supposed he’d have time to adjust to that before the game started.
“I know they don’t look like much,” he said, following her gaze, “but we’ve been practicing for months, and they’re surprisingly spry.” He gave her a critical look. “We’ve got some extra gloves in the equipment shed. There might be a leftie. I suppose you can’t do that much damage in the outfield.”
“Hey.” She thwacked him in the chest with Josh’s glove. “I could be great. You don’t know. I happen to have great hand-eye coordination.”
“All right, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He pointed to a bunch of bats resting against the metal backstop.
Naomi dropped her uniform, glove, and purse on the bench and then grabbed a bat, surprised by how heavy the metal was in her hand. The ball was the size of a small grapefruit. Surely she could at least make contact.
“What if I hit someone?” The last thing she needed was to clock Morey in the head before the game even started.
Ethan brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled, gesturing for the team to clear the outfield. The sight of his parted lips made her shiver.Down, girl.
This whole picture—uniformed, competitive, bare-forearmed Ethan—was affecting her breathing. Maybe instead of hitting the ball, she could just run at him and throw her legs around his waist?
Taking his place on the pitcher’s mound, Ethan demonstrated his windup so she could anticipate the motion. “Ready?”