He made sure their hands brushed when he handed her the condiment. She tried to hide the shiver of response that went through her at the contact.
“So when is Michael going to play?” Kit asked after eating his hot dog in only a few hungry bites.
Overhearing the question, Miranda hooted. “Michael’s, like, the worst player on the team,” she confided. “He sits on the bench until the team gets way ahead and then the coach sends him in.”
“What’s his weakness?”’ Kit asked, frowning.
“Batting. And catching. Probably pitching, too, but he’s never been given a shot at that,” Miranda answered before Savannah could jump in. “He’s been on a team every summer for the past four years—since he was nine—and he never gets any better.”
Kit shook his head. “Haven’t his coaches worked with him?”
“He’s had the same coach all along,” Savannah explained. “George Bettencourt—the pitcher’s dad,” she added.
“We must be ahead,” Miranda mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate-and-peanut candy bar. “There goes Michael out to right field.”
Savannah automatically tensed. She wanted very badly for Michael to do well today, particularly with Kit watching. She knew how embarrassed her son would be if he played poorly.
But the only hit that went in Michael’s direction sailed right over his head. And the only time he got up to bat he struck out.
“Oh, well,” Miranda said matter-of-factly. “At least we’re far enough ahead that he didn’t blow the game.”
“The boy can’t judge the distance of the ball,” Kit, who’d been watching intently, said with a shake of his head. “Have you had his eyes tested?”
“Yes
. The optometrist said there was nothing wrong with his eyes.”
“Maybe you should have him tested again. By an ophthalmologist, perhaps. Passing a simple eye-chart test doesn’t always reveal all visual problems.”
“Oh, you’re an expert on vision problems, are you?”
Kit grinned and batted his ridiculously long, dark eyelashes. “You think my big, brown eyes are naturally this shiny? Contacts. Astigmatism. And I played baseball in high school and college, even considered going pro. I know the game. I can give the boy some pointers, help him compensate a little for his trouble judging distance.”
Of course he’d played baseball. He’d probably been spectacular at it. The local sports hero, Savannah couldn’t help thinking. Just like Vince had been.
But she was doing it again. Comparing Kit to Vince. She had to stop that.
“And if it turns out that my son is just a really bad baseball player?” she asked, trying to keep her mind on their conversation.
He shrugged. “We all have our talents. I’m sure Michael has plenty. But I’ll still give him some tips.”
Savannah looked at him nervously. She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted Kit giving baseball advice to her son—or parenting advice to her, for that matter. She didn’t want him getting too deeply involved in her life, when she knew that it was inevitable that he would soon return to his own.
Miranda groaned loudly when a broad-shouldered, shaggy-haired boy swaggered up to the plate. “That’s Nick Whitley,” she told Kit. “The total creepazoid. He’s been bragging all day about how his dad told off Officer Henshaw.”
Kit glanced at Savannah. “The one you were telling me about?”
Savannah nodded grimly. “That’s the one,” she said, noticing Nick’s father, who was standing in the stands loudly jeering at the other team’s pitcher.
Nick swung and missed.
His father yelled at him. “Watch what you’re doing, you numbskull.”
Kit scowled. “Nice way to talk to his kid,” he muttered.
“It’s the way he talks to everyone,” Treva said over her shoulder, overhearing Kit’s comment. “Guy’s a jerk.”
Nick connected with the second pitch. He recklessly threw the bat and dashed toward first base. An error on the part of the center fielder sent the ball spinning into the outfield. While the players scrambled to retrieve it, Nick kept running. The crowd cheered him on.