Page 122 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“Come play with me.”

“I will, bud,” I say, tapping out a few more words. “Let me just finish this sentence.”

“Moooom! Mom. Mom. Mom!” He times each mom with a bounce of his ball.

Mom. Bounce. Mom. Bounce. Mom. Bounce.

Overstimulated, much?

I exhale softly and close my eyes…then my computer.

“Let’s play for ten minutes. Then I really need to finish this, okay?”

We still need to go to the store—because, apparently, Ollie needs burgundy suspenders for tomorrow. Would it have been nice to know this before? Say, to have known it one to two days ago, like when a certain online retailer could have shipped them directly to my porch?

Absolutely.

Did Ollie’s teacher just send the paper with the dress code home with him this afternoon?

Yup.

Groaning to myself, I push up to my feet and catch the ball he bounces my way. “Four Square?” I ask.

“You know it!”

I grin at the glimpse of Smitty in my boy and dish my serve over to him on our makeshift Four Square court.

It’s nothing but some painter’s tape on the back deck.

But it does the trick for my newly Four-Square-obsessed kiddo.

Luckily, I have some Four Square skills myself.

He grunts as he hits the ball back to me and we have a fun little rally for a few minutes before he eventually misses and I score a point.

My lead only lasts for a couple of minutes because my boy is learning more than funny sayings (and curse words—and, okay, I may also be to blame for that considering my penchant for f-bombs while driving) from the men of the Grizzlies—he’s also picking up some of their competitive spirit.

He hits the ball in my direction and I miss.

And then we’re tied.

And then I’m behind.

And then…it doesn’t take ten minutes for my kiddo to wipe the court with me.

Panting slightly, I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and kiss him on the top of his head. “Okay, goofy goober, time for you to play by yourself for a bit while I finish this up.”

“All right,” he says, but it’s mopey.

And it makes my heart ache…and the Mom Guilt rears its ugly head.

I need to work to support us, to quite literally keep a roof over our heads.

But having to put playing with my kid on the back burner freaking kills.

Still, I do it, focusing back on the synopsis and managing to finish up a first draft of it when⁠—

“Mom, I’m hungry!”