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A loud crack sounds from the plate, and we watch the ball sail high. Shane runs past the white line toward us, catching the ball while continuing his stride.

Without hesitation, I launch myself over the couple to my left, catching myself before I faceplant onto the concrete stairs. After muttering a quick apology, I race toward the outfield wall, waving my hands over my head and shouting Shane’s name.

His copper brows bunch as he jogs over to me. “Willow, why aren’t you in the family area? Has there been a problem?” He glowers at home plate, taking a step in that direction.

“No!” I extend my palms, leaning halfway over the wall. “Mallory and everyone have been incredible. It’s just…really far from here, and I wanted to see you better.”

He blinks, stunned for two seconds before the sweetest half-smile lifts his lips. I almost want to holler at the fans I’d been sitting beside to take a gander at my adorable husband, but there’s no time. Because Shane is transferring the ball from his glove to his throwing hand.

“Wait! Don’t give it to the baseball kid.”

The corner of his mouth hikes even higher. “The baseball kid?”

“Or ball wrangler or whatever they’re called.”

“Ballperson,” he says, fully grinning now.

The organ in my chest does an artful backroll into a handstand, but I remind it that we’ve got other hearts to win right now.

“Right. Ballperson. Don’t give it to them. Throw it into the stands. Actually”—I turn, pointing—“could you throw it at my 17th-century friend?”

“Your who?”

“The guy who looks like the fourth musketeer. It would make his day.”

Shane makes eye contact with the man, gives him an upward nod, then lobs the ball directly into his awaiting glove. The stands erupt like Shane just threw them a nugget of pure gold. D’Artagnan lifts his glove in victory, his beer belly peeking out from beneath his Waves shirt.

“Thank you,” I say, grinning like a loon.

Shane holds my gaze for a heady beat. “Anything for you, Willow.”

Before I can say anything, Shane is called to the dugout. I watch him sprint back, absolutely entranced, until D’Artagnan jostles me into a side hug.

“How’d you get him to do that?”

I bounce my shoulders. “I just asked.”

“Incredible. Do you want a hot dog or something? I feel like I owe you.”

“Oh, no.” I grin. “That’s not necessary.”

When Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” blasts through the speaker system, I startle. That means Tenny is up, and he’s before Shane in the list—er, lineup. I’ll need to run if I want to get back to the family section before Shane bats again.

“I’ve got to go. Nice meeting you, though.” After racing up three steps, I stop. “Actually, if you and everyone else could cheer Shane on, I’d appreciate it. Go sportsball!”

The man gives me a funny look, but I don’t have time to correct my mistake.

I barely have time to get back to my assigned seat.

When Shane searches for me in the crowd as he walks up to the plate, sending me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, I realize I’ve got two problems.

One, I’ve instantly become a diehard Waves fan.

And two, I’ve got it bad for my fake husband.

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