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Seventy-five degrees, blue skies, brilliant sunshine: it's a perfect day to spend at the ballpark. "Go Wolfcubs!" yells Derek, standing and clapping as Linnea's team trots onto the field. It's 0-1, halfway through the first inning, and Stiles fears for the general health and safety of every other Little League parent around them.
"Okay," he says with a sigh. He stands up and makes gimme hands at Derek. "If you're going all apocafan again, at least give me the baby."
Derek looks over, baffled. "He's sleeping," he points out, gesturing to Adam, nestled happily in the Baby Bjorn strapped to his chest. "We shouldn't wake him."
"And you don't think you shouting from the top of the bleachers is going to wake him?" asks Stiles.
"He'll be fine," Derek says, turning back to the field, where their daughter is throwing to second. "GO LINNEA."
"Oh, geez," murmurs Stiles, sitting down again.
It turns out to be a pretty good game, Derek's yelling notwithstanding. The Wolfcubs even up at the bottom of the first, get ahead by one run in the third, then lose the lead in the fourth when Charlie Lewis forgets everything he's ever been taught about how to pitch. It's agonizing, watching each ball pass outside the plate, hearing Scott, who's umping, call each one in turn.
"They should call her in," says Derek, sitting down as the teams switch places. "She'd show 'em."
Stiles nods. "She would. But maybe this week's not her turn."
Derek hmmphs. "Turns," he mutters, sounding put out.
"The point is more than winning," Stiles reminds him. "She's eight."
"And good enough to graduate to play with the nine year olds," Derek shoots back.
Stiles nods. He's as proud of Linnea as Derek, loves watching her tear around the bases, dark pigtails streaming behind her; loves her fearlessness, even if it does result in grass stains and streaks of dirt all over her uniform when she dives for the ball. Adam burbles in his sleep and Stiles absently runs a hand over his downy head. "We'll see," he says pragmatically, and claps as Tommy Anderson heads up to bat.
"TOMMY," Derek yells, puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. Adam doesn't so much as flinch, which is one of the reasons why he is the best baby in the whole damn world, thinks Stiles.
Linnea bats and strikes out in three, despite the enthusiastic verbal encouragement from her dad. Then the teams are switching places again, and Linnea is the last to run out onto the field, heading straight for the pitcher's mound with a baseball in her hand. Stiles readies himself for whatever Derek's set on shouting next, but Derek's apparently so overcome with joy he's speechless, standing up with his hands in the air, grinning wide.
Stiles smiles. He's pretty damn fond of Derek, competitive streak and all.
When he turns back to look at the field, it's to see his daughter poised on the pitcher's mound, a study in absolute concentration. She looks so small, mouth set in a determined line, eyebrows furrowed – Derek's mini-me in every way. She throws her first pitch, and it's a strike, making Derek whoop. She throws another, and another, and the first and second players from Henderson township traipse back to their team looking desperately chagrined.
"That's our daughter," says Derek, puffed up with pride.
It's her second pitch to player number three that has Scott yell, "BALL." Derek makes a sound of outrage that only magnifies when her third pitch is similarly called.
"IT WAS FINE. ARE YOU BLIND?" he yells, and Scott briefly glances in their direction.
Pitch four is a strike, pitch five a ball. "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME," yells Derek. "THAT WAS PERFECT."
Scott shakes his head, adjusts his face protection. Stiles stands up, calmly unbuckles the Baby Bjorn and lifts Adam into his arms. Experience suggests this will be a wise move in approximately –
– five seconds. "BALL," shouts Scott, and Derek is off, stomping down the bleachers, experimenting with metaphors to get across his feelings about Scott in a way that nine year olds won't understand.
Stiles smiles apologetically at the other parents around him, waves at his daughter and sways to keep Adam soothed. Below, Scott has ripped off his mask and is poking Derek in the chest. Derek's momentum slows for a second, then he draws in breath as if to unleash all hell and damnation, when Scott says, "YOU'RE OUT."
Derek gasps.
"YOU'RE OUT," says Scott, pointing off the field, and there's a round of applause from almost everyone at the game. Linnea shakes her head and adjusts her stance at the mound. Derek splutters, looks up at Stiles, and then storms away, heading to the parking lot, pouting furiously.
Stiles isn't too worried. They parked with a great view of the field. He made sure of it.
The Wolfcubs win, 8 to 7, and Stiles slings the diaper bag over his shoulder, carries Adam down to the field where Linnea is waiting, beaming, bouncing on her toes, cap in hand. "Did you see, Daddy?" she asks. "I got so many strikes!"
Stiles grins and kisses her dirty forehead. "You did," he says, pulling her into a hug against his hip. "You were awesome."
"Dad was rude," she says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.
"Yes he was," says Stiles, rummaging in his bag for her juice. He passes it over. "Let's go tell him that," he suggests, and he claps Scott on the shoulder as they pass, waves to Kira, hitches the bag a little higher as they walk across to the car.
Derek's already walking toward them. He's blushing, Stiles notes, tickled.
"Sorry," Derek says to Linnea, getting down on one knee so he's closer to her height. "I shouldn't have been such a . . . "
Linnea waits.
"Schmuck?" he finishes.
Linnea nods. "You do this every week, Dad."
Derek screws up his face and nods. "I do."
"You gotta be nicer. Especially to Uncle Scott."
Derek nods again.
"Go say you're sorry," Linnea says, pointing back toward the field.
Derek blanches. "To Scott?"
Linnea nods. "And then you can have ice cream," she says, the whole thing clearly worked out in exacting detail in her head.
Derek blows out a long breath. "Okay," he says, standing up. He tugs on the hem of his t-shirt. "Okay." And he walks back to the field again, waits for Scott to be done talking to another parent, actually shuffles foot to foot.
"Good job," Stiles whispers to Linnea.
She preens. "Thank you very much," she says back.
Derek seems to be apologizing if the abashed look on his face and the barely contained amusement on Scott's is anything to go by. Scott rests a hand on Derek's shoulder, shakes him gently as he says something Stiles can't hear, and Derek smiles a little, nods in agreement, shakes his hand.
"Okay?" Derek asks as he comes back toward them.
Adam yawns and opens his big brown eyes. He blinks solemnly at Stiles, then smiles in recognition.
"We're okay," says Linnea, and grabs for Derek's hand. Derek pinks up again as she grins at him. "Ice cream?"
"Ice cream," he agrees, and glances at Stiles.
"Numbskull," Stiles says fondly and leans in to kiss Derek's cheek. Adam squawks happily. "Your turn on diaper duty."
"Fair," says Derek, and he swings Linnea from his arm as they walk back to the car. It's 75 degrees with blue skies and brilliant sunshine, a perfect ballpark kind of day.