Penelope's arm spins like a windmill, and the ball sails across the plate, cracking into the catcher's mitt like a gunshot. She doesn't hear the cheering, or the taunts from the bench opposite. She stretches her head from side to side, throws her shoulders back, shakes out her hands, steps back up onto the mound.
The ex is there: the kids wanted to watch the game so he brought them, even though — as he reminded her — it's his weekend. He's talking, nursing a beer, looking around, buried in his phone.
Allison is in the front row, and sees only Penelope.