59. Kate
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Kate
I’d been warned about the annual Taylor family New Year’s Eve cricket match. Multiple times.
Izzy had mentioned it like a rite of passage. Sue had called it “chaotic but good-hearted.” Jordan, meanwhile, had just smirked and said, “It gets competitive,” which I’d quickly learned was Taylor code for utter mayhem.
But I hadn’t truly understood the scale of it until I stepped out the back door into the sprawling garden at Jordan’s parents’ place, and walked directly into what looked like a semi-professional cricket arena—if said arena had fairy lights strung across the patio, coolers full of beer, and an eleven-year-old manning the scorecard with a Sharpie.
The backyard pitch was marked out in proper chalk paint. Folding chairs and coolers lined the sides. Kids were darting around with face paint and makeshift flags. Someone had rigged up speakers playing “Eye of the Tiger.”
And fight talk? Jesus. Already flying from both ends of the garden, like it was a family tradition passed down through generations. Jordan had a big family. Which meant big family gatherings. There were siblings, cousins, aunties, uncles. I’d lost track of who was who.
“God help us all,” I muttered, shading my eyes.
Jordan slung an arm over my shoulder, grinning like a man about to walk into battle in flip-flops. He had on a backwards cap, a pair of board shorts, and no shirt. Just sun-kissed skin and that maddening confidence of a man who still thought he was about to dominate his family in sport.
“Welcome to the Thunderdome, baby,” he mocked.
“Is this an actual match or a long-held personal vendetta disguised as tradition?” I asked.
“Both,” he said cheerfully, already eyeing off his cousin Paul like they had unfinished business.
His dad, Roger, was manning the barbecue, tongs in hand, shaking his head at the chaos. “You’d think they were playing for the bloody urn,” he muttered, but the pride in his voice gave him away.
Brody, already nursing a beer, called across the yard, “Oi, Jord, moustache won’t save you today!” Jordan flipped him off with a grin, and the kids screamed with laughter.
Jordan’s mum, Sue, was handing out sausage rolls with military precision while barking orders like an umpire. Uncle Ian, who had also cracked a beer before noon, was yelling, “SIX AND OUT, YA DOGS,” at absolutely no one, shirt already off, beer belly proud.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Jordan: tanned, nothing on his feet, shirtless, and rubbing sunscreen into his arms while he talked tactics like it was the Boxing Day Test at the MCG.
“You gonna play a bit?” he asked, looking over at me as I stood in the shade sipping a Diet Coke.
I shrugged. “Might have a bowl.”
His brows lifted. “Didn’t you say you played a bit when you were younger?”
I just smiled. “Something like that.”
What he didn’t know, what no one here knew, was that I hadn’t just played a bit. I’d captained Glamorgan Ladies U18s. Fastest bowling speed in the league for two seasons running. Had offers to go further, too, until uni, and life, and heartbreak pulled me elsewhere.
But some things? They were just muscle memory.
“Just don’t hurt yourself, babe,” he teased, tapping my bump with the back of his hand. “You’re growing my legacy.”
“Oh, piss off.” I laughed. “I’ll bowl one over, then sit with Sue and let her fatten me up on pastry and gossip.”
He winked, utterly oblivious, and jogged off. Clueless. God, he was in for it.
Half an hour later, Jordan’s team was up to bowl.
He called my name across the yard, smirking like he was setting me up for something cute.
“Alright, Kate, you up for a bowl?”
I peeled myself out of the deckchair, dusted the crumbs off my thighs, and stretched.
“You sure you’re okay to do this?” Sue asked, looking only half-convinced. “She’s almost five months pregnant!”
“I’m fine,” I said sweetly. “Just one or two.”
I strolled up to the makeshift crease, rolled my shoulders, and adjusted my baseball hat. The ball felt strange in my hand for half a second, then it settled. Like it remembered me.
Paul, smug, shirt untucked, chewing gum with the casual arrogance of a man about to be humbled, was at the crease. Adjusting his gloves like he was about to face Shane Warne reincarnated, not a pregnant Welsh girl with a ponytail.
I squared up. Found my rhythm. Then I let it rip.
The seam spun clean through the warm air and clipped the top of middle stump like something out of a bloody highlights reel. There was a second of total silence.
Then…
“JESUS CHRIST,” Ian bellowed. “That was a SEED!”
“BOWLED HIM!” Jordan’s voice rang out over the yard like he’d just seen the face of God.
He was frozen, mouth open, eyes wide. His hands were raised in a what in the actual hell gesture that had me grinning so wide it hurt.
I gave him a little wink. “I said I played a bit.”
Roger came over from the barbecue, still laughing. “Bloody hell, love. That’s the cleanest delivery this garden’s ever seen. You’ve just put half of them to shame.”
Brody nearly dropped his beer. “Mate, she’s carrying your kid and still bowls you under the table. Career highlight, right there. Forget Centre Court.”
Jordan groaned, pointing at his brother. “You just wait, Brodes. You’re next in the firing line.”
Brody smirked at me, raising his bottle. “Rather face him than you.”
The laughter roared around me, and Jordan stalked toward me, grinning like a man undone.
“You lied to me.”
“No,” I said, still grinning. “You just didn’t ask the right questions.”
“You’ve been holding out on me.”
“I like to pace myself.”
“You’re bloody outrageous.” He reached me, grabbed my bum with both hands, and spun me around with a delighted groan.
I yelped, laughing. “Jordan!”
“You absolute menace. You’ve made my whole year.” He kissed my temple. “God, I love you. That was so hot.”
“Glad to be of service.” I leaned into his chest, catching my breath.
Brody called over, “She’s on my team next year!”
“Hell no!” Jordan shot back. “I’m signing her to a long-term deal.”
The rest of the game went on in a blur of laughter, and sausage rolls, and heat, and half-hearted cheating. I sat with Sue after my two overs, feet up, belly full, sun on my skin. Jordan glanced over at me constantly, like he couldn’t quite believe it, and honestly, neither could I.
Because this wasn’t just a game.
This was family.
This was home.
And I’d bowled myself right into the heart of it.
By nightfall, the cricket pitch had transformed into something out of a bloody movie. I quickly learned Sue was the hostess of the family. Thrived on it. I could only imagine the birthday parties these kids must have had.
Fairy lights twinkled between the trees like fireflies.
Benches and folding chairs had been arranged into haphazard clusters around trestle tables, now groaning under the weight of every type of homemade food imaginable.
Sandwiches, pastries, salads, desserts. All of it out under the stars.
There was music humming from an old Bluetooth speaker on the patio, the playlist flickering between 70s rock and early 2000s hits before Bella started demanding the soundtrack to Wicked in preparation for her solo performance.
To which I was the guest of honour apparently.
The air had finally cooled, soft and honeyed now, though the laughter was still loud. Kids darted barefoot through the grass with glow sticks in their hands. Someone had lit citronella candles, the scent of lemon and eucalyptus mingling in the warm air.
And Jordan was three beers deep and unreasonably proud of himself.
His shirt was still nowhere to be seen. The backwards cap was still on. He had a red Solo cup in one hand and was currently engaged in a beer pong match with three of his cousins and his brother, which had somehow turned into a full-contact sport.
I watched, in complete hysterics, as he did some kind of aggressive pre-serve shimmy that included a pelvic thrust and a celebratory shoulder roll.
“Thank God he doesn’t do that on a tennis court,” I wheezed from my lawn chair, doubled over with laughter.
Sue, sitting beside me with a flute of prosecco, didn’t even blink. “He takes this very seriously.”
Izzy snorted into her lemonade. “God help us, he’s doing the shuffle.”
“Good grief. I’m marrying that man,” I said.
“You’re stuck with him now, love.” Izzy grinned.
Jordan lined up another shot with one eye closed, tongue poking out in concentration, and landed it perfectly. The ball dropped into the cup with a neat little splash.
He flung his hands in the air like he’d just won Wimbledon all over again.
“LEGEND!” he bellowed.
The entire cousin crew under the age of ten screamed it back: “LEEEGEND!”
I genuinely couldn’t cope. My stomach hurt from laughing. My cheeks were sore. My heart was full.
“I can’t…” I choked out, tears pricking my eyes from the sheer ridiculous joy of it all. “He’s unbearable.”
He jogged over like he’d just scored a hat trick, crouched beside me, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy with pure, tipsy affection. He smelled like beer and summer.
“You good?” he asked, slurring just enough to make my insides melt.
“Perfect,” I said, grinning.
“Need anything? More food? A drink? A back rub? Lifetime devotion? Someone to build you a house? I’ll do it, babe. I’ll learn to tile a floor.”
I laughed. “Maybe just a kiss.”
He gave me one without hesitation. It was sloppy and beer-flavoured, and honestly, somehow perfect.
“You’ve got sparkles in your eyebrow,” I said, dabbing at his face.
“Courtesy of the team MVP.” He pointed toward Bella, who was now chasing one of the boys with an open bottle of glitter like she was armed and dangerous.
I didn’t think my heart could be any fuller.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” I murmured, the laughter quietening now.
Jordan looked around at the fairy lights strung through the trees, at the cousins shrieking over who’d knocked over the plate of sandwiches, at the backyard chaos, at me…and the small curve of our son between us.
And then he looked back at me, smiling so softly it nearly undid me.
“I didn’t know I could be this happy.”
And God help me, neither did I.