“This is not a date,” I say, heat creeping up my neck.
“Sure. But if it was, I’d give you points for creativity. Popcorn in a rainstorm? Bold move.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been clutching it like a lunatic. “Oh. Right.” I set it down on a bench nearby, trying to salvage what little dignity I have left.
“Rookie mistake,” he teases, leaning a little closer. “Rule number one of outdoor sports: always assume it’s going to rain.”
“And here I thought it was ‘always bring snacks,’” I counter, crossing my arms.
He chuckles, and it’s the kind of laugh that feels genuine, not the polite kind you give when someone makes a bad joke. “Fair point. Snacks are essential. But you’re still soaked, so…” He shrugs.
I glance down at my damp clothes and shrug back. “Part of the charm of small-town tournaments, right? Who needs luxury when you have character?”
“Exactly. And nothing says character like getting drenched while watching a bunch of ten-year-olds slide into puddles.”
I laugh, and for a moment, the rain doesn’t feel quite so miserable.
“So, what got you into construction? Was it always part of the plan, or something that fell into place?”
Dylan glances at the field, his gaze lingering on the kids playing in the rain. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll sidestep the question. But then he speaks, his voice thoughtful.
“It wasn’t really part of the plan. I was all about baseball in college. Had this big dream, you know? Make it to the majors, do what I love, and live the dream. But...” He pauses, his jaw slightly tightening as if he’s trying to choose his words carefully. “An injury benched me. Permanently.”
I don’t miss the flicker of emotion in his eyes and how his shoulders tense for just a beat before he shakes it off.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, wishing for a better response.
He shrugs, his smile small but genuine. “It’s life. You get curveballs, right? Construction wasn’t on my radar, but my uncle had a company, and I needed something to focus on after baseball was… done. Turns out I liked it. I like building things. Taking something from nothing and turning it into something solid, something people need.”
“So you traded curveballs for concrete. Still making people swoon, just with power tools now?”
He grins. “Only the ones who appreciate a good foundation.”
“You saying you’re solid and dependable, Coach?”
“I’m saying I don’t crumble under pressure.”
His words resonate, and I find myself leaning a little closer. “That makes sense. It’s kind of like coaching, isn’t it? Helping something grow, shaping it, putting your stamp on it.”
His grin widens, a bit of that easy confidence returning. “I never thought of it like that, but yeah. I guess so.”
“And coaching? Was that part of the curveball, too?”
His eyes soften as he looks back at the field. “Yeah. After I got hurt, I realized I still wanted to be part of the game, even if I wasn’t playing. Coaching lets me share what I know, what I love, with these kids. I get to help them find their passion for it.”
“That’s…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Really great, actually.”
He shrugs again, but his expression tells me my words mean something. “Baseball’s always going to be part of me. I couldn’t just give it up completely.”
I nod, letting the conversation settle momentarily as the rain lightens. It feels like a window has opened — just a crack — but enough for me to glimpse the person behind the grin and the quick comebacks.
“Looks like you’ve found your balance. Construction by day, baseball by... well, also day, I guess.”
He chuckles, the weight lifting from his expression. “Yeah, something like that. Though I think your version of balance — juggling events and glitter and committees — is probably more impressive.”
“Hey, glitter’s underrated. Don’t knock it,” I joke, and the warmth in his laugh feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
“You’d be surprised how much overlap there is. It’s not glamorous, but… I love it. Seeing everything come together, watching people enjoy something I helped create — it’s worth the stress.”
