Top of the sixth. Runner on third, score still knotted. Kenzie steps to the plate, unicorn sticker on her helmet glinting in the sun. I call out from the box, “Picture the cotton candy stand!” — our private code for swinging loose and fearless. She grins, digs in, and cracks a liner over short. The run scores, and our bleachers explode with cheers and cowbells.
Last half-inning, one-run lead, two outs. A towering pop fly arcs toward shallow right. Ludovick and Liam — our identical twins — sprint converging paths. I hold my breath for a heartbeat, but they’ve practiced this a hundred times. Ludovick calls, Liam veers, and the ball smacks leather cleanly. Game over.
I don’t even get the words out before the kids swamp me in a sweaty hug. Parents cascade onto the field, camera phones flashing, picnic blankets turning into victory capes. I peel back enough to meet each player’s eyes, giving the praise they earned:
“Maya — that grit on pitch sixty-three? Pro stuff.”
“Jonah, you felt the tremor and steadied it. Proud of you.”
“Kenz, that swing … cotton candy for everyone.”
They glow brighter than the score-board.
As I scoop up the last stray helmet to let the next team take their place, a blur of sunshine-bronze curls catches the corner of my eye. She’s just stepped up to the concession window — a woman in a faded lake-green tee and high-rise jean shorts, her long, riotously curly hair bouncing against her shoulders with every easy shift of weight. The vendor cracks a joke; her answering laugh rings out light and clear, and when she smiles — wide, unguarded, impossibly bright — it feels like the late-morning sun just nudged the wattage up a notch. She taps the counter with a playful rhythm and only then angles her head toward the field. Our gazes collide across the base paths — hers a flicker of sea-glass green that holds, curious and steady, for one breath-stealing heartbeat. The chatter of parents fades, the squeak of cleats blurs, and it’s just that smile and those curls tethering me in place until Ollie’s glove claps the bench, jolting the world back into motion.
2
CONCESSION STAND
FRIDAY, AUGUST 29TH
Addison
As I step inside the shack, Maggie thrusts the nacho tray at me without a preamble. “I’m one ketchup packet away from a meltdown. And game one seems to be wrapping up. We’ll get a rush of customers soon.”
I set the tray on the counter and glance around. The concession stand is as chaotic as ever. Cramped stainless steel counters, the faint smell of burned popcorn, and a soda machine making ominous hissing noises. Outside, the noise of the crowd ebbs and flows like a tide.
“What’s the crisis?” I ask, tying on an apron that smells faintly of vinegar.
“Everything.” Maggie ticks off on her fingers. “We’re out of ice. The soda machine is acting possessed. Brett wants five funnel cakes for the team — five. And the seagulls are plotting another attack.”
“Business as usual,” I say, reaching for the cash register as a mom in a sweatshirt that reads Beavers Rule! hands me a crumpled ten-dollar bill.
“Not for me,” Maggie retorts, filling a popcorn bag with mechanical efficiency. “You live for this chaos. I remember our high school years! You volunteered for every committee like it was an Olympic sport.”
She’s not wrong. Yearbook editor, prom committee chair, volunteer coordinator — you name it, I ran it. Organizing has always been my thing, which is probably why I became an event planner. And yet, here I am, 37, wondering if there’s more to life than making sure the snack bar runs smoothly.
As Maggie turns to refill the nacho cheese dispenser, I glance at the field. Cooper, Maggie’s eleven-year-old, stands in the outfield in his oversized Bluewater Beavers uniform, looking like he’s just spotted a dragonfly.
“Is Cooper playing well?” I ask, sliding a soda across the counter to a teenage girl with braces.
“He’s... enthusiastic,” Maggie says, following my gaze. “Last week, he found a caterpillar in the grass and named it Ted. Brett’s trying to teach him to focus, but honestly? Ted might be our team mascot soon.”
I laugh, picturing Cooper introducing Ted to the team. Maggie’s son is sweet but easily distracted, much like his dad, who’s coaching tonight. Brett’s the assistant coach for the Beavers, a role he takes seriously, though not as seriously as Maggie takes keeping this shack running.
“Speaking of Brett,” I say, glancing around, “where’s Hannah?”
Maggie waves dismissively. “Hanging out with her friend by the bleachers. She’s at the age where helping me is the most uncool thing ever.”
I nod knowingly, handing a bag of candy to a kid who can barely reach the counter. The steady rhythm of transactions almost distracts me from the ache in my feet, a souvenir from today’s wedding expo in Elmwood. If I have to hear the phrase “rustic but elegant” one more time, I might scream.
“Hey, you okay?” Maggie asks, her sharp eyes catching the sigh I didn’t mean to let slip.
“Fine,” I lie, plastering on a smile.
She doesn’t buy it. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
