“Impressive,” I say — and mean it. Imagine what else she could pull off if she can juggle teens, malfunctioning machinery, and mystery chefs. “Must love this town.”
“I do. It’s home.”
“Same for Birch Harbor. Small, simple, occasionally too nosy.”
Maggie cackles. “Oh, he’d fit right in.” She punctuates the statement by flicking a marshmallow from the toppings station into a trash can twenty feet away. Nothing but net.
I test the machine one more time, satisfied with the steady flow. “Looks like it’s holding. If it starts hissing again, you’ll need an actual repairman or a bigger hammer.”
Addy rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of gratitude. “Glowing endorsement.”
“Hey, I’m a coach, not a magician.” I step out from behind the counter, brushing syrup flecks from my shirt, and discover a smear of mustard across my forearm from catching the flying hot dog, I guess. Addy laughs and wipes it away with a napkin, her fingers warm against my skin. For half a heartbeat, the dugout noise fades, leaving only the quick thud of my pulse and the faint strawberry scent of her shampoo.
I clear my throat. “I should get back before the Hawks turn the dugout into a batting cage brawl.”
“Good luck,” Maggie calls, delight practically leaking from her pores. “You’ll need it against the Beavers!”
I walk backwards a few steps, locking eyes with Addy. “Thanks for the soda, the towel, and the impromptu job interview. And don’t worry — I won’t hold it against you when we beat you in the finale.”
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you!” she shoots back — but I’m already turning, her voice chasing me into the crowd.
I join the team and their parents, who are settling in with picnic blankets. My nephew waves for warmups, pantomiming where have you been? I jog over, but my mind’s still behind that counter — sprite-green eyes, hot dog girl, sprinkle glinting on her cheek.
The kid slaps his glove, eager. “Uncle D, ready?”
“More than ready,” I tell him, tossing a ball skyward and catching it clean. Ready suddenly means more than baseball.
4
MUSTARD, MISCHIEF, & MAGGIE
FRIDAY, AUGUST 29TH
Addison
Maggie barely waits for the impromptu handyman to reach the infield before she whips around, eyes glittering. “So… does the Handy Hawk come with a phone number, or do we just whistle every time the soda sputters?”
I snort and swipe mustard off the counter. “Handy Hawk? You coined that in ten seconds?”
“Please, I’ve been work-shopping titles ever since he intercepted your flying wiener —”
“Stop.” I brandish ketchup-stained tongs. “One: not my wiener. Two: you drafted him into appliance surgery.”
“And three” — she ignores the weaponized tongs, leaning so close I smell nacho cheese — “you’re blushing brighter than the ketchup pump.”
“It’s hot in here.” I press a napkin to my flushed cheeks.
“It is precisely twenty-two degrees,” she replies, fanning herself with a nacho tray. “Want me to loosen another hose so Loverboy wanders back? Sabotage is a service I provide.”
“Sabotage is your love language,” I mutter, sliding pretzels and a root beer to Mr. Reynolds. He lingers, clearly enjoying the show.
A lull hits; the bleachers roar — Beavers at bat. Maggie props her elbows on the window ledge. “Look at him warming up the kids — broad shoulders, save-the-day energy. Like Captain America moonlighting as a little league coach.”
I glance fieldward. The coach is kneeling beside a kid, demonstrating a level swing, golden-hour light gilding his hair like the universe hired a lighting crew. “He’s alright.”
“He’s more than alright. He’s ‘Fine,’” she says wiggling her eyebrows.
“Shouldn’t you be hyping Cooper?”
