“Coop’s busy hunting four-leaf clovers.” She nudges my hip.
As I turn to make a drink for the next customer, the fountain coughs — a wet, choked gurgle — and flatlines. Customers groan.
Maggie claps. “Manifestation works fast.”
“Clamp’s just loose.” I duck under the counter, wiggle the hose exactly like the coach showed me. Syrup splatters my arm; the carbonation roar returns. The line cheers — so does Maggie.
“Look at you, Soda Machine Whisperer Jr.” She tosses me a towel. “Admit it — you felt the spark.”
“I can handle hoses without sparks.” Still, a ridiculous grin sneaks out. Fixing it feels like inheriting a superpower.
Orders surge, then taper. During a pitching change, Maggie elbows me. “You still single because you’ve sworn off men or because you keep organizing them into committees?”
“I’m busy,” I protest. “And not in the mood to be cheated on again because I have a busy schedule.”
“Schedule a date then: Friday, 7 p.m., optional agenda item — hot soda machine repairman.”
I choke. “I don’t even know the guy’s name! And didn’t you notice he’s a tad younger than me?”
“That’s what dates are for — fact-finding missions with snacks. And who cares about age difference?”
“I do, when it means that men are immature and…”
“It’s not because he’s younger that he’d cheat on you Addy,” Maggie quips. Famous last words.
Brett signals his pitcher: palm down, slow breath. The kid fires a strike. I glance at the Hawks’ group, still practicing.
“You’re staring,” Maggie sing-songs.
“I’m observing training strategies.”
“He has great form,” she whispers, definitely not talking about baseball.
Final out: Beavers win, 4 to 3. Our bleachers cheer. I shove the orange slice tub into Maggie’s hands. “Go — team mom duties.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll close. You celebrate with the team.”
She squeezes my arm, then hustles off. The Hawks coach gathers bats, then tips two fingers my way like he can feel my gaze. I pretend to polish the window, my heart thudding.
By nine, the lot’s half empty. I count cash, wipe counters, restock straws. Silence feels weird after hours of crowd noise.
Maggie pops her head in, bun frizzing out. “Cooper’s ecstatic. I’m heading home for the world’s cheesiest bath.” She peers over the counter. “But if you’re going to sit there doomscrolling, at least admit what you’re really doing.”
I keep thumbing my screen. “Catching up on world events.”
“Uh-huh.” She snatches the phone, squints, and grins. “Funny — these ‘world events’ all involve a certain Coach Cutie with heartbreak-blue eyes.”
I snatch it back, cheeks flaming. “I was not stalking Coach Cu— Dylan.”
Maggie props her chin on her hand. “Addy, you zoomed in on a team photo so close I could see the reflection in his sunglasses. That’s… dedication.”
“It was an algorithmic accident.” I fold napkins with unnecessary force. “Besides, he probably has a girlfriend. Or twelve.”
“Or none,” she sings. “And since you’re clearly invested, why not say hi tomorrow?”
“Because normal people don’t introduce themselves with, ‘Hi, I enlarged your sunglasses on Instagram.’”
