Maggie laughs, sliding her cheese into its wrapper. “Fine — start smaller. A wave, a smile, a casual ‘So, Coach, liked the infield drill today.’”
“That sounds completely natural,” I deadpan.
She heads for the door, mask cracking when she smirks. “Night, Addy. Dream sweet — preferably about forearms and baseball caps instead of doom and gloom.”
I internally roll my eyes at her. Just then my phone buzzes. Meredith Langford!
Hey Addy, status check! The arch design file came through this morning — cute — but I assume we’ll refine? Also, Vivienne had to take the waist in another quarter-inch. Perfection takes vigilance! Can’t take a second off, got to stay on top of everything.
Evening, Meredith! Concession-stand fundraiser just wrapped, but I’ve confirmed lumber delivery and will be on-site Monday morning as scheduled. This week’s task list: footing depth, stain swatches, updated floral mock-up.
Footings, fabulous. Just ensure no one sees footings. I want the structure to float, not resemble a 4-H barn raising. BTW, someone sent me a candid from the ballpark — young man in a backwards cap “fixing something” beside you? Locals love their gossip.
Across the outfield, Dylan tosses a bag of bats into his truck bed, forearms catching the glow of the floodlights. My pulse does a little hop.
One of the volunteer coaches. Maggie roped him into helping out when the soda line burst. Very handy in a pinch.
Volunteer coaches, how… heartland. Just remember: experienced professionals, especially a woman of your refined years, must guard their brand. Pairing competence with, shall we say, youthful distractions invites chatter.
I inhale through my nose. “Refined years,” really?
My focus is entirely on delivering an impeccable event. Community volunteers pitch in all the time here. It’s part of Bluewater Cove’s charm.
Charm sells jam, dear. My guests expect sophistication. On another note, Daddy arrives a little less than 1 week before the wedding for a walk-through; loose boundaries, bolts, or volunteer handymen will not impress.
Noted. You’ll have a polished site and a flawless schedule by then.
Splendid. Off to sip my chamomile and visualize perfection. Night!
I lock up and step outside. Under the field lights across the park, Coach Dylan hoists the last buckets of softballs into his truck, muscles flexing in perfect silhouette.
I’ll hang on to that and not the high-intensity texting with a bridezilla in the making.
5
FRIENDLY RIVALRY
SATURDAY, AUGUST 30TH
Dylan
Saturday evening. We’re at our last game of the day. The late summer sun beats down on the Birch Harbor Hawks as they take the field, their navy-and-gold uniforms a little too crisp for players who’ve already eaten their weight in funnel cake. I jog out to the dugout, clipboard in hand, trying to look like a coach who has his act together. This is the semi-finals. We’ve got to be at our best.
Truth is, I’m distracted. I keep thinking about my brief stint as an accidental soda machine repairman.
I shake my head, trying to refocus on the game. The dugout smells like sweat, sunscreen, and gum long past its prime. My nephew, Owen, waves at me from the outfield, his glove nearly falling off his hand as he attempts some kind of elaborate superhero pose. I check to see if his mom, my older sister, is watching him from the bleachers.
“Eyes on the ball, Owen!” I call, though my tone lacks the usual bite. It’s hard to be mad at a kid who just wants to look cool.
The first pitch is a little high but manageable, and the batter connects with a satisfying crack. The ball arcs through the air, but my attention doesn’t follow it. Not really.
Instead, my eyes drift back to the bleachers.
She’s there. The concession stand queen and apparent master of juggling hot dogs and chaos. She’s sitting at the end of the bottom row, closest to me, her curly hair catching the sunlight, holding what looks like a notebook and chewing the end of a pen. The bleachers are crowded with parents yelling advice that no ten-year-old will ever take seriously, but somehow, she stands out.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s how she’s laughing at something the woman beside her said or how she balances perfectly on the edge of her seat, fully invested in the game. Or maybe it’s because she completely embarrassed herself yesterday and still managed to fire back at me with just the right mix of sarcasm and charm.
We’re done with the first inning, and I seize the moment to step away from the dugout. “Watch your swings, Hawks!” I shout, just to maintain appearances. Then I walk toward the bleachers like I don’t have a plan — which is accurate, because I absolutely do not.
