I blow to clear the renewed plume of smoke emanating from her machine as I study her work. “What happened right before this started?”
“It, um,” she starts, voice wobbling. “I just turned it on after I put the final gears in and it did this.”
I twist my lips to chew on them, peeking into the device. “Did you grease the gears?”
She lets out a quiet curse. “I guess I forgot.”
I want to pat her shoulder, but I hold back. “No big deal. Let it cool off and try again after you’ve greased it. It’ll be alright. Maybe check the parts to make sure nothing’s warped before you turn it on again.”
“What do I do if it’s warped?” she asks.
“I could help you . . . next time I see you?” I flick a glance up to the clock. Now I’m running late to my team’s Little League practice. I hate being late. A lot. I wince. “I’m so sorry, Michele, but I have to take off. I’ve got kids waiting on me.”
I scramble to shove my water bottle and laptop in my backpack, cutting the power to my robot and bolting for the door.
“Oh, my bad,” she says. “Have a good night?”
“Yep!”
* * *
The kids areabsolute hooligans tonight. It’s late May, so they’re all in their last week of school and antsy as can be. Plus, there’s the matter of their age.
I’ve been with this team for two years, watching them grow from missing-toothed chuckleheads to almost-pre-teens. This means the beginnings of flirting and hormones flying. There have already been several outbursts that made me change up the drills, anything from unnecessary horseplay to almost-brawls breaking out.
From ten year olds.
Now we’re doing drills to get kids on base and try to steal the next one. Brayden purposely hits Eliza with a pitch, and it seems like we’re getting into the age of doing anything to get the opposite sex’s attention. Lucky for me, Eliza doesn’t need anybody to stick up for her. She rips off her helmet, charges the mound, and pushes Brayden to the ground.
I blow my whistle, which is the one thing they’ll listen to tonight.
“You know what?” I call out, not really in the mood to discipline the kids. They just need to get their energy out. “Home run derby. I’ll pitch. Crank ‘em as hard as you can. Brayden, Eliza, you’re shagging balls, but stay away from each other. Let’s go.”
I take the mound and launch pitches until my arm aches, killing the clock until I can return these kids to their parents.
I blow my whistle to signify the end of practice and start my routine of saying goodbye and gathering up helmets, bats, and balls. By the time I’m throwing the last bag of balls into the bed of my truck, I notice Brayden’s still leaning against the fence, kicking at a patch of dirt.
“Hey, Bray. Your mom not here yet?”
He won’t meet my eyes. “My phone’s dead. I don’t know where she is.”
“No worries. We’ll find her,” I say. I pull my phone out of my pocket, unlock the screen, and hand it to him, ready to dial. “You want to give her a call?”
He takes the phone and I step away until he holds it out to me. “She wants to talk to you.”
* * *
I havea strict policy against letting kids from my team ride in my car, or from spending any time alone with them at all. The potential for eyebrows to raise or accusations to go around is too high.
But Brayden’s mom was in a real bind at her job as a nurse, having to stay way too late to wrap up a patient issue. I was starving, and Brayden was clearly upset about not having a ride.
So here I am, having dinner with a ten year old who is very much not my child. I love the kids I coach, but hanging out one-on-one for over an hour at the end of a long day was not on my bingo card for today. Thankfully, his mom texted that she was leaving the hospital about five minutes ago.
“I think you still got wing sauce on your face, bud,” I say, gesturing to my own face. “Why don’t you go clean up? When you get back, your mom should be here.”
Brayden slides out of the booth and I slump back, checking my phone for the millionth time to see if Brayden’s mom is here.
I scan my surroundings, and that’s when I see her.
