I can’t say I love the way she’s letting me know I don’t belong here. A cool breeze shutters past our station. The sun’s gone down and it’s cooling off noticeably. I’m starting to think I was stupid for showing up to this activity tonight. And for letting Opal talk me into taking this job. Principal Bennett hadn’t been keen to take me on, but she did it for her mother. I thought things were going well; no other parents have complained about me. I feel I have a good rapport with the students and the staff. Until last year, I never questioned anything myself. Self-assurance was something I had in spades, but now? One mom is turning that upside down.
Maybe it’s not too late to become a base coach for the Boise Falcons—working for a farm baseball team would at least get me back into my world of expertise. Or I could always ask Tom for a job at Gin and Bear It. I don’t have time to worry about any of this right now, though, because here come our first students of the night.
“I’m ready.” Reese hands over her tickets and grabs a coconut, tossing it from hand to hand. “Time for you to walk the plank.”
I climb into position and brace myself for what’s coming. Channeling my best Jack Sparrow in a warbling, drunkenBritish voice, I call out, “This is the day you will always remember as the day you almost caught?—”
“Hang on, kids, gotta test it first for safety,” Nola says, punching the bullseye with the side of her fist and launching me into the cold.
6
MAXFORD
My night consisted of a solid two hours of waterboarding. Every single time I breathed a sigh of relief, seeing somebody step up who I knew couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a basketball, seconds later, I’d find myself plopping back into the cold. Nola made it her mission to boost everybody’s self-esteem tonight—bullseyes for everybody was her MO.
She’d let them throw one or two coconuts haphazardly before squawking out parrot-like, “What do we want Coach to do?” and the kids in line would bellow, “Walk the plank!” Then she’d casually bump into the bullseye with her shoulder or knock it with her elbow. The last thing I’d hear is the roar of shrieking giggles and shouts before I’d be waterlogged again.
When the moon climbs high into the dark sky and the kids are literally buzzing from too much sugar, the carnival comes to a close and I drag my over-saturated self out of the tank. An immediate puddle forms on the grass around me as I peel off the various layers of clothing. First the hat and wig, then thebeard and mustache, the boots, and finally I shed the jacket and wring it out.Left in only a thin shirt and pants, I’m freezing.
Nola rolls a collapsible wagon out from behind the table and reaches inside, producing a stack of towels. Walking with too much swagger toward me, she holds one out. “Here.”
I don’t move and she motions again for me to take it. My pride says I’m fine; I’m five minutes from home and will be in a hot shower in no time. However, rationale is betrayed by uncontrollable chattering teeth, and I reluctantly reach out for it.
“Is this your attempt at some kind of penance?” I ask, tossing the long jacket to the ground and wrapping myself up. The oversized towel is bright pink, fluffy, and smells like lavender. It’s nothing like the charcoal gray towels I bought on clearance that tend to be more scratchy than nice. If I take this one home, would she notice?
She stacks the remainder on the table and shoves the parrot hood off her head. Pulling her brown hair from its ponytail, she shakes out her hair with a hand and says, “Penance? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you’re right. All those kids are born pitchers. Makes complete sense every single one of them would hit the target.”
Her lips tug up on one side, and she reaches for another towel.
“I see it in your eyes: you know you’re at fault. Come on, you can say it. I’ll even help you,” I taunt, then falsetto my voice. “Max, you’re right. I was awful tonight and never should have single-handedly given you hypothermia.”
“Nobody asked you to wear a costume that would absorb so much water.” Nola steps toward me but hesitates a brief moment before swinging the second towel out and hooking itaround my shoulders. She’s shed the animosity she’s carried all night and replaced it with a mischievous glint in her eyes. The same one she had right before she laid one on me. “Luckily for you, I brought towels, knowing you wouldn’t think ahead.”
I tighten both pink, fluffy towels around me and don’t break eye contact. We’re standing inappropriately close for two people attending a family-friendly function, which also happens to be at my place of employment, but I don’t think anybody’s paying attention to us as they take down booths and corral their hyped-up children. This hot/cold approach she’s going for is new territory for me to navigate. Once upon a time I was given the title ofPeople Magazine’sMost Eligible Sports Bachelor and women were more than happy to throw themselves at me, no effort required on my part. Turns out, her take is way better. It’s fun not knowing exactly what she’s thinking when it comes to me. At the same time, I recognize I’m getting under her skin a little, by the way she huffs and rolls her eyes, but when she thinks I’m not paying attention, I see her smirks.
“Thanks.” I take the high road and lean into gratitude. “I appreciate you watching out for me.” And I really am grateful. It’s a late-October evening where I’m soaked—I’m thankful she took one look at me at some point and thought, ‘Now there’s a guy who can’t take care of himself.’ I wonder if she naturally considers all situations because she’s a mom first and foremost, so it’s part of her DNA, or if she had intentionally stopped and conscientiously thought of me as she prepared everything she needed to bring tonight. I hope it’s the latter.
When she stands this close to me, I’m reminded of how alone I’ve been the last year. Sure, there has been Stella and Ilove spending time with my grandma, and I love my sisters—I even look forward to our check-ins over FaceTime—but I’m in my mid-thirties. I’ve been a serial dater, loosely attached to somebody on the regular but never in any meaningful kind of relationship. Being on the road for baseball made that hard. At least that was the excuse I always gave myself. Alone was easier and kept me focused. I’ve forgotten how being in close proximity to a woman is, well, nice.
She twists her mouth and gives a resigned sigh before stepping back and loading the coconuts and empty cooler-turned-treasure chest into the wagon. I watch her, wishing I could read her mind, and take another towel, throwing it on top of the other two. Three is the magic number and I finally get the feeling back in my upper body again.
“Mom! What are we doing Saturday?” Emma runs up to Nola, swinging a plastic pumpkin brimming with candy. “Reese invited a group of us to go to Wahooz to do the go-karts and mini golf. Can I go?”
Nola puts her index finger on her lips while she thinks. “I don’t think we had any plans. Ask her what time she was thinking so I can take you.”
“No, that’s okay. Her mom’s going to take us and she’ll be there the whole time . . .” Emma lets that hang.
“Oh,” Nola's lips fall into a sad smile. “You don’t want me to come.” Emma doesn’t hear the disappointment in her mom’s voice and eagerly awaits the decision. “Sure, Em. That would be fun for you.”
“Yay!” the tween squeals. “I’ll go tell her right now!”
Remembering I’m there, Nola recovers quickly with a forced laugh. “Would you look at that? Sounds like I’ll be getting a few hours to myself on a Saturday!” She’s trying to make it sound like the best surprise of her life but it’s notlanding. “I don’t remember the last time that happened. What do people do with their free time anymore?”
The mention of Saturday puts Stella’s request front and center in my mind. “I know just the thing for you to do.”
“And what would that be?” Her question is a mix of amusement and curiosity.
