At the stadium, the fans continue their noise and Matthews is carried off the field after running across home plate. With one more wholehearted “Yeah!” I’m about to slideinto my booth and enjoy the rest of the game when a familiar voice says, “Turns out I forgot something.”
I flip around and there’s Ben Franklin, biting her lower lip, eyes laughing. I assume she’s forgotten to leave a tip, but she doesn’t head toward their table. Instead, she takes a step forward, making her way closer to me. She must have figured out who I am. Somebody probably said my name and she googled me, realized she had been talking to a (former) major athlete and now wants a selfie. I used to get this all the time. Or maybe she wants an autograph. If I’m really lucky, she’ll give me her phone number. I’m still new enough in town that dating isn’t happening, and I wouldn’t be opposed to hiking Table Rock with her sometime or getting pizza at that place in Hyde Park my elderly neighbor keeps talking about.
She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything, though, because she closes the gap between us. She’s blushing. Her hands grab both my biceps, and she pulls me in as she tips up on her toes and kisses me.
2
MAXFORD
For the record, I’ve been kissed by women I’ve just met—on more than one occasion. Hazard of being a major league baseball player. My older sister, Violet, claims women love a man in a uniform, and women have proven as much all over the country.
Tonight’s bar kiss elicits something new, though. Ridiculous costume aside, the moment her lips touch mine, I feel it. A spark. A desire to keep kissing her. To put one hand behind her head, the other on her waist, and take control. Ravish her and keep her forever. But none of that happens because almost as fast as she pulled me into it, she ends it. Her face is bright red, and she lets out a giggle behind the back of her hand as she stumbles away from me, not breaking eye contact. She exudes confidence and the whole moment is the sexiest I’ve ever witnessed—crazy outfit aside.
The room’s in an uproar of new cheers and whistles for the bold move they’ve witnessed. The bachelorette party, crowded around the front door, “woooo!” again, and beckon Ben Franklinback to the fold. Ben Franklin turns and runs for the door, and then they’re gone. I want to run out of the bar and ask for her name, her number . . . ask if I can kiss her again. I don’t know,something. But I’m frozen to the spot and a few seconds later, Tom comes by holding a pizzookie in a small skillet.
“What was that all about?” he asks, mildly curious, helping himself to the gooey cookie and melting ice cream.
“I don’t know exactly.” The daze she put me in still hasn’t lifted, and I slink into my booth.
“You’re an idiot for not going after her, you know.” He doesn’t need to tell me twice but I’ll never admit as much to him. Instead, I give him a grunt and dig into the warm dessert.
“Overall, they were loud and obnoxious, but she was the kind one of the group. Good tipper too.” With that, he walks back behind the bar and I watch the rest of the game, only half invested in what’s going on in Austin.
In the yearsince I’ve moved to Idaho, there have been two big learning curves. One: the city I now call home is pronounced ‘boy-see’ not ‘boy-z’. People will be all too quick to correct anybody who says it wrong. Ask me how I know this. Two: this city has some of the latest sunrises in the country due to being so far west in the Mountain Time Zone. I pull into my assigned parking spot, and my brain signals I’m way too early for work. The skies are still in that indigo haze before the sun decides to climb over the foothills and wash the valley in light. The reality, though, accordingto the clock on my dashboard, is that I’m expected at my spot for drop-off duty in about thirty seconds.
Slipping on my backpack, whistle slung around my neck, I jog to the front of Garnet Charter School from the teacher parking lot and hop onto the curb right next to the first car waiting for drop-off to start. I look down the sidewalk at my faithful morning assignment cohorts, the school librarian and school counselor, and offer them a salute before waving the first student out of their parent’s car.
My phone buzzes and there’s a text from Madelyn, giving me the end-of-the-week pep talk I need and an attached photo of her somewhere warm.
Madelyn: Hi, brother. Remember, you’re in charge. You wear the whistle. Not the kids. You’ve got this. Happy Friday from sunny Encinitas!
“You’re cutting it close, don’t you think?” Jonah says, hopping out of his dad’s Highlander. Dad gives me a nod and pulls away from the curb, while his fifth-grade son slaps a package of Peanut Butter M&M’s into my outstretched palm. “The game was rigged.”
I chuckle and slide the candy into my hoodie pocket while opening the next door to let out twin girls. Waving to the mom, I toss over my shoulder, “How do you figure that?”
“The Mountaineer’s pitcher has an ERA a full point better than the Armadillos,” he says incredulously. In a world of video games and screen time, hearing this kid knows the earned running average of these pitchers makes me proud.
Two brothers in fifth and seventh grade slide out from the back seat of the next car as they tell their mom goodbye. They pause next to me and hand over two bags of Peanut ButterM&M’s. Their younger sister hops out behind them and passes by our group, shouting, “Good morning!” before running inside the school.
I turn to my crew and say, “Well, Rogers had a good night, and that’s all that matters. Maybe it was too much pressure for Donaldson. He’s good when he’s pitching at home and the stakes aren’t too high, but he gives up his tells when he’s nervous. I always knew when he was going to throw right down the center because he’d go for two sliders first. Rookie move. It’s a guaranteed hit. Or in the case of last night, that beautiful grand slam, thank. you. very. much.”
The next car rolls to a stop with the PTO president calling out, “Hey, Coach!” from the passenger window as her fourth-grade son climbs out and hands me a fun-sized bag of my favorite treat. “I hear you’re hustling my kid for candy.”
“Ian, James, Jonah, Blake, time to get to class.” I motion them toward the building before I turn my attention. With a sheepish half smile, I say, “Jen, my teaching philosophy is to help kids gain a greater sense of responsibility. If they’re going to bet against me, they’re going to pay up when they lose. They knew the rules.”
Jen laughs as if what I said was actually funny and points at me. “You know, all the teachers are supposed to sign up and help with the Harvest Carnival and your name is the only one missing from the list.” This earns me a click of her tongue.
Truth is, no, I did not forget to sign up for the Harvest Carnival, but I refuse to be a part of a school event the PTO is refusing to call a Halloween party. Which is exactly what itis, but leave it to the school board to feel a name that’s been around for five hundred years is too controversial. “Shoot. I guess I forgot. You need to move your car forward, but I’llcheck the sign-up link from one of your many emails and take care of that during lunch today.”
She leaves and a minivan pulls forward next, unloading a whole crowd. The oldest, in eighth grade, looks up from her phone long enough to tell me, “My mom says you need to stop flirting with Jen and move this line along. She also thinks your car is a stupid cry for attention.”
I’ve only been at this job for two months, but my twin sister, Madelyn, warned me kids would say unfiltered things all the time and she hasn’t been mistaken. Luckily, I spent my former career dealing with agents, coaches, the press, and fans. I’m not rattled by anything this group can come up with. Ava is incorrect: Jen is ridiculous and my car is a dream. I look at the teenager. “That probably wasn’t necessary, Ava.”
She pockets her device. “Which car is yours anyway?”
“Which one do you think I drive?”
Ava looks over to the teacher lot as a fifth grader comes by and hands me another bag of Peanut Butter M&M’s. “Score! You brought the king-sized one, Cade!”
