“I was on vacation.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “And Bill—you know, the organizer for rec baseball—he was supposed to hold it for me, but he was out on medical leave. Anyway, I’m happy to take over for you. I mean, I coached my older son, and I’ve been coaching Rawlings since he was little. No offense. You just look a little in over your head.”
I glance at the other parents. There are mostly moms by the dugout, and there are a few dads at the fence line, instructing their kids on how to catch the ball. Then there’s another group of dads in the outfield, hanging out over by the fence.
“I really appreciate the offer, Mike?—”
“Butter.”
“Butter,” I say. “But I’d like to do this myself. No offense. You probably don’t know this, but Lincoln’s parents passed away in an accident a couple of months ago, and I think it would mean a lot to him if I coached. But I really appreciate the offer. The assistant job is still up for grabs if you want it.”
The last thing I want is this guy assisting me, but I don’t see any other parents volunteering, so I’ll have to grin and bear it. Then again, maybe if he can’t bulldoze me to the side to be head coach, he and Rawlings will hightail it to another team.
“Oh damn, which little guy is it?”
“The one with the Colts hat.” I don’t mention that it’s signed by three Colts players.
“I’m sorry, and yeah, I’ll totally assist.” Mike runs his hand down the back of his head and pulls at his neck, looking at one of the other fields. “Actually, I have a buddy who coaches the other team, and he was saying we could scrimmage. You know, if you’re up for it. Might show you who should play where, you know?”
I glance in the direction he’s looking, where there’s a shorter man also wearing the PBR hat, but his T-shirt says PG. I have no idea what the PG stands for, or that there are so many rodeo fans around here.
To be honest, when Hayes was showing me the drills, I wasn’t taking the best notes. I was mostly watching him and his legs, his hands, and his strong thighs that I so badly wanted to straddle. It’s hard not to imagine riding them, they’re so muscular. What they might feel like grinding against my clit?—
“Leighton,” Mike says.
I blink my eyes out of my daydream. “Sure. Sounds good.” I press my hand to my cheek. “I’m just going to get some water.”
“I’ll go tell Randy.” He jogs away, and I’m thankful for the reprieve.
When I make my way to the bag near the dugout, one of the moms there grabs my attention.
“Did he try to take over your coaching job?” she asks as I swallow a gulp of water. “He’s been talking a lot of shit the last couple weeks. I’m Aimee.” She holds out her hand.
“Hi, Aimee, I’m Leighton.”
“Don’t let him bully you. Stand your ground. We’ll back you up.” She turns to the other moms. “Her name is Leighton, ladies.”
They each come over and introduce themselves, telling me which child is theirs. I’ll never remember, but I’m glad to hear they weren’t talking shit about me.
Mike jogs back over. “Randy’s in.”
“Oh, I thought it was his idea.” I frown, pulling out the catcher gear the district gave me.
He waves off my comment. “Yeah. Yeah. That’s what I meant.”
I call the boys over, already done with Mike or Butter or whatever he wants me to call him.
Once they’ve all made their way over, I address the group. “We’re going to play a scrimmage with the other team.”
All the boys look at the team walking over. They all have their matching orange shirts on, and each boy has baseball pants, belts, eye paint, and is that an elbow guard on the one? What did I sign these poor kids up for?
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Hayes
* * *
The Uber drops us off at the park. Easton and Decker insisted on coming with me, saying that they’re like family too. Whatever.
