MOLLY
Friday flies by in a whoosh of books and children and glue and glitter.
The impending weekend is one good reason--Fridays usually whoosh by for that reason alone. But today, I get to learn more softball. Maybe I'll even hit the ball today. I'll die on the spot if I do. Grey would have to give me CPR to revive me. I wonder absently if his beard would be scratchy and remember in this scenario, I'd be unconscious. I could always fake it and find out. The thought amuses me as I walk up to the high school field. It's chilly again, the sun nearly down at six. I can't wait until it's up until eight and it's warm out.
At least this time I'm dressed properly for practice. Cass brought me two tote bags of athletic clothes, telling me to keep them if I wanted--they were all extras, swearing she was going to donate them if I didn't take them. In the bounty of Lycra-spandex were no less than five pairs of leggings and joggers, two pullovers, two Rambler's sweatshirts and a red Rambler's ball cap. Plus the sneakers she promised, a sports bra, and acouple of tank tops. The tops were tighter than what I usually wear by themselves, but I'm wearing one under the huge, grey Rambler's sweatshirt. It must have been Wilder's--it falls mid-thigh--but it looks real cute with the leggings and baseball cap. The other sweatshirt fell high enough that you could see my butt, and I felt weird about it. The realization made me wonder why, other than the fact that I usually wear dresses and sweaters and jeans with a wide leg. My college librarian friends weren't the let's go shopping type, not unless shopping included a book or tchotchke store. Definitely not one that involved dressing rooms. Typically, I shopped with my mom, which, on reflection, makes sense of the encouragement toward clothes that would tempt no man. I make it a point to work my way up to the half butt sweatshirt. Guess I'm gonna need some thongs too, or go commando.
The thought makes me blush a little, and I giggle at myself.
But then I hear Grey, and all my attention zeros in on him, crush activating.
He's standing between home plate and first base, his eyes somewhere in the shadow of his hat brim. The tip of his nose catches the field lights, his tidy beard cutting the shape of his jaw, framing his mouth, lips ticked down at the ends almost always. His eyes are trained on the field, and I follow the bill of his cap in time to see a player miss a ball rolling toward him, chase it down, and overthrow it to first base. When his head hangs, Grey says, "Keep your glove down, watch the ball into your hand. You'll get it next time."
I take a seat, watching them practice. He doesn't see me for a bit. I know this, because the second he does, I can feel it from forty feet away. I can't see his eyes clearly, but I know they're intense and narrow and pale, pale grey. One side of his lips twitches, and he raises a hand briefly. A smile and wave. I returnthe gesture, and this time when his lips twitch, that higher side sticks.
The other two coaches are shouting their encouragement too, the older of the two with a mouthful of sunflower seeds. Every other sentence is punctuated by the shells he spits out. I think his name is Marc, the one with the new baby, which explains the dark circles under his eyes. The other is young, maybe close to my age, but I don't know him. The kid at bat swings again and misses.
Grey speaks up. "Quit swinging like you're chopping wood. Relax your shoulders. The bat'll do the work if you let it."
The next pitch, the kid hits the ball into the outfield. Grey nods, the coaches all clapping that coach clap. You know, slower, louder, somehow more encouraging than a regular old clap. I keep trying to watch the players, but my gaze slides back to Grey over and again. Something about the way he commands the field so quietly--anyone who glanced onto the field would know exactly who's in charge without him uttering a word. The deference the players and other coaches display is heavy with respect, despite their lighthearted teasing. And he guides them all with a sure, steady hand, strong and easy to trust. I find myself a little bit in awe of how natural he is in charge, how perfectly he fits into his place when he calls the players in, giving them a quick speech, reminding them that their upcoming first game won't be won on talent, but discipline. Praising them for a job well done.
They all put their hands in and shoutRenegades!on three, then disperse. He talks to the other coaches for a second as the team gathers their things, glancing in my direction and elbowing each other until Grey saunters over to them, clips something I can't hear. They hup-to, only daring to sneak a final look or two before they're headed out. Grey approaches the fence near where I'm sitting.
"Come on in. Gate's over there."
I nod and hop up, threading through some of the guys on my way, offering them a smile in the hopes it'll appease their curiosity, but I have a feeling I only make it worse.
When I step through the gate and the thick turf crunches under my feet, I get a little thrill, like I'm somewhere I'm not supposed to be. I take a second to look up at the stands, imagining what it's like to be on this side of the fence during a game. The thought puts a smile on my face and a sigh in my chest. The other coaches pass by with bags of gear on their shoulders, acknowledging me politely as they pass. But I'm looking at Grey, and he's locked onto me like a torpedo cannon.
There's something in the way he studies me, slow, deliberate, like he notices every detail. My chest warms, my stomach twisting. I shift slightly, straighten my shoulders, pray I look casual.
"Hi," I say as I approach.
"Hey. Look at you, real shoes and everything."
His tone is easy, friendly, but those granite-gray eyes linger on me. I can't stop noticing the weight they carry.
I display my sneakers one at a time in the hopes it'll distract him from the color on my cheeks. "Pretty good, right? We can thank Cass."
"I'll make it a point to. Come on--let's get started."
Grey gives me his back, and I follow the broad stretch of muscle to his gear bag near the dugout. I try not to look at his butt when he crouches to dig around in it and fail miserably--it is justso muscularthat you could put him in an anatomy book. I bet they'd sell like hotcakes. When he stands, I clear my throat and push up my glasses, my cheeks warm and tingling. If he notices my flush, he doesn't show it.
"Got you a left-handed glove," he says, gruff as ever. His voice is so rumbly and deep, sometimes I swear I can feel it.
"Wow, thank you." I pull it on, excited.
"You can keep that one. I'll send you home with some softballs too so you can practice."
"Okay. Thanks for that too."
A nod. "C'mere. Let's start with throwing." He grabs a bucket of balls and a couple of bats--a big one and a little one--and I follow him into the outfield, pulling on my new glove while he talks. "We'll get you squared away today so you can use practice for reps. The more you do it, the more natural it'll feel, and then? Well, then you can't think too much about it or you'll end up getting the yips." At the word, he shifts the brim of his hat up, down, then spits off to the side like he's warding off evil.
"The yips?"
He nods and does the hat thing again with a spit to close the loop. "Just means you've overthought it to the point that you can't do the thing, whatever the thing is. Happens in sports often enough, more often when you've got too much time to think. They did some study and figured out the way around it is to not think at all. Just let your body do the thing it knows how to do with the emptiest head possible."
"Huh. You know, I just heard that overthinking only happens when you ignore your intuition. Kinda the same thing."
