As I get in my car, I button up my cardigan as if it will somehow boost its ability to keep me warm. I couldn't find the one sweatshirt I own, and all my jackets are too heavy or just plain inappropriate. Not sure how flexible I'd be in a peacoat, but I'm guessing not very. My brows inch together when I wonder if I'll get in trouble for wearing the wrong clothes. I haven't seen a lot of baseball players on the field in jeans, and strangely I've seen a lot of baseball lately. Cass's husband Wilder plays for the recreational team, which is so competitive, the town treats them like they're minor league. Since meeting her on the first day of school, she's been kind enough to bring me into her friend group, inviting me everywhere they go. I even go to the bar with them, though the wildest thing I ever order is a Shirley Temple. More than once, I've come real close to ordering a drink, but I don't know what Drunk Molly looks like and don't want to embarrass myself in front of my only friends in town. I haven't even told Cass I'm a booze virgin, and though she knows I never drink, she respects that knowledge enough that she's never asked why. I almost wish she would. I have no idea how to bring it up.
I wave at her when I pull into the parking lot next to the high school baseball field. She looks so cute, her red hair pulled through the hole in her Rambler's baseball hat, her leggings and pullover fitted and sporty. Her husband and his daughter Cricket are with her and wave too. My heart twists at the sight of Cricket. She's one of my favorite elementary kids, and I've metthem all as the librarian. But Cricket has an appetite for books that rivals even mine. Past that, she's been through so much that she carved out a part of my heart and carries it around with her.
I climb out of my car, admiring Cass's outfit again, then look down at mine. Wrong shoes, wrong pants, wrong top, and this slouchy cardigan might even be a safety hazard. I make a note to go to the sporting goods store on Main Street, my dread deepening when I hear the coach's voice.
Greyson Brooks, or Grey, or Coach, as most people call him. He's as gloomy as his name suggests, the scowling, square-jawed grump with pale, narrow eyes and a growl like rolling thunder. He growls a lot. I always thought it was dumb when it happens in the hundreds of romance novels I've read, but then I heard that low rumble in his throat when he warned off a guy hit on me at the bar. Something hot and bubbly happened to my major organs.
Oh, the things I would do to hear that growl.
Thing is, he's older than me. Like, alotolder, his temples shot with gray and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His beard is peppered with the occasional silver hair that I naively thought was blond the first time I met him. Seriously, he might be old enough to be my dad. Butnothingabout him gives me dad vibes. When Grey is around, the air crackles like lighting's about to strike. I'm sure I'm not alone in that. Surely he carries that energy around with him, affecting everyone in a near radius the same as me. I'm not special. But I've never met anyone who does that to me before. A small, secretly feral part of me wishes he'd torn the arms off the guy who hit on me and beat him to death with them.
Anyway, he's just looking out for me, that's all. He probably thinks I'm just a naive kid, and showing up to practice in all the wrong clothes isn't going to convince him how grown up andtogether I am. I tug at the hem of my cardigan and pass through the gate, turning for the dugout when I see him.
Every fine hair on my body reaches for the sky when his pale eyes meet mine, as silvery-gray as his namesake.
He is a looming thunderhead, vast and heavy and ominous, a beast of a man with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the storm he brings. His arms ripple with muscles, visible even beneath his pullover, which is so tight it borders obscene. The taper of his torso is met with an ass made of solid stone and thighs to match. But his eyes call me back, still locked on me from beneath the shadow of his brows, the crease between them permanent, I'm sure. Absently, I wonder if they're like that when he sleeps, or if his features smooth and soften. What does he look like when he smiles? When he laughs? Assuming he laughs. I've never seen it, but I bet it's something.
Mostly, he looks like a wolf on the hunt.
No, not an ounce of dad energy.Daddyenergy.
I'm in the middle of wondering what it would feel like to be hunted by a Grey-shaped wolf when I trip over an athletic bag, and the world tips on its axis in every single way.
CHAPTER 2
FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING
GREY
Molly's eyes widen the split second before she starts to fall, her arms wheeling around like a windmill as she teeters over. It happens in a weird sort of slow motion, and I'm halfway to her before I make the decision to move, despite there being zero chance I could get to her in time to do anything about it.
Cass catches her, and Wilder catches Cass--they barely escape Molly's noodle arms taking them all down. When she's upright and everyone's chuckling, her face is beet-red, her chin down a hair like she's embarrassed. Which is dumb, because even falling down like she's in a Bugs Bunny cartoon is fucking adorable.
At the thought, I turn on my heel to pace away, just like I do every time I think about howfucking adorableMolly is. The second I saw her after she moved here in August, she blasted me with a ray of sunshine I think I'm still blind from. And ever since, I've found myself in her orbit. I don't even mean to do it. Nor do I mean to scare off every idiot who's stupid enough to hit on her in my earshot. But I know these assholes, and I know whatthey want from her, and for some reason my brain has decided that I should be the one to gatekeeper her. Not because she can't decide on her own--I'd never stopherfrom hitting on somebody. But the thought of her getting taken advantage of by some greasy shithead pisses me off.
It pisses me off way more than it should.
When I come to a stop at some arbitrary spot between first and third base, I flip through my clipboard like there's something important to note while my colleagues get ready for practice. Five men, four women, and Shelby and I are the coaches. Shelby is Wilder's twin and the head coach of the high school girls’ softball team, but we coach the Ramblers together too, our rec league team. The guys are so good, we're thinking about going to travel ball, even though we lost one of our star players, Remy, to the minors this season. Shelby is walking the dugout, giving notes, answering questions. She stops at Molly but doesn't move on, and I try not to listen but fail.
"No, I don't really have any athletic clothes," Molly admits.
"I have some, but I'm a little bit taller than you," Shelby notes. Funny, given she's nearly six foot and Molly is 5'1 on a good day.
"I have a ton," Cass says. "What size shoe do you wear?"
"Six and a half."
"Perfect. I have a pair of sneakers, some leggings, a bunch of stuff. I'll put a bag together for you and bring it to school tomorrow."
Molly sighs, relieved. "Gosh, that would be great. I swear I've put every penny I have into buying my house and every penny I don't have into fixing it."
"Oh, that's right! The Genoa's old house, right?"
My frown deepens. The Genoa's house should have been condemned, not sold as is to a first-time homeowner, which I also heard about her. Because everybody loves to talk, and I'm areal good listener. I can't even imagine the shit she's already had to fix or how much it cost. I wonder who her handyman is. There are two in town, and one of them's a crook. I make a note to ask her.
"All right," I say to the group, and they begin to gather, their faces turned to mine. "Welcome to tryouts for the Roseville Teacher's Softball League. And a special thanks to our newcomers, Cass and Molly. Without them, we'd leave Franklinville to win the trophy again." They heckle and boo like I knew they would, and the corner of my mouth ticks up. "Now, I use the term tryout loosely--we have exactly enough players, so congratulations, you all made the team." A chuckle rolls through them and a few whoop. "Mostly, we need to see what kind of skills we're working with so we can figure out where to put you on the field. So we're gonna start with skill stations. One at a time, we'll work on fielding, then batting, and if we have time, we'll scrimmage. Any questions?"
Molly's hand shoots up.
