"Like this?"
I take a look but don't correct her, wanting to see what she'd naturally do first. "Pretty much. And the only other thing for now is to keep your eye on the ball. Easier for your body to know where to put the bat if your eyes are connected to what you're hitting."
"Got it."
I'm a little nervous for her but shake it off and nod at Shelby. She soft pitches one nice and slow, and a quarter second too late, Molly swings. Hard. So hard, in fact, that the force spins her around in a full circle and off balance. I don't even have time to get up, just judge where I think she's going to fall and get my arms out to catch her.
We both let out an oof, and our weight shifts to my back knee, which is planted firmly in the dirt. She's soft in my arms, her arm slung over my shoulder and her helmet tipped forward and covering her eyes. Slowly, she lifts it, her eyes big and wide and velvety brown, a ring of gold bursting from behind her pupil like the sun in an eclipse. Her glasses are crooked. I don't notice until she rights them, and with the motion, I find myself, setting her down and standing once she's on her feet.
"Maybe a little less heat on it this time," I say with one corner of my lips higher than the other.
"You've got it, Coach," she says, and winds up to miss again.
"Hands higher," I suggest, standing to throw the ball back to Shelby. When I look down at her, they're too high. "Not like that." My fingers brush hers as I reposition her hands, lining up her knuckles. Her skin is soft, warm, distracting.
Cut it out.
"Loosen your grip," I mutter, gruff to cover the slip. "You're strangling it."
She laughs nervously. "I've never strangled anything before."
"Coulda fooled me." I shut down a smile, nudging her sneakers apart with my foot. "Wider stance. You're gonna tipover again." Her laugh is bright, unguarded. I lift her elbow just a touch, then square her shoulders with a palm between her shoulder blades, stepping back brusquely. "There." The word is clipped. "Now swing level. Eyes on the ball."
She does as she told. Misses, but not by much, and the dugout cheers her on. She lights up like she smashed one over the fence.
The sight almost breaks my demeanor. Gruffly, I say, "Better. Again."
But her grip is all wonky again, and she whiffs it.
"Aw, man," she says, frowning.
She just needs a little practice is all. Just needs somebody to show her how it's done.
And I guess I figure I'm the guy to show her when I blurt, "If you want some help with the basics, come by the field on Friday at six. I'll teach you."
Molly pauses for a second, her smile lifting with her gaze when it meets mine, a flicker of something in her eyes that strikes something in me. "Sure, Coach. Thanks."
I clear my throat, nodding as I turn for the dugout so I won't look at her again. She needs help, and I'm just being a good coach, that's all. She's twenty-four. I'm forty-four. Even if shewasfor some baffling reason interested, they'd cart me off to jail for eventhinkingabout considering it.
I think about it anyway.
CHAPTER 3
JELLY PAWS
MOLLY
The elementary school library is quiet other than the sound of my Roseville Elementary stamp against the pages of the new books stacked all over my counter.
The PTA drive for used books was a huge success, and almost everything was in mint condition. For the last couple of days, I've stayed after school to catalog them, my afternoons busy with call numbers and barcodes and the sound of archival tape being pulled from the roll. And when my library cart is full, I wheel around and fill our shelves happily, pleased as punch when I find a shelf nearly out of room.
I nearly have a full cart again, my last step in the process being my stamp, which is my favorite part. This little stamp means it's home, here in a place where it'll be loved by innumerable kids over the course of its hopefully long life. Assuming it doesn't get tagged by a rogue crayon or murdered by jelly fingers.
Even then, what a way to go.
Once I finish with the books, which should hopefully be tomorrow, I'll go back to working on goodies for the kids. I've been busy designing all kinds of things--bookmarks, stickers, posters and the like--on top of cataloging the new books I've ordered, which have been coming in steadily for the last couple of weeks, thanks to cash donations from the PTA, as well as Cass's best friend, Jessa, who is a British Lady and didn't even blink at writing out a thousand dollar check. I almost fainted when she handed it to me. I tried to give it back, but she just laughed and told me to let her know if I needed more.More!Wild.
Open, stamp, close, stack.I enjoy the repetition of it, trying to not get so hypnotized that I forget to pull books I wanted to use for my table of New Adventures or to set aside for teachers I think might like them. The library is smack in the middle of the school, the halls running by on either side of me like a giant H. Small shelves line the walls, then down broad steps in tiers, the square center of the room sprinkled with tables for reading, researching, or mini lessons. There's a corner for class story time and several reading nooks spread throughout the library. A good ways above, a big skylight lets in the prettiest light, the glass frosted so we don't get roasted. I couldn't have dreamed up a better place.
