Dustin chuckles. “I think we should get your little leaguers over here. I’ll be right back.”
“No. Don’t …” I start to say, but he’s already drying his face with a paper towel while shouting the name of one of my player’s dads and striding away from our booth.
Within about five minutes, a line extends out from the ticket table—seven and eight-year-old girls and their parents as far back as I can see.
Hallie steps up close to me and whispers. “Here’s where they get payback for the time you cancelled practice or put their child further down the batting roster than they liked.”
“Save me?” I beg her.
She just laughs and steps up to the table to collect money from the people eager to cover me in whipped cream.
We’ve got two throwing lines taped off in the grass. One is for teens and adults, and the other, closer line is for kids.
Whitney grabs a pie tin. Her mom looks at me with her face scrunched up, “Sorry, Coach G!”
If people were truly sorry, they wouldn’t be doing this. ButI face forward, poncho and goggles on and prepare for the worst.
Whitney starts to wind up and I can’t help myself. “Not too much wind up, Whitney. Just focus on your aim.”
Hallie cracks up to my right. “Always the coach.”
I turn and look in her direction, loving the way her laugh consumes her. She laughs with her whole being. Hallie’s eyes catch mine. I glance back at Whitney. She’s asking her mom something, so I look at Hallie and silently mouth. “You’re adorable.”
Hallie raises her finger to her lips and shushes me, but she’s smiling back.
Dustin shouts, “Hey, you two!”
Our heads simultaneously whip in his direction. Hallie makes me careless. And now? I may have exposed her in front of our crew.
But then Dustin says, “Man, you two look guilty. What did I miss? Did someone prank someone and I didn't hear about it? Is there a sign on my back?”
I’m so caught off guard, I don’t even see the pie tin flying in my direction in time to duck. The thwack of cool fluff against my face comes from out of nowhere, smearing the goggles and sliding down my chin.
“Good throw,” I say through the whipped cream.
Whitney screams and leaps up and down. “Got you, Coach G! I got you!”
Hallie’s cackling now. Bent over at the waist, hand on her stomach, losing it. She gives Whitney a high-five. And then the next player comes up, and the next. I focus more after that first pie, dodging the best I can, but in the end, I’m coated in whipped cream and my team is cheering one another on as player after player splats my face with pie tins filled with sticky white fluff.
Mia approaches with her nana and Avery.
“Hi, Mommy!” Mia shouts, skipping over and wrapping her arms around Hallie.
“Hey, Spike!” Hallie leans down and presses a kiss to Mia’s head. “How’s it going?”
“Great! Nana bought a strawberry pie. And we get to eat it after dinner. And I got to paint a pie picture and pet a pig!”
Hallie smiles down at Mia. “That sounds amazing.”
“And now I want to throw a pie at Coach G!” Mia says, stuffing a ten dollar bill in the jar. “Two pies, please!”
“So, you’re the famous Mia,” Dustin says.
Mia smiles up at him. “Oh! Do you watch baseball?”
Dustin cracks up. “I would if your coach would let me.”
Mia’s face scrunches in confusion.
