“For the love of Dolly Parton,” Dustin groans, standing in the doorway and holding it open. “Everyone exit, please.”
“Do not bring Dolly into this,” Wilma snaps on her way out the door. “That’s sacrilegious."
Frank follows behind her, muttering, “I wonder if Dolly ever played strip poker.”
“Not with the likes of you,” Wilma says. “That’s for certain.”
Wilma looks back at Dustin. “You're not going to tell my grandkids about this, are you?”
“Not if you all follow me downstairs without any more trouble,” Dustin says.
Patrick’s voice comes through our mics. “What's going on up there?”
“Nothing,” Dustin answers. “We've got it handled. Just a bunch of naked seniors with a carpet burn.”
“Can you say that again?” Patrick asks.
Dustin answers, "The carpet was on fire. The seniors were undressed. We're on it."
Patrick’s laughter rings through our lapel mics. Greyson’s soft chuckle follows. I wish I were there to catch a glimpse of what his face looks like when he’s really smiling or laughing. I may never get another chance.
“Fire’s out,” I say into my lapel mic.
“Copy,” Greyson responds.
Dustin leads the way and I bring up the rear as we escort the six residents down the stairs and out onto the lawn.
On the drive back to the station, Dustin relays the incident to Patrick and Greyson. The four of us burst into laughter—even Greyson laughs. The sound rings through the cab for a beat and I exhale some of the tension balled up between my shoulders. I can't force myself to look away from Greyson. His whole face transforms—creases alongside his eyes. And, heaven help me, the man has a dimple. Good thing I'm not looking for a relationship, or I'd be in trouble.
Chapter 6
Greyson
Some of my greatest memories
were on a little league field.
~ Goose Gossage
The first day of Little League practice always involves some version of herding goats. I’m on the field early. My assistant coach, Will, pulls into the parking lot past the restrooms and across a grassy area from the ball field.
Will strides across the field toward the bleachers where I’m standing. “Hey, Greyson!” He smiles broadly.
“Hi.”
“Ready for another season of kid-induced mayhem, baseball moms and volunteer umpires?”
“When you put it that way …” I sound more stern than I actually feel.
Will chuckles good-naturedly. He reminds me a bit of Dustin, but with only half the craziness.
The girls arrive in waves, hugging one another and erupting into excited chatter and giggles.
Parents accompany some of the girls, others come with a caregiver or grandparent.
“Hi, Coach G!” girl after girl shouts when she runs up. Some give me a high-five or fist bump. Others are too busy seeking out their friends to do anything more than shout a greeting. Most of them also yell, “Hi, Coach Will!”
Over the next few minutes, my world narrows to this field and these players. I am Coach G—nothing else.
