They feel familiar. So much of him does. Probably from all the hours we’ve spent together on shift since I arrived in Waterford.
“Is that right?” he asks.
“Mahhhhm!” Mia says, obviously mortified to be outed.
“Sorry,” I say. Then I look at Greyson again. “What I mean is, she’s happy with your coaching.”
“Because he’s awesome,” Mia adds.
“You’re awesome,” he says with a warmth and sincerity that’s unlike anything I’ve seen from him, even when he efficiently complimented me after the assembly.
Mia beams.
I study Greyson like I’m trying to crack a code, not even bothering to hide my curiosity. He’s Coach G—the one Mia raves about. I pictured someone far softer and more enthusiastic. Maybe a dad who volunteered for the position or someone more like Dustin—a big kid at heart.
The longer I know Greyson, the more the layers of mystery seem to pile on top of one another.
“Are you dropping off or staying?” Greyson asks.
“She’s staying! It’s her day off,” Mia says for me.
Greyson nods, looking me straight in the eyes.
More parents and players arrive. Greyson introduces me to the assistant coach, Will. He’s more like I imagined Coach G to be—easygoing, casual, friendly.
I take a spot in the bleachers. A few moms congregate in another section of the bleachers, glancing over at me occasionally. After a while, one of them gets up, walks over to where I’m sitting, and introduces herself. “I’m Chirsty, Whitney’s mom.”
Greyson and Will have the girls huddled up at this point.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Hallie, Mia’s mom.”
“Oh, I know,” Chirsty says. “You’re the new firefighter.”
“Yes,” I smile.
“We all were waiting for you to show up.”
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, even though Chirsty’s smiling cordially. People tend to smile politely in Tennessee, even when they don’t always feel pleasant. The tone’s not as strong as a “Bless your heart” in Georgia, but we’ve got shreds of the same social fabric. Southern hospitality through and through.
“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Chirsty says. “You’re welcome to join us over there.”
The invitation almost seems like a dare. I weigh my options. If I stay here, I’m saying I don’t want to be included in their group.
I stand and walk over to them.
The other moms introduce themselves, all of them giving me smiles that feel more cautious than truly welcoming.
I get it. I grew up in small-town Tennessee. People come and go around the fringes. But the core of each small town goes back generations. Outsiders aren’t assimilated just because they move in next door. And, to top it off, I’m afemale firefighter. Most people don’t know what to do with that.
I settle into a spot on the bleachers and turn my attention to Greyson. He’s being gentle, encouraging, and patient with each girl that comes to bat. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. He’s almost what I would call warm. He’s still reserved, but there’s this openness to him that never comes out at the station—ever. It’s like watching a night-blooming cereus open in its annual display when all conditions are optimal. I can’t take my eyes off him.
Of course, I watch Mia. She’s in her element, hitting far, running fast, smiling from ear to ear, encouraging her teammates, and listening to her coaches as if their words are straight from heaven.
Mia’s up at bat again, focused with an intensity that makes me grin with pride. She gives the ball a satisfying thwack and it soars over the heads of the outfielders, almost to the wall of the ball field. Then she takes off running the bases like a gazelle being chased by a lion, while her teammates scrabble for the ball.
Greyson’s eyes meet mine and he smiles—actually smiles. My mouth turns up reflexively. A blush rises up my neck. I clear my throat and lift my hand to rub the warm spot, hoping no one notices my involuntary and inconvenient reaction to my daughter’s coach.
One of the moms next to me says, “Okay, then. Coach G does know how to smile.”
