The rest of the moms burst into private, shared laughter. I smile over at them, joining in so I don’t stand out.
I’m dangerously close to thinking my daughter’s coach—my co-worker, and the broodiest man this side of the Mississippi—is attractive. He is, of course. But I’m not in the market for men, attraction, or anything to do with romance orchemistry or feelings. None of the above, thank you. I’m a working, single mom. That’s the situation, and it calls for a level of restraint I’m not sure I can consistently muster. But I have to.
Practice winds up and the group of moms says goodbye to me. The field is a flurry of girls running to their parents, some stopping to talk to the coaches. Mia rushes over to me. “Mommy! Did you see when I hit the ball almost out of the park?”
“I saw it!” I tell her, drawing her into a hug.
I look over and Greyson’s watching us.
“Go tell Coach G and Coach Will thank you,” I bend and murmur into Mia’s hair.
She runs away as quickly as she ran to me, stopping at each coach and thanking them. I raise a hand and wave goodbye to Greyson. He raises his in response. No wave. Just a hand raised. No smile, either, but that’s him.
Back at home, Mia’s throwing off her dirty practice clothes and hopping into a bath while I prepare dinner. Mom comes into the kitchen, followed by Henry, who flops down by my feet.
“Want some help?” she offers.
“I’m almost finished. Want to wrap the potatoes in foil?”
“Sure.”
She grabs the butter and seasoning, scrubs each russet under running water and then rubs the outside in butter and sprinkles it with herbs, salt and pepper, like we’ve done for years. I pull the marinated meat out and put it in the oven and finish tearing the salad and adding the veggies to the bowl.
“So …” Mom says. “You met the hot coach?”
“Could we call him Coach G? Is that so hard?” I ask.
“I prefer hot coach,” she says, laughing.
“Yes. We met. Turns out, we work together.”
Mom stops in her tracks. I revel in the fact that I’m the one giving her pause for a change of pace.
“He what? He’s a fireman too?”
“Yep. He’s a lieutenant. An EMT too.”
“Whewee,” Mom says. “Single? I thought he was single. Is he?”
“As far as I know. We haven’t updated one another on our astrological signs and favorite colors. Maybe on braid-the-other-firefighter’s-hair day we’ll get into all that.”
“Such snark,” Mom says, rolling her eyes. “You weren’t a snarky teen.”
“I guess I’m making up for lost time,” I say, bumping her hip with mine.
“Don’t you want to know about my coffee date?” Mom asks.
“Date?”
“With my new friend.”
“A female friend?” I had assumed. But maybe I was wrong.
“Yes, a female friend. Dolores. But, while we were out, a gentleman approached our table and it looks like I might have an actual date.”
I practically drop the salad tongs on the floor, scrambling to regain my grip on them.
“A date?”
