My spine pulls straighter as I turn back to the kids and clap again. “Where were we? Right, pitching from the stretch. Let’ssee some smooth motion. Remember—easy power. Let the arm do the work.”
Behind me, Logan lets out an airy whistle through his teeth that sounds like a baby bird. It’s a signal only we know, a way to catch each other’s attention in a crowd. I turn to him.
“You good?” he asks.
“Never better,” I lie, tossing a ball into the air and catching it again.
The silly-string thoughts in my head are getting trampled now—by kids, drills, and the girl trying very hard not to notice me.
***
During our first water break, I can’t help myself anymore.
I hand off a ball to one of the kids and tell them to stretch with Logan, then jog toward where Scottie’s standing just off of third base. She’s not watching the kids so much as theedges—parents, timing, transitions. The stuff no one notices until it goes wrong.
“Hey,” I say, deliberately casual.
“Hey.”
Her smile is clipped. Professional. Which, to be fair, is how she talks to everyone all the time because she doesn’t let people in.
Even if she used to let me crowd the plate without brushing me back …
“How’s it going over here?” I ask, nodding toward the stands.
“Good,” she says. “One of the parents asked if this counts as PE credit.” She sniffs, not quite a laugh. “I said they’re homeschool kids, so that’s between her and the state. But her son will definitely get character-building credit.”
“More likeIwill,” I say. I’m about to ask what parent complaint brought her down to the camp today, but a voice interrupts before I can.
“Coach Fischer?” a kid says. “Can you get my glove?” He points to the top of the dugout, where he apparently tossed it. Kids are always tossing their gloves. He’s lucky it didn’t land on one of the bigger kids and earn him a wedgie when no one was looking.
“Looks like I’m needed. Unless you had something more important to talk about?”
She hesitates before shaking her head. “I’ll catch you during the next break.”
I wish it sounded more like a promise.
And then she’s gone, already moving toward the dugout, back straight, purpose in every step. I stand there for a second longer than necessary, staring at her retreating form.
Noticing how she has an iPad, a phone, and no coffee.
I could still go.
Meant to Bean is close enough that no one would even notice I was gone. I picture the light she tries to hide in her eyes when I hand a cup to her, the way she always takes a deep breath before taking her first sip.
I miss it.
I want it.
But I don’t move.
Because wanting something doesn’t make it mine.
I turn back toward the field instead and clap my hands once, sharp and loud. “All right, pitchers! Rotate!”
As I jog back to the mound, my heart feels like it’s beating in mud.
***
