Claire shields her eyes from the sun, frowning. “Did someone get hurt?”
“Nope. We’re down a player and you’re gonna fill in.”
“What?” Her eyes widen. “No. Get Brenner to do it.”
“Can’t. He has too many screws in his knee. Plus, he’s playing referee and emcee today.”
She crosses her arms and takes in our surroundings. “Surely there’s someone else who can do it.”
“It’ll take too long to hunt someone down. Come on. Please?” Maybe it’s lame, but I pout, pushing my lip out like Bea does when she wants something.
And to my surprise, it works.
Shoulders sagging, Claire says, “Fine. I’ll play your stupid game.”
Stepping back, I hold out my hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not with that attitude you won’t, missy. Only winners on my team. So if your head’s not in the game, you better tell me now.”
She rolls her eyes, and…Why the fuck does that make my dick twitch?
“My head’s in the game, I swear.” She presses her lips together like she’s holding back a laugh.
But I’m serious. I step closer again. “I mean it. You really have to wanna play.”
“I do! I wanna play.”
“Okay, okay. Relax. No need to beg.”
She blows a raspberry in my face. “Asshole.”
“Save that angst for the field, Doc.” I lead her to the team, and we huddle up.
“Everyone, this is Dr. Connelly.”
They shout their names back in overlapping chaos.
“What’s the strategy?” an adolescent named Troy asks.
“The faster the better,” I tell him.
Claire chokes. “Hope that’s not your motto in life, Greer.”
The kid’s mom laughs at Claire’s jab and high-fives her.
I shake my head. I will not let my ego be crushed by their folly.
Brenner uses the megaphone to direct the teams to split up. Claire and three others hustle over to the other side of the field, the two of us the last in our respective lines.
When the buzzer goes off, the first players on each team jump into action, and the field gets loud. I’m cheering right along with the crowd while simultaneously soaking up the pure joy on the faces of the people around me. Families encouraging other families they’ve never met before today. Teenagers helping younger kids. Toddlers trying to escape their strollers and crawl onto the field to join in on the fun.
It warms my heart to witness such successful moments like this after I’ve worked so hard to build this place and this type of atmosphere.
Before I know it, I’m shoved to the front of the line and Troy is sprinting toward me in what are basically clown shoes. He sheds the sports coat—one my father donated last year—and his mom catches it before it hits the ground. She holds it out so I can slip my arms through with ease. Troy was fast, I’ll give him that, but when he removes the men’s button-down, it turns inside out. Rookie mistake. There’s no time to fix it, so I throw it on as is. Someone lassos a tie around my neck, and as I slip on the shoes, Troy secures the fedora on my head.
And I’m off.
I have no idea where we are in comparison to our opponents until I reach Claire on the other side.
She’s jumping up and down and shouting, “This is it! I’m the last one. Quick! Take off your pants.”
