Daphne nods, collecting equipment.
“We’ll be busy for a few hours, but then you and I can have lunch before the game starts.”
Mags tugs a large-print book from her woven purse. “I’m good here.”
“I’ll get you a bottle of water before I leave,” I tell her, leaning down to kiss her hair.
Daphne and I go through our routine, but I swear I see Mags’s patchwork maxi skirt in places shedefinitelyshouldn’t be—riding on the industrial mower while a grounds crew cuts the grass, getting a tour of the bullpen by a few rookie pitchers, leaning on the counter beside a soda machine at concessions, sipping from a bubbling cup.
Sure enough, when I return to the small office, my grandmother is nowhere to be found.
“That little minx.”
“I heard she’s in the press box,” Daphne says, setting her camera on the table.
I shake my head. “She doesn’t even have a badge.”
She shrugs. “Determined women rarely let something like a piece of plastic get in their way.”
My mind chews on my coworker’s words as I climb the stairs to the open-air press box. My grandmother has never let anything deter her—be it learning to surf at a time when the sport was dominated by men or stepping in to raise her granddaughters when her son’s wife passed away far too young.
Mags’s spitfire attitude is one of the reasons why I never doubted my ability to make it to the Olympics. After all, she’d put me on a board as a toddler while she taught Amelia how to surf. When I exceeded her abilities, Mags made sure I spent hours in the water with the best surf instructors in San Diego. Though Mags would paddle out and surf on her own—often joining in on a party wave—Amelia preferred to cheer for me from the comfort of the sand.
My grandmother’s zest for life meant Amelia and I would occasionally be pulled out of school to ride roller coasters. She’d let us eat whipped cream right out of the can, dye our hair whatever colors we wanted, and taught us to drive at thirteen, arguing that we were both tall enough. Amelia was generally more cautious than me, sometimes refusing to participate, but I loved Mags’s hijinks.
Sometimes I miss being the fearless girl that used to be up for anything. It’s the one hurdle of my recovery I can’t quite get over. Every time I try to push myself, I remember how I took a chance on a monster wave and ended up in the ICU.
That’s why I caved when Mags kept asking about a boyfriend.
I know she hates how I lost that side of myself. I didn’t want to disappoint her by also being boyfriend-less. Though I’ve made a few crude attempts at dating over the years, my longest committed relationship has been with my electric heating pad. That fact never bothered me before, but now my legs feel leaden as I trudge upstairs.
My fatigue dissipates like smoke when I turn the corner and Mags’s boisterous laugh greets me. I can’t help but smile as I lean against the door frame, watching my grandmother chat with Chris, the reporter for the Charlotte Comets.
“There you are,” she says with a mischievous grin.
“ThereI am? Aren’t you supposed to be downstairs?”
Mags makes a littlepshsound before lifting a soda cup dripping with condensation. “I got you a Dr. Pepper—extra ice.”
“I guess you can be forgiven for Dr. Pepper.” I take a deep draw from the straw, releasing a happy sigh. Fountain-poured Dr. Pepper is infinitely better than canned or bottled.
“Check this out.” Chris does a full spin in his rolling office chair. “Wegot new digs.”
“Please don’t come at me with your millennial slang,” I joke before going in for another sip.
Chris and I have a running slang-off whenever we’re in the same press box. He was one of the few reporters who was actually nice to me when I started, offering advice on how to claw my way out of triple-A coverage, and the one who tipped me off about the job at the Waves.
His grin widens. “Dude, chillax. Hating on these chairs would be an epic fail.”
I roll my eyes at him before sitting down in a surprisingly comfortable chair. “Whoa.”
“Right?” He raises his eyebrows. “Who’s cheugy now?”
“You, Chris. Always you.”
Chris only laughs, running his fingers through his lightly graying hair before turning to chat with my grandmother again. I lean back in the low-profile ergonomic chair, exhaling a long, slow breath. The lumbar support is the stuff of daydreams. A game could go into extra innings, and I’d be completely content to sit here forever. In fact, I think I’ll park it right here for the rest of the day.
My delighted reverie is cut short when I see a pink pastry box tucked into the corner of the counter we use for our laptops. I roll over to lift the lid, my heartbeat sprinting to a gallop. Just as I suspected, the same delectable pastries I devoured this morning stare back at me—the ones from the bag Tenny dropped atop mykitchenette yesterday.
