“Good.”
He hesitates, then extends his hand. “Thank you, Coach. Really.”
I shake it, my own emotions too close to the surface for comfort, and nod toward the field. “Go watch your kid play.”
When I turn back to the dugout, I catch sight of a woman standing near the fence, partially hidden by the concrete support beam. Scottie.
Prescott “Scottie” Quinn, my boss’s assistant, is supposed to be handling paperwork in the office, not lurking around the field. Her light blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and she’s wearing an oversized black blazer over a Mudflaps T-shirt. Her tortoiseshell glasses catch the sunlight as she watches me approach.
“How long’ve you been standing there?” I ask.
“Long enough to see you go full Ted Lasso on that guy,” she says, falling into step beside me. “That was … unexpectedly sweet of you.”
“It wasn’t sweet. It’s basic coaching. No one wants to be around a Little League Dad.”
She nods, then pauses. “And you’re okay?”
We’re back at the dugout but a few feet away from the kids. I clap when one of the kids hits a line drive. “Fine,” I tell Scottie. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you looked like you were about to punch that dad for a second there, and then you looked like you were about to cry.”
“I don’t cry.”
“Right. My mistake.” She glances up at me with a sharply cocked eyebrow. “For what it’s worth, that kid’s lucky you were here.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. The game is still going, and Lucas is shouting, “The play’s at second!”
“Aren’t you going to check that?” Scottie asks. “Could be Chat Girl.”
“I’m coaching.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That’s some restraint, Fletch.”
“You know what? You’re officially as annoying as everyone else.”
“Wow, it’s taken this long for you to find me ‘as annoying as everyone else’? I’m honored.”
“Don’t be.”
Her laugh is wicked. “When are you going to meet her, already? Blond, blue-eyed, strapping young buck like you—you’re a unicorn on those weirdo message boards.”
“Easy there. We’re never meeting. We don’t even know each other’s real names,” I say. “It’s not like that.”
She shakes her head. “Not with that attitude.”
One of my kids hits a single, and I shout to the player at third base. “Home, Reynolds! Run home!”
Reynolds runs like he’s being chased by a dog. A satisfying cloud of red dirt kicks up when Reynolds slides, telling me he’s safe even before the ump calls it.
“Yes!” I yell. “Good hustle, good hustle.” I pat his back as he returns to the dugout, and I watch with satisfaction as the rest of the team hugs him. I catch Jeremy laughing with a friend, the sound carrying over the rest of the cheers, and something in my chest loosens.
When our next batter steps up to the plate, I absentmindedly grab a baseball, rolling it against my palms, rubbing my thumbs over the seams.
Scottie says, “Your brother’s getting married next week, right? When do you leave for Rochester?”
“First thing tomorrow,” I say, my shoulders tensing.
I love Evan—I do. He was a hothead growing up, but after sustaining a TBI four years ago, he’s turned his life around. Now he’s a motivational speaker at Granddad’s baseball academy. A walking inspirational poster who’s forgiven everyone for everything.
