I’d never been a joiner. No team sports or clubs back in high school. There’d been other boys who’d tagged along for my troublemaking, briefly entering my orbit, but they came and went. Same thing with girls back then. But when you did stupid, juvenile things and ended up questioned by the police or arrested, those types of friendships tended to dissolve real quick. I didn’t blame them. I knew I hadn’t been worth the risk or the effort.
I cleared my throat and tried to make my voice light. “You’d be lonely without me. It’s not like you have friends either.”
“I do, actually,” Lia replied matter-of-factly. “I’m in a bird-watching group. I play trivia every Monday night. I knit down at Weaverly Place with my stitch and bitch group. I have a full and active social calendar. I’m thriving, Jack. You’re just surviving.”
Ouch.
I stared at my grandmother, suddenly feeling like I didn’t know her at all.
She shook her head, frustrated and exasperated by me, which was nothing new. “You need a life that’s not just managing that bar. Get a hobby. Go on a date. Hell, join a motorcycle club.”
My pride was a touch wounded, not to mention the fact that I felt like a loser whose grandmother was more popular than he was. So I said the first defensive, contradictory thing I could think of. “I have a softball game on Thursday. I’m not just sitting at home, reading space operas and ironing my curtains.” Although if I were in the market for honesty, I did fill my time with books most days. And I was currently reading a really good space opera.
“See”—she held up a hand—“now I’m worried you’re actually ironing your curtains. Why would you even make that reference if it hadn’t crossed your mind?” I opened my mouth to argue. I did not iron my fucking curtains. But Lia kept right on going. “Just put yourself out there, okay? That’s all I’m saying. I won’t be around forever, and you’re young. You can’t close yourself off and focus only on the bar. Or else you’ll look around one day and it’ll be all you have.”
Thursday rolled around after another busy few days at work. Sasha was holding down the fort tonight with a couple of part-timers—Sebastian and Cody—so that Kayla and I could play softball with the rest of the Bar Hoppers.
The team was a mash-up of players from local watering holes. There were only two of us from Magnolia, and a few folks from Mattie B’s, including the owner and star pitcher, Matilda Bartholomew. Firefly Cider employees made up the remainder of the team. Despite not being employed at one of the bars in town, Will Clark and his fiancée, Becca, joined in with us most weeks because they were friendly with the team captain, Jordan Rockford, who was also the owner of Firefly.
No one minded because Becca was a sweetheart, and everyone loved her. And Will had been a professional baseball player at one time. While he didn’t pitch for the Bar Hoppers as he once had in the major leagues, he was still ridiculously athletic. There were no complaints about his participation.
This adult rec softball league was the only thing I really participated in. Maybe my grandmother was right about me needing a hobby. But I’d played Little League growing up, before I’d decided I’d rather be a teenager with a chip on his shoulder. Maybe that was why I’d done something so uncharacteristic and said yes when Jordan came by a few years back, saying they needed one more to start the Bar Hoppers team.
Maybe I’d wanted a chance to go back to a time before I’d been a small-town fuckup. Maybe I’d still felt like that surly teen and needed to make a change.
Either way, it was something I’d committed myself to, and it usually ended up being a pretty good time.
And with the accusatory voice of Lia still ringing in my head, I’d made the conscious decision to go out for drinks with my team after the game. They were good people, so they always invited me. This time, I wouldn’t say no, like I always did. It still made me grumpy and uncomfortable to think about making small talk with my neighbors and teammates. People who already had a history together and who probably knew most of mine.
But I was going to do it, dammit. I didn’t need my own grandmother feeling sorry for me.
I’d seen the opposing team listed on the schedule, but I wasn’t convinced Bonnie would show up. Not until I got to the field and saw her warming up. Part of me thought she’d try to avoid me.
It had been a week and a half since she’d woken up in my bed, and from the way she’d thrown the ball well wide of her practice partner when she caught sight of me, she definitely hadn’t forgotten.
I fought a grin and joined my team in the dugout.
For the most part, these weekly rec games were low stakes. Most people were in it to socialize and have a good time during our season, a few months of the year. The Teachers’ Lounge was the least competitive team of the bunch, so tonight’s game would probably be pretty casual, with lots of chatting between the benches and on the field. Weirdly, it was the over-fifty team formed from the pickleball club that you had to worry about. They were vicious, and usually a handful of arguments broke out over the course of the abbreviated seven innings of play.
When it was time to start, I slid my mask on and took my place behind home plate. Bonnie didn’t make it up to bat until the fourth inning, but I gave her a smirk that had her promptly swinging at the first three pitches and striking out hard. Her body was tense beneath her sky-blue uniform tee as she trudged back to the dugout, bat in hand. I stared after her until Mattie got my attention from the mound.
In the bottom of the fourth, I hit a double to center field that went through Becca’s legs. But I didn’t make it any farther than second base as Rhonda Coates hit a pop fly to close out the inning. I got on base again in the sixth, but was tagged out by the high school principal, Jim Gentry, trying to steal second. Neither instance put me in range of Bonnie, who was a pretty solid third baseman.
She struck out again in the seventh, but she didn’t say a word. No,Hey, how are you?OrThanks for holding my hair back. Again with the silent treatment. To be honest, I hadn’t seen that coming. I’d fully expected her to be awkward and appreciative—a repeat of that morning in my apartment.
But while she was doing her best to ignore me, I knew she was still aware. I caught her glancing my way a few times, her pale cheeks going a rosy pink before she managed to hide her face. I noticed the stiffness in her shoulders as a result, the way she held herself in check so tightly. It was clear I made her uncomfortable, and I wasn’t sure why I found that so frustrating. Maybe she didn’t want the reminder of the night she was trying to forget. Either way, I clearly needed to stop assuming I knew people after one brief encounter.
Things took a turn in the bottom of the seventh. The game was all tied up, and I’d just taken my place on first base after being walked by the pitcher. Will batted next and managed a doublethat just barely stayed in bounds and got me over to third, where Bonnie gave me a wide berth.
Jordan was up to bat, and the Teachers’ Lounge pitcher and catcher were taking a moment to confer.
Some part of my antagonistic teenage self must have still been alive and kicking because I turned my attention to Bonnie and teased, “I’m not going to bite, Clyde.”
Her pretty brown eyes snapped to mine in surprise, and she frowned. “I know that.”
“Well, you’re practically in the dugout trying to get away from me.”
“I am not,” she argued.
