Page 125 of The Fall Classic

“How can I help? Need me to give some poor girls my number?”

She scoffs, her mouth dropping. “Don’t even joke about that!”

I grin and sneak a kiss while she puts a cap on a to-go cup.

“Without giving out your number, could you hand these Whip Smarts to the pretty woman wearing the Carville-O’Shannan Mudflaps jersey?”

At the window, I snort when I see that the woman wearing the Carville-O’Shannan jersey is in fact Kayla Carville-O’Shannan, the owner of the team. Her long auburn ponytail has been pulled through the back of an Augusta Arsenal cap. Her husband’s their goalie.

“Kayla? What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Logan! I could ask you the same thing.”

“Rehab,” I tell her, handing her three drinks. She’s standing with a blonde woman wearing a pink McLadyPants hat, and she’s pushing two strollers back and forth and cooing to the babies in them. Another woman with thick, long brown curls and a light purple stripe in her hair is talking on her phone, but she seems to be with them.

“I know you’re rehabbing,” Kayla says. “I mean in this coffee truck.”

“Oh, I’m dating the woman who runs it. Georgie Ashman. Have you met her?” I gesture to Georgie, who’s looking at me with big guilty eyes, but she comes over, squeezing past the espresso machine to get to the window, where I make a quick introduction.

“Hi, I’m sorry I set up here without checking,” Georgie says, her words spilling out, her face beet red. “I didn’t mean to. I was just picking up Logan because the Firebirds didn’t want to ship his truck back for two weeks and they told him to take Ubers everywhere, but this is Mullet Ridge, so there aren’t really any close, and when I pulled up, people started knocking on the window, so I⁠—”

“It’s fine, hon,” Kayla says. Kayla’s a dream of an owner—involved and supportive enough without being overbearing. “I’m sure the staff appreciates it.”

Georgie nods, and she looks like she’s holding in a breath. I’m afraid she’s going to hold it till she passes out, but then she exhales a sentence. “Have you ever thought of having a coffee cart in your stadium?”

“I haven’t,” Kayla says. “Should I?”

“You should,” Georgie says. Her legs are shaking, but Kayla can’t see that. Anyone can hear the wobble in her voice, though. I grab her hand and give it a soft squeeze. “Specialty drinks carry huge retail markups, often exceeding the profit margins of alcohol and even soft drinks. And modular coffee carts occupy minimal floorspace compared to a full-scale permanent kitchen. And you get the weather capture⁠—”

“Weather capture?” Kayla asks, cocking her head. “Forgive me, but I know very little about coffee. It seems like baseball being an outdoor summer sport would limit weather capture.”

The people in line are getting restless, but everyone has the sense to be patient for the woman who signs their paychecks. And for once, Georgie isn’t so worried about her customers that she can’t think of herself.

“Iced drinks are huge in the summer, and night games in the fall make hot brews all the more appealing,” Georgie says. “I make a lot of specialty drinks, but we could offer a smaller, curated menu. I could do a ‘Chai Town’ as a nod to the Chicago Firebirds, either hot or cold, or I could do a ‘Reverse Mullet’ with a pour-over coffee technique that’s really fun and minimizes bitterness.” She’s been speaking so fast that it looks like her thoughts have finally caught up with her words, and she realizes she’s given a full business pitch.

Her shoulders creep up around her ears, and I drop her hand and put mine on the small of her back, hoping she feels my support and knows she can stand up straight.

She doesn’t quite get the memo, shaking like a tree in the storm, but she’s not losing any branches. She hasn’t been cut down, hasn’t blown away.

The woman behind Kayla is watching Georgie closely. “That’s really clever.” She looks at the logo on the truck. “Meant to Bean? What a great name for a coffee shop.”

Kayla gestures to the other woman. “Georgie, this is my friend Jane. She actually married my cousin, Tripp, so we’re family.”

“I know who Tripp is. I sell from the Sugar Maple Farms worker and factory lots. Rusty approved it,” she adds, like she’s afraid they’re going to think she goes rogue selling coffee in every parking lot in the state.

At mention of Rusty—whoever that is—the girl with the curly hair waves. She angles her phone speaker away from her mouth and whisper-shouts. “Hi, Georgie! Whatever any of you say, I’m on board.” Then she grins and goes back to her call.

The red in Georgie’s face has spread down to her neck in splotches.

Kayla and Jane both smile at the other woman. “Jane owns a marketing firm, and she’s an expert at scalability and branding,” Kayla says. “And it looks like you already know her genius marketing partner, Ash. Maybe you could talk sometime.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’m the right person for that,” Georgie says.

Jane’s eyes soften. “Sure you are. That was some elevator pitch. Did you have that planned?”

“It was homework for my marketing class,” she says, almost sheepishly. “I’m taking night classes online. I’m almost done with my degree.”

“Good for you,” Jane says, handing Georgie a business card. “Take this and call me when you’re ready to talk.”