Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
“Oh, honey.” She pats my arm. “You’ll never know how much I love you and how proud I am of you and how happy I am to have you around.”
Her words are sweet and, more importantly, genuine. They make me feel like a little boy, but I’ve learned in life that it’s okay to let your mom baby you. I don’t particularly understand it, but it’s where she seems to get her joy.
“Hey. I think we need to stop at Bud’s.” Mom twists in her seat and peers into the truck bed. “Yes. Pull in there, please.”
I do as instructed.
“Your dad put his golf clubs in the back. I can’t remember what he’s having done to them, but I remember him asking me to drop them off. Maybe he’s having them cleaned. Do people get golf clubs cleaned?”
I just laugh at her.
There are four cars in the parking lot. I take a spot between two other trucks.
“This place is always pretty busy, huh?” I ask as we climb out of the cab.
“Yes.” Mom shuts her door. “Bud does so much more than sporting-goods stuff. He organizes the Squash Festival in the fall. He does all the fundraising for the church. I think he’s the head of the tourism board too.”
I snort, grabbing Dad’s clubs out of the bed. “Bloomfield has a tourism board?”
“Well, I think it’s two or three people. But they get a lot of traffic through here, really. People come this way to hunt and fish and hike. The board helps them all know that we have Fletcher’s and Bud’s,” she says, waiting on me to get the door for her. “And the little market on the other end of town.”
The door makes some kind of animal call when I open it. Mom laughs at the ridiculous sound and marches right up to the counter.
A circular desk is placed in the center of the main room, and a graying Bud Winters stands in the center.
“Good morning, Mrs. Beck,” he says, the corners of his mustache moving. “Did Lawrence send you in with his clubs?”
I hold them up in the air.
“I’ll take those from you,” he says.
Bud comes around the corner, and I hand him the strap.
“It’s good to see you again, Cole,” he says.
“Did you get your baseball program all figured out?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
He looks at the floor and shakes his head. “You know what? I didn’t. The guy that always coaches . . .” He looks up at Mom. “You know Ted from the butcher shop?”
Mom nods.
“Well, he had a dual hip replacement this winter. The doctors said he’d be back to good by spring, but he’s not. The man can barely walk. His son has been running the butcher shop since October because he can’t even stand for long periods of time.”
“That sucks,” I say.
“It does suck,” he says, as if he doesn’t say that word very often. It comes out of his mouth clunky. “Things aren’t looking good for the team. They’re looking awful, actually. My backup option took a welding job in Pennsylvania and can’t do it. And Lord knows that I can’t do it with all the other things I have on my plate. I’m still waiting to hear back from the Forest Falls gym teacher to see if she can step in and help. Hopefully she’ll know enough about baseball to make a difference.”
I can see the grief that this causes Bud. It’s written all over his face.
My heart tugs. It’s nice to see someone care so much about something that’s not themselves—especially kids’ sports. Most people blow athletics off like a place for adults to live their childhood dreams through their offspring, but they’re more than that. They can give kids a place to go after school and a reason to say no to bad behavior.
I’m opening my mouth to say something when a coyote howls behind us. I look over my shoulder, and my eyes immediately lock with Palmer’s.
Her cheeks flush as the door closes behind her. I give her a tentative grin and am relieved when she returns it—even if it is a bit wobbly.
“Hey, Cole!” Ethan smiles beside her.
“Hey, Ethan,” I say, smiling back at him. “Whatcha doing here?”
“Getting cleats.”
“Makes sense.” My gaze slides over to his mother. “Hi, Palmer.”
Her eyes are wide, clearly surprised to find me at Bud’s. She licks her lips. “Oh, hi, Cole.” She clears her throat. Her gaze lingers on me for a long moment before she flips it to the man behind the counter. “Hi, Mrs. Beck. Hi, Bud.”
“What can I help you with today, Palmer?” Bud asks.
“Cleats for the big guy here.” She wraps her arm around her son. “Jared signed him up for baseball. Are they over by the fitting rooms?”
“Sure are,” Bud says with a wide smile.