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)
“How many teams did you say you’re canceling?” I ask.
Say a bunch of them. Make this easy to walk away.
“One. It’s such a shame.”
Fuck.
I take a slow breath to give myself a second to opt out, but as I exhale, I still feel the same way.
“Can I see the roster of the kids whose team doesn’t have a coach?” I ask.
Bud fights a smile. “Absolutely. Sure can.” He reaches under the counter and pulls out a giant binder. He sorts through the pages until he lands on a purple tab. “Here you go.”
I feel the weight of his gaze as my eyes move down the list. I’m also fairly certain that Mom is holding her breath.
My finger trails down the short list of names until it lands on the one I was searching for—Ethan Doughtry.
Shit.
“Yeah, that’s Palmer’s boy,” Bud says quietly. “I don’t know whether to tell Palmer before she buys the cleats that he might not be playing or just let them buy them and hope for a miracle.”
I look up and see the hope in his eyes. I don’t even attempt to look at Mom.
My stomach twists into a tight knot, and I’m hit with a shot of adrenaline.
I’m not sure if this is a ridiculous idea or if I’ll hate myself either way I go. But as I think about what I’m going to do for the next month or two . . . I don’t know. Nothing productive, I’m sure. Just sitting around and worrying about what’s to come.
“How long is the season?” I ask.
“It’s a spring league, mostly to gear the kids up for the big summer league. The kids that excel usually don’t participate. So we just have a bunch of kids that are looking to learn the game or sharpen their skills.”
I nod. “So, four or six weeks?”
“Exactly.” He nods enthusiastically. He knows he’s got me. “It’s four weeks of games and then a tournament in Forest Falls. Nothing big or fancy.”
Four to six weeks? I can do that. With no other commitments and nothing but time on my hands, I could spare a couple of months, and it might do me some good.
If I go back to California with nothing to do, there’s a chance that I’ll turn into the one thing I loathe most—a burden.
The thought makes me sick.
One thing I love most about baseball is the teamwork spirit. Each person pulling their own weight. Everyone contributing to the common goal. No one being a drain on the system, and if a mishap occurs, someone is there to pick up the slack. It’s the key to success.
The idea of heading home and being a load on Fish’s time because I’m bored disgusts me. Making my parents worry because they think, not incorrectly, that I’m having some sort of crisis? Irresponsible. And I know that my agent thinks I’m just sucking his energy while piddling around aimlessly, and I hate that he thinks that of me.
If I stay here and coach this team, none of that would happen, and I’d be helping out the community. I could even spend more time with my parents and pay them back for all they’ve sacrificed for me over the years.
“Let her buy the cleats,” I say.
“Who?”
“Palmer.”
Bud forces a swallow. “Why?”
I force a swallow too. “You just found yourself a coach.”
“Oh, Cole,” Mom says, her voice on the brink of tears.
Bud grabs the back of his chair. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I pick the binder up to hand it back to Bud. It slips from my hands and hits the counter with a soft thud. “I’ll come by this afternoon, after I finish carting Mom around, and you can fill me in on logistics.”
I push the binder across the counter and into Bud’s hands.
“I’ll have a packet ready for ya. This is . . . wow. This is really something. A real pro teaching the Bloomfield kids,” he says.
“Hey, just because I can play doesn’t mean I can coach.”
“Are you kidding? You’re going to be a fantastic coach, Cole.” Mom grabs my arm. “It was good seeing you, Bud.”
“You too, Mrs. Beck.”
Palmer’s laugh catches my attention and pulls it across the store. I look up just in time to see her pull Ethan into a one-armed hug.
“Jared Doughtry isn’t gonna show up. I’ll bet ya a dime to a doughnut he never sees a practice or a game. Mark my words.”
I dig into my wallet and pull out two one-hundred-dollar bills. Discreetly, I slide them across the counter.
“Tell Palmer that the cleats are on the house,” I say, my voice low so only Bud can hear.
His eyes go wide. “Really?”
I nod.
“This is too much,” he says. “The most expensive pair I have aren’t even this much.”
“I’ll get the change when I come back.” I glance at Palmer quickly again. “But don’t tell her that I paid for them. Got it?”