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)
So that’s weird. But what’s even stranger is that Ethan has never once, in his twelve years on the planet, mentioned an interest in anything with a ball. He didn’t even like balls as a toddler. I know Jared wasn’t prompted by something Ethan said.
It’s so random and out of left field. Pun intended.
“I guess what it is,” I say, walking around another mud hole, “is that I can’t decide what to make of it. It feels like this whole baseball thing just got dropped in my lap, and it’s so heavy.”
“What do you mean by ‘heavy,’ Palmer?”
“I mean that it just landed in my life with a thud.”
He chuckles. “All right.”
I know that was a pitiful response, but it feels accurate.
“I just . . .” I look at the cold, gray sky. “I was sure that I was going to have to tell Jared to get his fee back because Ethan wouldn’t play. And then we ran into Cole Beck in a parking lot, of all places.”
Kirk looks at me, his brows pulled together. “Lawrence Beck’s son? The baseball player?”
“Yes, he just retired, apparently.”
“I didn’t know he was in town. I bet Lawrence is thrilled.”
How the heck would I know? “I bet he is.”
“Huh.” Kirk shakes his head. “Anyway, you ran into Cole . . .”
“Yeah. We did. And Ethan was surprisingly receptive to the whole thing. He tossed the ball around with Cole, and . . . Ethan wasn’t my kid. He seemed excited about an outdoor sport with a ball.”
Kirk laughs.
“Then I take him into Bud’s to get some cleats, because apparently you can’t go to one practice to make sure you like it without the proper footwear.” I roll my eyes. “And Bud said that there was some kind of rebate on them and they were free.”
“Really?”
Kirk believes that line of crap about as much as I do, but I don’t know how else to explain it. Bud isn’t one to give things away, so I’m not sure what to think. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, and we walked out of there with a pair of baseball shoes for free.
“Really.” I shrug. “It’s like this whole thing should’ve been called off at every turn, and yet, with every turn we lean more into it.”
Our pace slows as we start down the steepest part of the hill. Kirk chews on his bottom lip like he does when he’s thinking.
I think, too, but on a slightly different trajectory.
My thoughts slide easily—too easily—from baseball to Cole.
A puff of a breath whispers into the air as I give up the fight. Because that’s what it’s like—a constant struggle not to think about him.
My mind is made up when it comes to Cole. Nothing is going to change that. But I’m not having an easy time switching my brain patterns back to last Friday, before I met him.
It’s bizarre.
I’ve thought a lot of men were handsome over the years, but I was able to forget their names. Charming guys are few and far between, but they do exist. And I’m able to move along from our exchanges.
So what is it about Cole? I’m not sure.
He’s easy and fun to talk to. I secretly adore his persistence. Watching him be so kind to my son—taking time out of his day to play catch with him for a moment—doesn’t hurt. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that seeing him and his mother interact at Bud’s softened my heart a little bit.
But none of that explains the immediate comfort that flows through me as soon as his name comes up in a conversation or his face pops up in my mind. Sure, I’m frustrated, too, but there’s a very clear wash of warmth, like a giant exhale, that accompanies my irritation.
It’s so, so baffling.
“Have I ever told you the story about how my father started Skoolie’s?” Kirk asks.
I shake my head and stomp in the middle of a puddle. Water squishes out both sides of my boots.
“Dad was a mechanic,” he says. “He worked for a guy in Forest Falls but also did work on the side, as mechanics do. A man contacted him one day to see if he could work on his bus because he wanted to convert it into a mobile home, like they do now. But this was back before all of that was cool.”
“I love that you use the word ‘cool.’”
He smiles at me. “So, Dad did it even though he wasn’t a bus mechanic, but he knew enough to help the guy out. And, as things happen, Dad’s name started to float through the bus community that he was the guy to do quality, cheap work.”
Our boots crunch through the gravel as we hit the driveway that leads from the storage sheds to the offices. A deep slate–colored cloud barrels across the sky, and I wonder if we’re going to get caught in a rainstorm.