Page 9 of Going to Bat for Love
I shake my head and turn back to the field. Time to focus, Dylan.
6
RAIN CHECK
SUNDAY, AUGUST 31ST
Addison
A new day, the sun is playing tricks on us for the last day of the tournament. One minute, it’s blazing like it’s trying to fry everyone in the bleachers; the next, clouds roll in like some moody artist swiping a charcoal smudge across the sky. I shift uncomfortably on the aluminum seat, regretting my shorts choice. They’re great for a sunny summer day — not so much for unpredictable lakeside weather.
Maggie nudges me, holding a soda precariously in one hand and a tub of popcorn in the other. “You look like you’re concentrating too hard. It’s Little League, Addy, not the Olympics.”
“I’m just cheering silently,” I reply, my eyes locked on the field, which is only half true.
The Bluewater Beavers are warming up, a chaotic mess of kids stretching, throwing balls, and somehow managing to trip over nothing. Maggie’s son, Cooper, is in the mix, looking more focused than usual. The last game of the end-of-summer tournament has some serious bragging rights on the line, and you can feel the tension buzzing in the air.
But it’s not the Beavers I’m watching. Not exactly.
Across the field, the Birch Harbor Hawks are gathering, and their coach, Dylan, is calling out instructions, his voice carrying over the low hum of parents chatting and kids shouting. He’s pacing like he’s got all the energy his players should have. His navy blue Hawks cap is pulled low over his dark hair. It draws my attention to the slight scruff on his jawline.
I hate how my eyes keep finding him.
“You’re definitely concentrating too hard,” Maggie teases, following my gaze. “Or not hard enough.”
“What?” I snap too quickly.
Her grin widens. “Oh, come on. You’ve been sneaking glances at the hot soda repairman all morning.”
I groan and pull my ball cap lower over my face. “He’s not a soda repairman. He’s a coach, a construction guy, and a volunteer fireman.”
“Uh-huh. And he just happened to fix the soda machine on Friday while flirting with you over a spilled hot dog?”
“I wasn’t flirting,” I mutter, though the memory of his easy grin and teasing remarks annoys my stomach.
Maggie isn’t buying it. “Sure you weren’t. And I’m the Queen of England.”
Before I can argue, the clouds above us grow darker, heavy with unspoken threats. A low rumble of thunder rolls across the lake, sending a ripple of murmurs through the crowd.
“Do you think…” I start, but I don’t get to finish.
The sky opens up just then, and rain pours down like someone tipped over a bucket.
The bleachers erupt in chaos. Parents grab blankets, kids squeal and scatter, and Maggie shoves her popcorn at me as she pulls her jacket over her head. “Find cover!” she shouts, bolting toward the concession stand.
I hesitate for half a second, clutching the popcorn like it’s some kind of life preserver. The rain soaks through my hat and into my hair, cold and insistent, and I realize I need to move fast.
The closest cover is a small awning near the dugouts, and I make a beeline for it, dodging puddles and kids with abandoned bats. By the time I get there, I’m drenched.
And, of course, Dylan is already there.
He’s leaning casually against one of the support beams, water dripping from the brim of his cap. His navy jacket is soaked, but he doesn’t seem to care. When he sees me, his lopsided grin appears like he’s been expecting this moment all along.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm despite the downpour. “Welcome to the dry-ish zone.”
I shake the rain from my hat and take in the space, barely big enough for two people. “Dry-ish is right.”
“You always bring snacks on a first date, or am I just special?”
