Page 36 of Whiskey Chase
Scarlett bypassed the line and ordered three apple pie moonshines from a side window that said Players Only. I reached for my wallet.
“Players drink free,” Scarlett said, shoving a small mason jar into my hand.
“Are we seriously drinking moonshine before a softball game?”
“League rules. We also drink during the game if that makes you feel any better.”
It did not. Jonah shrugged and downed his jar of Bootleg’s finest. I followed suit. Maybe a little liquor would loosen me up. It burned in a really good way. My mouth tasted like apples and cinnamon. Like I’d just drunk a slice of apple pie.
“Wow.”
Scarlett winked. “That’s great-granddaddy Jedidiah’s recipe.”
“What kind of ABV are we talking?” Jonah asked.
Scarlett grinned. “You don’t want to know. Come on, boys. Let’s get ourselves warmed up.”
We followed her to the dugout where the rest of the Bodine family was stretching or frowning at cell phones. There were a few strangers here too.
“Y’all, this is Nash and Buck,” Scarlett said, pointing to two guys who were exact physical opposites. Nash was tall and broad like a barn with arms that threatened to explode out of his uniform shirt. Buck was short and lean with a shock of red hair. He looked as though he were a little kid playing dress up in his father’s shirt.
Jonah and I nodded in their direction.
“Nash and Buck, these are our subs Devlin and Jonah. Two of our outfielders caught the pink eye from their kid,” she explained. “And this here is Opal Bodine. No relation.”
Opal was wiry and tall with short dark hair that she tamed with a ball cap. “Nice to meet y’all,” she said, taking a practice swing.
We exchanged pleasantries.
Jonah and I didn’t have any cleats to change into, so we let Scarlett lead us through a warm-up. I couldn’t help but scan the crowd as I stretched my hamstrings. It appeared as though the entire population of Bootleg had turned out for the game.
Just about everyone of age in the stands had a mason jar of moonshine in hand.
“All right, Base Runners,” Gibson grumbled. “We’re playing the Eagler Lumberjacks. We’re up at bat first. You two okay with outfield?” he asked me and Jonah.
“Sure,” I shrugged. I’d played Little League. When I was eight. And I’d been to my fair share of Nationals games. I could handle this.
“Nash, you’re up first. Opal you’re on deck.”
“All rise for the playing of the National Anthem,” came the crackly voice over the loudspeaker.
“That’s Bernie O’Dell,” Scarlett whispered to me as we lined up to face the flag in the outfield.
“He’s been announcing since he was in junior high.”
Misty Lynn with her bleach blonde hair and very tight t-shirt sashayed up the diamond with a microphone and belted out a reasonably okay and quite dramatic version of the anthem. I noticed Scarlett glaring her down even as she mouthed the words.
The crowd ate it up, cheering and whistling. Misty Lynn curtsied, and Scarlett gave a polite golf clap. “Man, I just hate her guts.”
As if she’d heard it, Misty Lynn sauntered up to Gibson and blew him a kiss. Scarlett made vomiting noises behind us.
“Who’s your friend, Coach?” Misty Lynn purred to Gibson and looked in my direction.
“Bless your heart, Misty Lynn. Why don’t you go call your doctor for your herpes results?” Scarlett suggested sweetly.
“Why don’t you go swimmin’ in an outhouse, you piece of shit?”
I slipped an arm around Scarlett’s shoulders and hauled her to my side hoping further restraint wouldn’t be necessary.
