Painting the Corners (One Hit Wonders #1)

Chapter 1

MAXFORD

The evening I expected to have didn’t include a rowdy group of women, huddled in the back corner of the bar, dressed like America’s Founding Fathers. Opening night of the American League Wild Card Series has rules. Also, I have a routine here at Gin and Bear It.

I arrive a few minutes before the game to grab my favorite booth.

Just as I slide all the way onto the vinyl seating, Tom, the middle-aged owner-slash-bartender, nods at me.

When I nod back, he props open the swinging door to yell my regular order into the kitchen: sample platter, cheeseburger, and if the Texas Armadillos aren’t doing well, they know I’ll require one of those warm pizzookies with three scoops of ice cream.

I will inhale all the nachos off the sampler platter before the first pitch is thrown and couch-coach the team by yelling at one of eight fifty-five-inch TVs attached over the bar.

We have rules in baseball. Even at the bar.

A loud chorus of “wooo!” followed by the distinct sound of shot glasses thunking onto wooden high-top tables interrupts my couch-coaching.

“Tom,” I call gruffly to the bartender, who’s busy prepping a row of shots. He doesn’t bother to look up. “Turn it up, will ya?” There should be some self-shame surrounding how frequently I’ve come to Gin and Bear It to catch a game and eat food I didn’t have to cook, but I’m not giving in to it.

A second round of “wooo!” catapults itself into the shared space.

There are at least a dozen women in white wigs, wearing long coats with vests and knickers, giggling and hollering to one another.

I notice the majority of the women have chosen to dress as Alexander Hamilton, but the history major in me also notes there are two James Madisons, two Thomas Jeffersons, and a single Ben Franklin.

The solo George Washington, sporting a blue coat, spins in a circle with her arms above her head like a ballerina and I see the sash announcing she is the ‘Bride to be.’ After a few rotations and a tipsy bow, she calls out, “It’s my last declaration of independence!

” And the group amps up in unison (again) with a third “woooo!”

I recognize I’m unfairly glaring at their festivities, but come on, it’s a Thursday night.

This is a sports bar. Read the room, ladies.

Not only is this an eat-greasy-food-and-watch-the-game kind of establishment, but it’s the playoffs, and I’m in a personal dark space.

Ben Franklin catches me watching them and shrinks a little, mouthing, “Sorry,” but there isn’t an apology there, so much as a ‘what-can-you-do-about-it?’

Tom smirks and ignores my request, putting down the bottle of tequila.

“You don’t need to hear the game to know what’s going on, Hutchings.

You got eyes, don’t you? They take turns using that bat and the goal is to get the most people across home plate.

Simple. I mean, it takes half a day to accomplish the task, but you can follow the excitement without sound. ”

My elbows go forcefully down on the table and I hunch angrily over my sampler tray of wings and mozzarella sticks; nachos long gone.

Instead of staying home and watching the game alone like a loser, I peeled myself off the couch to view it alone at my favorite local dive like a normal man.

And for what? A noisy group of out-of-place women and a sassy middle-aged bar owner.

Without a second thought, I twist my body around the back of the booth and glare at the women again.

They aren’t paying any attention to me, but it feels necessary to send my negative energy their way.

Tom comes out from around the bar and stops in front of my table, saying, “If you can’t eat your food and be happy, I’m switching all the TVs to hockey. The Avalanche play the Ducks tonight and—”

“Hockey is the only sport worth following. Yeah, yeah.” We’ve gone the rounds on this many times and I thought we’d decided we’d have to agree to disagree.

Tom looks at me with a deep sigh. “Why are you even watching this?” Without waiting for a response, he surprises me by pulling the remote control out of his apron and aiming it at the respective televisions to put on the subtitles.

“They dumped you over a year ago and you’re still here rooting for them. It’s just sad.”

That last comment deserves the dismissive stare I send his way, even if it is true.

Glaring is apparently my thing tonight. Tom’s not wrong in questioning why I’m putting myself through the misery of watching my old team compete for a chance at the biggest prize in baseball, but I don’t want to talk about it right now.

“Leave me alone, and when you’re done serving the sorority sisters, can you tell the kitchen I’m ready for my cheeseburger? ”

“Go tell them yourself.” Tom readjusts the tray of shots in his arms and heads into the center of the noise, offering a ‘Here you go’ and receiving—surprise—shrieking applause and fangirling.

I swear it reaches decibels only dogs can pick up.

I offer another quick glance over my shoulder toward the action and feel a pang of lonely nostalgia in my chest.

Once upon a time, I had throngs of women reacting the same way to me.

No lie, that level of energy does something to a guy—it made me feel invincible.

Knowing I could walk up to a group of beautiful women and say, “Hi, I’m Maxford Hutchings,” and they’d all fight for my attention?

It was addictive. Almost more so than being a two-time World Series MVP third baseman.

Then I hit rock bottom, and just like that, all my fanfare disappeared with it.

When the game goes to commercial after the bottom of the first inning, I hop off my stool and beeline it to the kitchen.

Tom’s run this bar for a decade. He knew exactly who I was the minute I walked in, just over a year ago, fresh off the worst life choice I’d ever made.

When Grandma Stella needed to relocate to Boise, Idaho, I saw it as time for a change myself, and I came with her.

That first night in town, I stumbled into Gin and Bear It. The rest is history.

When Tom tells me to talk to the kitchen myself, he actually means it.

I’m very familiar with the staff and have let myself back there to order or grab my own food on more than one occasion.

The entrance to the kitchen sits by the hallway to the bathrooms, and as I reach for the swinging door to get the status on my entrée, Ben Franklin’s leaning against the wall across from the women’s restroom.

She’s out of sight from her party and has tucked her receding hairline wig under her arm as she furiously taps away on her phone.

“I swear she loses her water bottle every week,” Ben Franklin mutters under her breath.

I can’t help but notice she’s pretty, even in the long brown coat over a vest and black short pants. Her brunette hair’s gathered and pinned back, but she’s got high cheekbones and soft curves. When she senses me watching her, she lifts her head, her big brown eyes unimpressed.

“Can I help you?” she asks curtly.

Her tone is deserved and I clear my throat. “Are you having fun?”

“Not really. Some mopey bar creep keeps glaring at us.” She slides the phone into her coat pocket and crosses her arms like she owns the place and I’m the intruder, not the other way around.

My cheeks heat at her accusation and my nose crinkles as I casually question, “Would we call it mopey? Seems to me like he just wanted to watch the ball game in peace.”

“And yet he came to a bar.” Her lips quirk up, producing a single dimple on her right cheek.

“I don’t think he’s the reason you’re not having fun,” I say.

She cocks a brow. “And what makes you say that?”

“There’s a wild party going on out there and you’re hiding back here.”

“I’m not hiding from it.” There’s a bit of a defensive bite to her words.

“From where I stand, you’re making no effort to rush back to the Constitutional Convention.”

She lets out a long sigh, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. “Yeah.”

“You’re not exactly convincing me you want to be here.”

“At the last bar we went to, all the Hamiltons karaoked their title song.”

This makes me laugh once before I quote, “In New York he can be a new man.”

Her eyes flutter open and the woman across from me pauses, really taking me in for the first time. A hint of appreciation dances in the corners of her mouth. “You know the Broadway musical.”

“I was a history major,” I say.

“Then it should bother you that the production was historically inaccurate.”

I nod. “Totally, but my girlfriend at the time was a big fan, so we went whenever I played in New York.” I purse my lips as her eyes light up.

That statement opens the door to more questions, and no matter how much I enjoy feeling like my old self while making small talk with a stranger, I’m not in the mood to play the Twenty Questions of Maxford Hutchings.

Quickly I add, “Whose idea was the costume thing?”

With a self-deprecating laugh, she raises her hand. “Guilty.”

“Really? Founding Fathers for a bachelorette party?” I’ve been privy to seeing lots of these themed parties over the years—Last Rodeo, a Taylor Swift-inspired Lover Era, Last Sail Before the Veil where the bridal parties dress as coastal grannies—but this one happening tonight is definitely unique.

Where there’s already a twinge of judgment in my voice, I can’t help but go for the kill, “And on a weeknight?”

“You’re a nosy kind of guy, aren’t you?”

“Only when I’m talking to people who died over two hundred years ago.”

“Fair.” I earn a smirk and it makes me wonder how I can earn another. She assesses me for a second before deeming me . . . safe? I don’t know but whatever she decides, she continues.

“We fly out to the destination wedding in the morning, and this was the only time that worked for everybody.”

“They are going to be loads of fun on the plane tomorrow.”

She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “And as for the theme, my sister wanted something fresh and fun. Those are two things I am not and I did the best I could.”

“If you don’t think you’re fun, I’d say you’re selling yourself short,” I say.

A slight blush tints her cheeks, but before she can reply, Tom’s voice booms from across the bar, “Hutchings, hurry up! Bases are full!” right as a timer on Ben Franklin’s phone goes off.

She pulls it from her pocket to silence it. Pushing off the wall, she puts her wig back in place, tucking stray hairs up inside. “That’s my cue.”

“Next bar?” I ask.

“Next bar.”

I watch her hurry back to the group of liquored-up women, dancing with one another to Hamilton’s “My Shot” playing from somebody’s phone. George Washington opens her arms wide with a squeal and grabs Ben Franklin. Ben says something to George and they laugh.

Kitchen forgotten, my attention goes to the TVs while I make my way back to my booth, where I stay standing as I watch. The Texas Armadillos have bases loaded with one out. The pitcher for the Colorado Mountaineers keeps shaking his head at every pitch the catcher calls.

“Do you see this?” I ask, pointing to the television as Tom brings out my burger. “Do. You. See. This. They’re starting off strong. I knew if they’d just set the line up with Richards batting first, it’d be magic.”

Tom wipes his hands on his apron and glances up at the TV. “Naw. That’s nothing more than home-field advantage. Poor guys from Colorado don’t know how to play baseball in the Austin heat. It’s already snowing back home.”

“You’re a killjoy, Tom. Do you know that?” I pick up the bottle of fry sauce and squeeze a generous blob onto my plate. Without taking my eyes off the screen, I drag a fry through it and pop it into my mouth. “Come on, Matthews. Keep your eye on the ball . . .”

The pitcher finally agrees to a call and winds up, sending a fast one right down the plate.

Matthews swings, connecting his bat to the ball in that euphoric crack that can only mean one thing: that ball is leaving the park.

It arcs through the air and over the outfield into the water feature at Brewer Stadium.

“Yes! Yes! I knew it!” I cry out with a fist pump as a roaring cheer erupts through the bar. From booths and barstools, everybody’s slapping one another’s backs, beer sloshing all over the place. “Grand slam, baby!”

Even if the other patrons weren’t here for the game, or cheering for the Armadillos, that play is worth celebrating.

I make my way through my section of the bar, doling high fives left and right.

I make for the corner of the bar where the Founding Fathers had set up camp this evening but they’re gone.

They must’ve slipped out during the mayhem, and I don’t know why I’m disappointed; this means the game will be enjoyed as it was intended to be from here on out.

Maybe I am feeling bad for being called out earlier by Ben Franklin and I want to show the bride and her friends that I meant nothing by my earlier mood.

A bachelorette party is just as welcome as a baseball enthusiast.

At the stadium, the fans continue their noise and Matthews is carried off the field after running across home plate. With one more wholehearted “Yeah!” I’m about to slide into my booth and enjoy the rest of the game when a familiar voice says, “Turns out I forgot something.”

I flip around and there’s Ben Franklin, biting her lower lip, eyes laughing.

I assume she’s forgotten to leave a tip, but she doesn’t head toward their table.

Instead, she takes a step forward, making her way closer to me.

She must have figured out who I am. Somebody probably said my name and she googled me, realized she had been talking to a (former) major athlete and now wants a selfie.

I used to get this all the time. Or maybe she wants an autograph.

If I’m really lucky, she’ll give me her phone number.

I’m still new enough in town that dating isn’t happening, and I wouldn’t be opposed to hiking Table Rock with her sometime or getting pizza at that place in Hyde Park my elderly neighbor keeps talking about.

She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything, though, because she closes the gap between us. She’s blushing. Her hands grab both my biceps, and she pulls me in as she tips up on her toes and kisses me.