Planes, Reins, and Automobiles (Catching Feelings #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

FLETCH

“All right, boys, bring it in!” I yell across the field, adjusting my Mudflaps cap to keep my too-long blond hair from whipping into my eyes. “Time to show your families what you’ve learned this week!”

Twenty-two eleven-year-olds in powder blue jerseys with rust-red trim scramble toward me from their warm-up positions.

December in South Carolina means crisp air without the bite of real winter—and it makes me grateful I left upstate New York behind.

The afternoon sun glints off the outfield wall, and parents fill in the stands behind home plate, ready to watch their kids’ final scrimmage.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.

Sure, it might be Grace—my favorite mystery on the other side of the screen—but I never check it during practice. Never during games. That’s the rule, even if I haven’t heard from her in a couple of days. Even if every buzz makes my thumbs itch.

Bzzzz.

I shove the urge to check my phone aside, focusing instead on the kids lining up in front of me.

They’re not perfect, but after five days of winter camp, they actually look like ballplayers—a far cry from the chaos of Monday morning, when a couple of them didn’t even know which hand the glove went on.

Lucas Fischer—my star pitcher and, against my better judgment, my assistant coach for the week—brings his group over with significantly more fanfare.

At six-two with a bandana tied around his head and approximately seven necklaces jangling over his Mudflaps coaching shirt, Lucas has the explosive enthusiasm of a 4th of July sparkler.

“Are you ready to rumble?” Lucas shouts, pumping his fist.

His team erupts in cheers. My kids look at me with wide eyes, waiting for permission.

I give them a flat stare. “Really? You want to do a rally cry?”

They nod eagerly, practically vibrating.

I sigh. “Fine. Make it quick.”

They read that sigh like it’s a grin attached to a written permission slip. Then they unleash a rally cry that puts Lucas’s team to shame.

“All right, all right,” I say, holding back a chuckle. “Save that energy for the field, team. Let’s play ball.”

The kids scatter to their positions. Lucas might dress like he’s auditioning for the Savannah Bananas—complete with the flashy accessories and eye black in every color but black—but I can’t deny he’s great with kids.

Even if just watching his boundless energy makes me weary.

His team takes the field with surprising discipline, and mine heads to the dugout, ready to bat first.

The game starts clean. A few groundouts, a walk, a solid single to left field that gets the parents cheering. Lucas’s pitcher—a skinny kid named Marcus with a fade and a decent arm—is throwing strikes, and my next hitter, Jeremy, is waiting for his pitch.

And so is Jeremy’s dad.

He’s left his seat in the stands and moved down to the fence, pacing. When he stops to yell, he grabs the chain-link. “Come on, Jeremy! You’re better than this! Keep your eye on the ball!”

Jeremy fouls off the next pitch.

“Jeremy! What did I say? Watch the ball! You’re not watching it!”

The kid’s shoulders hunch forward. His grip on the bat tightens.

I know that body language. I’ve lived that body language.

“Strike two!” the umpire calls.

“Focus, Jeremy! You gotta focus!” his dad shouts, louder now, and several parents turn to look.

Jeremy swings, but the bat meets the dirt with a dull thunk. Strike three.

The kid’s face crumples as he walks back to the dugout, and his dad only gets louder. “What was that? You weren’t even trying!”

My vision tunnels as Jeremy’s dad barks.

Suddenly, I’m not in South Carolina anymore. I’m twelve years old in Rochester, and Granddad is leaning over the dugout railing, his cold, cutting voice echoing in the stadium. “Pathetic, Ollie. You call that hustle? You’re embarrassing the Fletcher name.”

My chest tightens. My hands clench into fists.

Some kids have thick enough skin, confident enough personalities, supportive enough people in their lives that one aggressive parent won’t break them. Some kids can shrug this off.

But no kid should have to.

I’m moving before I realize it, heading out of the dugout toward Jeremy’s dad. At six-four”, I tower over the man, and when I stop in front of him, he takes a step back.

“Hey,” I say, my voice low and controlled. “Let’s go talk.”

He blinks, surprised. “Uh, sure. Yeah.”

I point to a spot down the line, away from the parents, away from Jeremy. But before I meet the dad, I go back into the dugout and check on his son.

I clap a hand on his shoulder. “Those were some good cuts, Jeremy,” I say. “Your follow-through is exactly what we wanted. I’m proud of you. Now do you remember what we talked about?”

Jeremy’s brown eyes are rimmed red, like he’s holding back tears. He nods, though.

I lean down, making sure he can look me in the eye. “The last at bat doesn’t matter. Only the next. You got this.”

Jeremy nods again and takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Coach.”

“Good man. Now cheer on your team, okay? They need you.”

I head toward where Jeremy’s dad is waiting, gripping the top of the dugout fence. My cleats scrape against the dirt as I stop, looking down at him.

“Listen,” I say, keeping my tone even. “You want your kid to succeed. You’re invested. I get it. You drove him here every day this week, and you want to see results.”

He nods, defensive. “Exactly. I’m just trying to help him improve.”

“Do you think it worked?”

“Uh,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know.”

“It didn’t.”

The man’s not convinced, so I cross my arms and change tack.

“Here’s the thing. High schools, travel teams—they’re used to sports dads.

But college scouts? Forget it. They won’t even look at kids with parents like you.

Neither will minor league managers,” I say, and he blanches.

I’m the manager of the local Triple-A team, after all.

“No one wants to deal with a Little League dad.”

His face goes red. “I’m not—”

“You are,” I say, cutting him off. Not cruel, but firm.

“And let’s say I’m wrong, and you’re just having an off day.

Your kid is eleven. He’s out here because he loves the game, and you’re making him hate it.

You’re making him afraid to fail. And when a kid is afraid to fail, he stops trying new things.

Stops taking risks. Stops improving.” I take off my hat and run my hand through my hair before replacing it.

“Worse, he stops feeling like his dad is in his corner. Is that what you want?”

The man’s mouth opens, then closes. The defensiveness drains from his face, replaced by something that looks like shame.

“No.” He covers his mouth, rubs his hand over his chin, clears his throat. “No. I don’t want any of that.”

I wasn’t expecting that.

Granddad never apologized. Never backed down. Never would have admitted he was wrong.

This guy just did.

My throat tightens, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak again. “Look, I know you care. I know you want him to be great. But that won’t happen if you ride him for every mistake.”

“Then what do I do?” he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice almost robs me of my voice.

I take a breath. “Support him. If he needs to adjust his swing when you two are playing, tell him how, but if he doesn’t do it, you tell him, ‘Good try.’ Or say, ‘We’ll keep working on it, but you’re doing great.

’ And no matter what happens—no matter if he strikes out or if he misses every catch—after the game, you never criticize him.

All you do is give him a hug and tell him, ‘I loved watching you play.’”

The dad nods slowly, his eyes a little glassy. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

“Good.”

He hesitates, then extends his hand. “Thank you, Coach. Really.”

I shake it, my own emotions too close to the surface for comfort, and nod toward the field. “Go watch your kid play.”

When I turn back to the dugout, I catch sight of a woman standing near the fence, partially hidden by the concrete support beam. Scottie.

Prescott “Scottie” Quinn, my boss’s assistant, is supposed to be handling paperwork in the office, not lurking around the field.

Her light blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and she’s wearing an oversized black blazer over a Mudflaps T-shirt.

Her tortoiseshell glasses catch the sunlight as she watches me approach.

“How long’ve you been standing there?” I ask.

“Long enough to see you go full Ted Lasso on that guy,” she says, falling into step beside me. “That was … unexpectedly sweet of you.”

“It wasn’t sweet. It’s basic coaching. No one wants to be around a Little League Dad.”

She nods, then pauses. “And you’re okay?”

We’re back at the dugout but a few feet away from the kids. I clap when one of the kids hits a line drive. “Fine,” I tell Scottie. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you looked like you were about to punch that dad for a second there, and then you looked like you were about to cry.”

“I don’t cry.”

“Right. My mistake.” She glances up at me with a sharply cocked eyebrow. “For what it’s worth, that kid’s lucky you were here.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. The game is still going, and Lucas is shouting, “The play’s at second!”

“Aren’t you going to check that?” Scottie asks. “Could be Chat Girl.”

“I’m coaching.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s some restraint, Fletch.”

“You know what? You’re officially as annoying as everyone else.”

“Wow, it’s taken this long for you to find me ‘as annoying as everyone else’? I’m honored.”

“Don’t be.”

Her laugh is wicked. “When are you going to meet her, already? Blond, blue-eyed, strapping young buck like you—you’re a unicorn on those weirdo message boards.”

“Easy there. We’re never meeting. We don’t even know each other’s real names,” I say. “It’s not like that.”

She shakes her head. “Not with that attitude.”

One of my kids hits a single, and I shout to the player at third base. “Home, Reynolds! Run home!”