Chapter 3
THREE
COLBY
Part of being invited into the boys’ club is actually hanging out with the boys, but it’s hard not to be guarded in a bar that caters to testosterone and rowdy behavior. And so far, that’s exactly what Earl’s seems to be.
I slip onto the stool at the far end of the well-loved wooden bar and trace my finger over a pair of initials that seems to have been carved into this bar top with a fork or a really dull knife. I can’t tell if the first set is YT or TJ?
“What can I get ya, Coach?” A tall woman with light brown hair piled into a messy pile on top of her head whips by me on the other side of the bar, scooping up discarded beer mugs along the way.
“What’s on tap?” I’m not much of a drinker, but I do enjoy a cold one straight from the tap.
It reminds me of celebrating big games in college with my dad, when he’d fly out for one of my big series so he could coach me from the bleachers and celebrate afterward at an expensive—well, expensive for us—restaurant.
He always got the house beer on tap and toasted me.
I never told him I couldn’t hear a word he said from the stands. That wasn’t the point.
“I’ve got all the usuals, and then there’s the local brew from the college—they call it the Dog Special.
” She slides a rag along the bar, cleaning as she approaches again, then stops directly across from me and leans over.
“I’ll tell you a secret, though. It tastes a hell of a lot like Coors, and it’s twice the price. ”
I snicker and nod. “I’ll take a pint of the cheap stuff, then,”
She winks and hustles to the tap, returning with a frosty, amber-filled mug.
“I’ll start you a tab. Settle up whenever.
” She pats the bar top with her slender palm, and my gaze trails up her arm, noting the toned muscles that accent her forearm and bicep.
She’s wearing a tight white tank top that reads EARL’S in orange across the front.
Her name tag says Daisy, I think, along with the abbreviation for manager.
“So, does everyone around here know who I am?” I ask when Daisy works her way back in my direction.
She lifts a shoulder as she mixes a cocktail.
“Everyone around here knows everything; it’s how Sweetwater works. This town runs on rumors and gossip.” A sharp laugh leaves her lips, but she doesn’t smile. I get the feeling she’s speaking from experience, and maybe a place of resentment.
Daisy busies herself at the opposite end of the bar, so I slip one of the frayed menus from the silver basket tucked next to a condiment rack at the end of the counter.
There’s a brief history of this joint on the back, and I learn that Daisy is Earl’s daughter, and this place?
It’s hers now after being run by her father for forty years.
A swift thud rattles my ribcage from behind, and I spin on my stool to scope out someone setting up a drum kit in the corner of the bar.
I didn’t know this town had live music. I haven’t heard more than a few taps on a snare and the kick of the bass, but the set looks legit, as do the guys dressed in denim shirts and tight cowboy jeans tuning electric guitars at the back of the small stage.
“You stick around long enough, I may just talk you into being my dance partner,” Jayden says.
It’s strange, but I swear I sensed his nearness before he spoke.
The familiar spicy scent of his cologne and the sloppy cadence of his steps as he approached gave him away. Some traits are ingrained, it seems.
“It’s been a while, but my guess is you’re still not much of a dancer.” I turn in my seat, my gaze matching his as I reach for my beer and take a sip, staring at him over the rim the entire time.
“I’ve two-stepped a few times. I might surprise you,” he says, a flirty chuckle pulling the corners of his mouth into his trademark smile.
“Hmm.” I pretend to muse, buying my brain a few extra seconds to talk my mouth out of getting me in trouble. “Too bad you didn’t learn how to dance before you stood me up for prom. Maybe we could have gone.”
I purse my lips, but my insides are caught between feeling indignant and sad. The words feel childish. Prom. My grudge isn’t about prom. It’s about him. And his abrupt exit from us.
Jayden’s head tips to the right as his lips part, but instead of speaking, he chews at the side of his mouth as if considering his words.
His gaze drops for a moment, but when his brown eyes lock back on mine, my world tilts.
My chest fills with a strange warmth that stops my breath mid-intake, and my body buzzes at its core.
I’m not sure whether it’s an overwhelming sense of dread or something less ominous, but before Jayden can speak, Chet slings an arm around his neck and gestures my way with a beer in his hand.
“Coach was a fucking badass! Did you know that?” Chet’s a bit buzzed, which actually makes the attention—and compliment—easier to take. I’ve never been good at accepting praise.
“I did,” Jayden says with a nod, his eyes softening on me as his lips perk up into a faint smirk.
Sad. This all definitely makes me sad.
“Oh, I see. You two were you a thing back in the day?” Chet waggles his beer back and forth between Jayden and me, and it starts to foam.
“Oops,” the burly man says, licking the spillage from the neck of the bottle, then chugging the remnants.
He’s veering beyond buzzed. I’m not sure how many of those he’s had, but my guess is he’s been downing them in pairs.
"We were never a . . .” I waggle my finger between Jayden and myself as my words trail off.
Jayden drops his hands in the pockets of his jeans and clears his throat, glancing down at the floor while what appears to be a strained smirk pulls his mouth up at the corners.
“Oh, my bad. I was just sensing some history or shit.” Chet slips his arm from around Jayden, and my former . . . whatever clears his throat.
“Yeah, we didn’t date. Colby Kessler was off-limits.” Jayden salutes the empty space between Chet and me before shifting his gaze my way. I must not be hiding my reaction well either, because he quickly shrugs and utters, “What?”
I shake my head, my eyes narrowed on him.
“Nothing,” I say, adding an eyeroll in the mix before turning my attention to a quickly diminishing Chet.
“We were friends, and I think what he means is my dad was his coach, so yeah, even if we wanted to—” I shrug, not bothering to finish. Unfortunately, Jayden does it for me.
“Oh, I wanted to. But you know how it is, timing and all that,” Jayden says in an amused tone. My stomach beats with my pulse. I might be sick if I remain in this conversation much longer.
“Anyhow, Chet—” I turn my full attention to the swaying big man who is playing my highlight videos on his phone. I take his device in my palm and close the stream, then curl the fingers of his free hand back around his phone. Our eyes meet.
“I’d rather the rest of the team not know Jayden and I know each other. It’s hard enough being the only female on staff. People can easily get the wrong idea.”
Chet’s brow furrows, and I can tell he’s passed over to full-on drunk.
It happened so fast. I can’t imagine the shit Daisy deals with in this place, drunk ballplayers left and right.
Then mix in the college kids, half of them trying to pass off shitty fake ID’s, and it sounds like a nightmare.
I’ll take breaking the gender barrier in coaching over her gig any day.
“So you and Jayden don’t know each other?” Chet says, somehow boiling my request down to a lie that sounds good to me.
I glance in Jayden’s direction, my eyes squinting a hair in warning. Hush your mouth, I try to convey.
“Correct. We don’t know each other. But you can share my highlight reels all you want. Because you’re right—I am a badass.” I pat Chet’s shoulder and urge him toward the bar, where Daisy already has a cold water waiting for him.
Chet chuckles as he takes a seat, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb and sliding the empty beer bottle on the bar top for Daisy to discard.
“New coach is a badass. You heard it straight from her lips to yours,” he mutters.
“Yep,” Daisy says, commiserating with me via eyeroll. “Straight from her lips to mine.” She chuckles and leaves Chet alone with his water, which—thank God—he’s drinking.
“So, we don’t know each other, huh?” Jayden’s voice is soft behind me. I turn my attention back to him, and his mouth pulls in tight on one side with what I sense is disappointment.
I sigh. I can’t spend my summer managing his feelings.
“Don’t take it personally, Jayden. I have to prove myself, and it’s hard enough without having the clubhouse rumor mill churning.
You get it, right?” I lean my head to the right and return to my stool, which is a few seats down from where Daisy parked Chet.
Jayden slips onto the one right next to me, though, so I quickly stand again.
“See, that’s what I mean,” I sigh out.
“What?” he says with a chuckle, holding up his hands.
He acts as though he’s becoming exasperated, but it’s been so long since we’ve talked regularly that I’m not sure how well I read him anymore.
Is he playing it up for attention, or is he genuinely confused about why this situation is a minefield for me?
“You can’t sit that close to me. It looks bad. And if people know we grew up together, or that my dad was your coach, or—”
“That we kissed once?” His right brow lifts.
I exhale and drop my chin to my chest with a defeated chuckle before pinching the bridge of my nose. I don’t want to finish my beer anymore. I think I’ll abandon it.
“Yeah, Jayden.” I lift my gaze to meet his sweet, brown eyes. “I don’t want the talk in the clubhouse to be about me sitting too close to you, or on our family ties, or yeah . . . that you kissed me once.”
I bite my tongue before I tack on the bitter words that usually follow my walk down this memory lane—that Jayden kissed me then ghosted me.
“You mean you kissed me,” he says.
His words snap my neck straight, and my eyes nearly pop out of my skull.
“Uh, ha. I’m sorry?” I want to laugh harder, but I’m so blown away by his response that the only biological response possible is severe stomach acid and a tightening chest that keeps me from screaming.
“That’s how I remember it.” His lips tuck in on one side, and the urgent feel of my racing pulse in my stomach is back again.
A quick glance around Earl’s gives me a bit of relief.
As much as it feels as though all eyes are on us, nobody seems to give a rat’s ass that we’re talking.
Coach Shuster is in the midst of a deep conversation with Abe, his pitching coach.
And the other assistants are all gathered around one of the electronic dart machines.
“If we were ever friends at all, Jayden—”
“Of course we were friends, Colby. We’re still friends.
Always friends. Always . . .” Something in his voice tugs at the soft tissue encircling my heart.
I lock on to his gaze and let myself remember our past for a few brief seconds.
It plays in the back of my mind in a flash, a brief swell of hope chased by sharp disappointment.
“Okay, so we’re friends,” I say, pulling my focus back to the present. “And as my friend, I’m asking you to take it easy on stories about our past, and to maybe give me a little space. Just so it doesn’t look like I’m playing favorites, or—” I stop when I the tinge of red colors his cheeks.
“What?” I turn my head slightly, partly bracing myself for whatever he’s about to share next.
“I’m your eight a.m. And I also may have signed up for your next few morning openings.”
“Next few?” My chest tightens.
“Like . . . next seven. Or . . . well, eight. Okay, nine.”
My wide eyes sting from the blunt force of the air. The band starts its first song, and I blink.
“Ten,” he finally utters. I tilt my head, not sure I heard him right over the music.
“Ten,” he repeats, cupping his mouth and saying it louder.
I step toward my beer, and rather than abandoning it, I chug the pint in seconds and slam the empty mug back down on the bar top before wiping my chin with my forearm.
“Ahh,” I breathe out. “I needed that. Because of you.” I point at his chest, allowing my fingertip to poke his breastbone twice before I begin to walk away.
“It’s only because you’re a badass coach. That’s why I signed up for so many sessions.”
I wave him off, snagging my backpack from the back of the stool and slipping the straps over my arms.
“You want coaching? You’re going to get coaching. Brace yourself, Jayden Vargas. My dad? He took it easy on you. I’m not as soft.” I hold his stare for a beat, long enough to catch him swallow hard. “And don’t be late. I fucking hate that shit.”
I turn my back to him and swing by the coach’s table to put in the face time that matters more than smoothing things over with a boy I once had a crush on.
I shake Coach’s hand before heading out the door, forcing my head full of Chet’s compliments—I’m a badass.
I feel like one for a full four seconds, which is how long it takes before I glance over my shoulder with hope that the boy I clearly still have a crush on is following me.
Shocker. He is not.