Chapter 11 Hallie #2
My mind swirls: Coach G is the best, Mommy! You’re meeting the hot coach! Copy that, dispatch.
The breath whooshes out of my lungs, but then I square my shoulders. I guess we’re doing this.
“Coach G, huh?” I say, unable to hide my smirk.
Greyson has the sense to look a little caught. But his face resumes resting neutrality in an instant.
“It’s been a nickname for years,” he tells me.
He doesn’t seem the least bit shocked that I have a child. But who knows what goes on behind Greyson’s chronically neutral face. Avery’s right. He’s objectively gorgeous. She’s going to die when I tell her I see that face for hours on end every other day.
Mia glances between the two of us, obviously confused.
I turn to my daughter. “I work with Coach G.”
Mia’s face scrunches up even more.
I explain, “Coach G is a fireman. Like me.”
“But you’re a firewoman,” Mia corrects me.
“Yes. I am.”
“You work with Coach G?” Mia’s face fills with overjoyed astonishment. I could have told her I’m best friends with Dolly Parton and she wouldn’t have been nearly as awestruck.
“Yes. We work together,” I confirm.
“Mia can’t stop talking about you,” I say, looking up into Greyson’s blue eyes.
They feel familiar. So much of him does. Probably from all the hours we’ve spent together on shift since I arrived in Waterford.
“Is that right?” he asks.
“Mahhhhm!” Mia says, obviously mortified to be outed.
“Sorry,” I say. Then I look at Greyson again. “What I mean is, she’s happy with your coaching.”
“Because he’s awesome,” Mia adds.
“You’re awesome,” he says with a warmth and sincerity that’s unlike anything I’ve seen from him, even when he efficiently complimented me after the assembly.
Mia beams.
I study Greyson like I’m trying to crack a code, not even bothering to hide my curiosity. He’s Coach G—the one Mia raves about. I pictured someone far softer and more enthusiastic. Maybe a dad who volunteered for the position or someone more like Dustin—a big kid at heart.
The longer I know Greyson, the more the layers of mystery seem to pile on top of one another.
“Are you dropping off or staying?” Greyson asks.
“She’s staying! It’s her day off,” Mia says for me.
Greyson nods, looking me straight in the eyes.
More parents and players arrive. Greyson introduces me to the assistant coach, Will. He’s more like I imagined Coach G to be—easygoing, casual, friendly.
I take a spot in the bleachers. A few moms congregate in another section of the bleachers, glancing over at me occasionally. After a while, one of them gets up, walks over to where I’m sitting, and introduces herself. “I’m Chirsty, Whitney’s mom.”
Greyson and Will have the girls huddled up at this point.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Hallie, Mia’s mom.”
“Oh, I know,” Chirsty says. “You’re the new firefighter.”
“Yes,” I smile.
“We all were waiting for you to show up.”
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, even though Chirsty’s smiling cordially.
People tend to smile politely in Tennessee, even when they don’t always feel pleasant.
The tone’s not as strong as a “Bless your heart” in Georgia, but we’ve got shreds of the same social fabric.
Southern hospitality through and through.
“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Chirsty says. “You’re welcome to join us over there.”
The invitation almost seems like a dare. I weigh my options. If I stay here, I’m saying I don’t want to be included in their group.
I stand and walk over to them.
The other moms introduce themselves, all of them giving me smiles that feel more cautious than truly welcoming.
I get it. I grew up in small-town Tennessee. People come and go around the fringes. But the core of each small town goes back generations. Outsiders aren’t assimilated just because they move in next door. And, to top it off, I’m a female firefighter. Most people don’t know what to do with that.
I settle into a spot on the bleachers and turn my attention to Greyson.
He’s being gentle, encouraging, and patient with each girl that comes to bat.
I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. He’s almost what I would call warm.
He’s still reserved, but there’s this openness to him that never comes out at the station—ever.
It’s like watching a night-blooming cereus open in its annual display when all conditions are optimal. I can’t take my eyes off him.
Of course, I watch Mia. She’s in her element, hitting far, running fast, smiling from ear to ear, encouraging her teammates, and listening to her coaches as if their words are straight from heaven.
Mia’s up at bat again, focused with an intensity that makes me grin with pride.
She gives the ball a satisfying thwack and it soars over the heads of the outfielders, almost to the wall of the ball field.
Then she takes off running the bases like a gazelle being chased by a lion, while her teammates scrabble for the ball.
Greyson’s eyes meet mine and he smiles—actually smiles. My mouth turns up reflexively. A blush rises up my neck. I clear my throat and lift my hand to rub the warm spot, hoping no one notices my involuntary and inconvenient reaction to my daughter’s coach.
One of the moms next to me says, “Okay, then. Coach G does know how to smile.”
The rest of the moms burst into private, shared laughter. I smile over at them, joining in so I don’t stand out.
I’m dangerously close to thinking my daughter’s coach—my co-worker, and the broodiest man this side of the Mississippi—is attractive.
He is, of course. But I’m not in the market for men, attraction, or anything to do with romance or chemistry or feelings.
None of the above, thank you. I’m a working, single mom.
That’s the situation, and it calls for a level of restraint I’m not sure I can consistently muster. But I have to.
Practice winds up and the group of moms says goodbye to me. The field is a flurry of girls running to their parents, some stopping to talk to the coaches. Mia rushes over to me. “Mommy! Did you see when I hit the ball almost out of the park?”
“I saw it!” I tell her, drawing her into a hug.
I look over and Greyson’s watching us.
“Go tell Coach G and Coach Will thank you,” I bend and murmur into Mia’s hair.
She runs away as quickly as she ran to me, stopping at each coach and thanking them. I raise a hand and wave goodbye to Greyson. He raises his in response. No wave. Just a hand raised. No smile, either, but that’s him.
Back at home, Mia’s throwing off her dirty practice clothes and hopping into a bath while I prepare dinner. Mom comes into the kitchen, followed by Henry, who flops down by my feet.
“Want some help?” she offers.
“I’m almost finished. Want to wrap the potatoes in foil?”
“Sure.”
She grabs the butter and seasoning, scrubs each russet under running water and then rubs the outside in butter and sprinkles it with herbs, salt and pepper, like we’ve done for years.
I pull the marinated meat out and put it in the oven and finish tearing the salad and adding the veggies to the bowl.
“So …” Mom says. “You met the hot coach?”
“Could we call him Coach G? Is that so hard?” I ask.
“I prefer hot coach,” she says, laughing.
“Yes. We met. Turns out, we work together.”
Mom stops in her tracks. I revel in the fact that I’m the one giving her pause for a change of pace.
“He what? He’s a fireman too?”
“Yep. He’s a lieutenant. An EMT too.”
“Whewee,” Mom says. “Single? I thought he was single. Is he?”
“As far as I know. We haven’t updated one another on our astrological signs and favorite colors. Maybe on braid-the-other-firefighter’s-hair day we’ll get into all that.”
“Such snark,” Mom says, rolling her eyes. “You weren’t a snarky teen.”
“I guess I’m making up for lost time,” I say, bumping her hip with mine.
“Don’t you want to know about my coffee date?” Mom asks.
“Date?”
“With my new friend.”
“A female friend?” I had assumed. But maybe I was wrong.
“Yes, a female friend. Dolores. But, while we were out, a gentleman approached our table and it looks like I might have an actual date.”
I practically drop the salad tongs on the floor, scrambling to regain my grip on them.
“A date?”
“I’m single,” Mom declares.
“The divorce was just finalized.” I don’t know why this matters so much. She is single.
“Your father left our marriage a while ago. The divorce was red tape and formalities. But I’ve been single since he decided to sample the wares outside our home.”
I nod. Then I step in and wrap Mom in a hug. I can’t bring myself to hate my dad, but I’m on her team through this season. No woman her age should have to deal with dismantling her home and uprooting.
Mom hugs me briefly. “It’s fine. I’ve had time to get through the grief.
I love your father. Still do. A part of me always will.
But he messed up. And that’s that. I’m not going to spend my life sulking around like he’s in the driver’s seat maneuvering the steering wheel to my future.
I’m funny and fun and smart. And I’m not bad looking for a woman my age. I deserve happiness.”
“You do,” I agree.
But dating? I don’t know. I guess that’s inevitable. I’m just not ready. Not that I get a vote. I obviously don’t. I had pictured my mom staying single and hanging out with friends and us for the rest of her life.
Mom, Mia and I share dinner around the table and then I put Mia to bed, reading a chapter in our book and kissing her on the head.
“I’m glad you came to practice, Mommy.”
“Me too. I’m going to try to come as much as I can now that we’re settled into the house.”
“And to games?”
“Of course. I’ll be at all your games.”
“Do you like Coach G?” she asks, fondness dripping from her words.
I’m quiet, smoothing her hair away from her face. “I’m glad you have a good coach.”
“He’s the best coach ever,” she says with a soft, sleepy smile.
I simply nod. “Sweet dreams, Spike.”
“Sweet dreams, Mommy.” She yawns and curls up under the covers.
I stand, flick on her night-light and close the door until it’s softly resting against the jamb.
As soon as I step into the hall, I make a beeline for my bedroom to call Avery.
“Okay! Spill it all!” Avery practically squeals when she picks up the call.
I lean back on my bed, fluffing a pillow behind me so I can sit up in the dim light of my bedside lamp.
“First of all, did you know Mom’s going on a date?” I ask.
“No. But tell me about the hot coach. Incredible, right? What man looks like that?”
“You and Mom. If we were listening to two men discuss a female like this we’d be horrified.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Avery says, half-heartedly. “I’m not fully objectifying him. He’s just insanely gorgeous.”
I chuckle. “And … my co-worker.”
“Whaaaattt?” My sister shouts so loudly, I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “You work with the hot coach? He’s a firefighter? All that, and he fights fires?”
“Yep. All that and he fights fires.”
“Okay. So you do admit his chiseled, broad-shouldered, broody presence is above average on the hotness scale.”
“I’d be blind not to.”
“Right?”
“But there’s exactly zero chance of me doing anything but acknowledge he’s nice looking. I’m a single mom. He’s Mia’s coach. We work together. The end.”
“Or … the beginning!”
“Ave.”
“Right. Right. I just love the idea of you finally finding a man who would treat you right. He likes kids. He’s a coach, after all.”
“Being a coach doesn’t equal liking kids. Not necessarily.”
“I think it’s a strong indicator.”
I picture the way Greyson smiled after Mia hit that ball almost over the wall.
“Yeah. I think he likes kids.”
“So?”
“So, nothing. My life doesn’t have room for any complications. And even if it did, the idea of me and Greyson is ridiculous.”
“What a shame.” The pout in her voice makes me giggle. Avery presses on. “He’s got that whole I’ll throw you over my shoulder and save you from a fire thing going for him.”
“How is that even a thing? I’ll throw you over my shoulder and save you from a fire too.”
“Not the same,” she practically laments.
“Whatever.”
She’s quiet, so I change the subject. “What do you think of Mom going on a date?”
“I’m pretty much all for it. Dad messed up her life. She deserves to be happy.”
“Agreed,” I say, hesitantly. “But don’t you think it’s a little too soon?”
“It’s just a date,” Avery says easily. “She’s not eloping.”
“I guess you’re right.”
And now visions of Mom eloping fill my head—with an Elvis impersonator singing Love Me Tender as she parades down the aisle at the Dollywood chapel.
Heaven help me, she’d better not.