3. Relish the Moment
RELISH THE MOMENT
Dylan
I spot the disaster midair — one rogue hot dog somersaulting off the counter, ketchup and mustard streaming like party confetti in slow-mo.
Instinct kicks in: I lunge, snatch the thing between two fingers, then drop into a catcher’s squat to corral the rest of the mess before the SPLAT soundtrack in my head reaches its cymbal crash.
When I straighten, the snack bar captain of chaos is frozen on the other side of the counter.
Sunshine-bronze curls, rainbow sprinkle stuck to her cheek as if the universe decided she needed a birthmark made of sugar.
Eyes so wide I half expect an old-school cartoon booing to echo across the bleachers.
She’s older than me, mid-thirties, but that only registers as knows what she’s doing , which makes my arrival with a dripping hot dog feel extra graceful.
“Guessing this isn’t on the menu,” I say, flicking the sad dog into the trash. Sauces splatter the liner with a perfect Jackson Pollock squelch. Nailed it.
“I was going to catch that,” she says, deadpan. “Eventually. Probably.”
“Oh yeah?” I grin. “Before or after it decorated the floor?”
“Depends how long gravity cooperated.”
That earns her a grin. Better.
I lean on the counter, propping one elbow like I have all the time in the world. “Do I get a prize for the save, or do we just pretend gravity never happened and quietly agree to blame the wind?”
She blinks, momentarily speechless, giving me time to notice the saying on her t-shirt — I run on coffee Hot dog girl promptly passes a dish towel across the counter.
“Cost of heroism,” she teases.
“Hazard pay is an extra chili dog.” I dab at the stickiness, then glance at the diamond beyond the concession window, where late-day sunlight paints the outfield in gold. “So — local?”
“Born and raised.” She straightens, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “You?”
“Birch Harbor,” I say, rubbing syrup off my knuckles. “Forty-five minutes east. Coaching the Hawks tonight — my nephew’s our starting shortstop.”
Her eyes narrow in playful suspicion. “I know Birch Harbor. The competition!”
“Don’t hold it against me.” I lift both hands in surrender. “We’ve got a solid team this year.”
“The Bluewater Beavers will wipe the floor with you.” She tries for ferocious, lands mostly on adorably stubborn.
“We’ll see.” I straighten, the concession’s low ceiling grazing my hair. “Pretty invested for someone running a snack bar.”
“She’s basically our town’s entire organizing committee,” Maggie pipes up from a tangle of ketchup packets. “Every festival, every parade, every wedding in a twenty-mile radius — Addy runs ‘em.”
Addy, maybe it’s short for Addison?
Her flush deepens, but she nods. “Guilty as charged.”
“Impressive,” I say — and mean it. Imagine what else she could pull off if she can juggle teens, malfunctioning machinery, and mystery chefs. “Must love this town.”
“I do. It’s home.”
“Same for Birch Harbor. Small, simple, occasionally too nosy.”
Maggie cackles. “Oh, he’d fit right in.” She punctuates the statement by flicking a marshmallow from the toppings station into a trash can twenty feet away. Nothing but net.
I test the machine one more time, satisfied with the steady flow. “Looks like it’s holding. If it starts hissing again, you’ll need an actual repairman or a bigger hammer.”
Addy rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of gratitude. “Glowing endorsement.”
“Hey, I’m a coach, not a magician.” I step out from behind the counter, brushing syrup flecks from my shirt, and discover a smear of mustard across my forearm from catching the flying hot dog, I guess.
Addy laughs and wipes it away with a napkin, her fingers warm against my skin.
For half a heartbeat, the dugout noise fades, leaving only the quick thud of my pulse and the faint strawberry scent of her shampoo.
I clear my throat. “I should get back before the Hawks turn the dugout into a batting cage brawl.”
“Good luck,” Maggie calls, delight practically leaking from her pores. “You’ll need it against the Beavers!”
I walk backwards a few steps, locking eyes with Addy. “Thanks for the soda, the towel, and the impromptu job interview. And don’t worry — I won’t hold it against you when we beat you in the finale.”
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you!” she shoots back — but I’m already turning, her voice chasing me into the crowd.
I join the team and their parents, who are settling in with picnic blankets. My nephew waves for warmups, pantomiming where have you been? I jog over, but my mind’s still behind that counter — sprite-green eyes, hot dog girl, sprinkle glinting on her cheek.
The kid slaps his glove, eager. “Uncle D, ready?”
“More than ready,” I tell him, tossing a ball skyward and catching it clean. Ready suddenly means more than baseball.