5. Friendly Rivalry
FRIENDLY RIVALRY
Dylan
S aturday evening. We’re at our last game of the day.
The late summer sun beats down on the Birch Harbor Hawks as they take the field, their navy-and-gold uniforms a little too crisp for players who’ve already eaten their weight in funnel cake.
I jog out to the dugout, clipboard in hand, trying to look like a coach who has his act together.
This is the semi-finals. We’ve got to be at our best.
Truth is, I’m distracted. I keep thinking about my brief stint as an accidental soda machine repairman.
I shake my head, trying to refocus on the game.
The dugout smells like sweat, sunscreen, and gum long past its prime.
My nephew, Owen, waves at me from the outfield, his glove nearly falling off his hand as he attempts some kind of elaborate superhero pose.
I check to see if his mom, my older sister, is watching him from the bleachers.
“Eyes on the ball, Owen!” I call, though my tone lacks the usual bite. It’s hard to be mad at a kid who just wants to look cool.
The first pitch is a little high but manageable, and the batter connects with a satisfying crack. The ball arcs through the air, but my attention doesn’t follow it. Not really.
Instead, my eyes drift back to the bleachers.
She’s there. The concession stand queen and apparent master of juggling hot dogs and chaos.
She’s sitting at the end of the bottom row, closest to me, her curly hair catching the sunlight, holding what looks like a notebook and chewing the end of a pen.
The bleachers are crowded with parents yelling advice that no ten-year-old will ever take seriously, but somehow, she stands out.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s how she’s laughing at something the woman beside her said or how she balances perfectly on the edge of her seat, fully invested in the game.
Or maybe it’s because she completely embarrassed herself yesterday and still managed to fire back at me with just the right mix of sarcasm and charm.
We’re done with the first inning, and I seize the moment to step away from the dugout. “Watch your swings, Hawks!” I shout, just to maintain appearances. Then I walk toward the bleachers like I don’t have a plan — which is accurate, because I absolutely do not.
She doesn’t notice me at first. She’s scribbling furiously in her notebook, her face scrunched in concentration. I clear my throat as I reach the bottom row.
“Hey,” I say, tilting my head up at her. “I just wanted to make sure there’s no permanent trauma from the hot dog incident.”
She startles, her pen flying out of her hand and landing at my feet. Her cheeks flush a light pink, and she gives me a look that’s half embarrassment, half amusement. I pick up the pen and hand it back to her.
“Oh, it’s you,” she says, recovering quickly. “The soda machine whisperer.”
“Guilty,” I reply, leaning casually against the railing. “Though, I’m thinking about rebranding to hot dog retrieval expert.”
She laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that’s loud, unguarded, and infectious.
“Well,” she says, sitting back and crossing her arms. “If that’s your angle, add ‘Napkin Magnet’ to the resume. That was a mess.”
“Hey, I was just trying to help,” I say, raising my hands in mock defense. “And for the record, it wasn’t my hot dog that caused the chaos.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “No, but you had a front-row seat to my humiliation, so you’re complicit.”
“I’ll accept partial responsibility. But only if you tell me your name.”
She hesitates for a split second, and I notice how her fingers tighten around the notebook’s edge. “Addison.”
“Addison,” I repeat, testing its sound. “I’m Dylan. From Birch Harbor.”
“Yes,” she says, her lips quirking into a teasing smile. “The enemy.”
I laugh, leaning a little closer. “I prefer ‘friendly rival.’ Besides, it’s not like we’re playing for the World Series here.”
“You clearly haven’t met the parents on this side of the bleachers,” she replies, glancing toward the rowdiest section, where a man is yelling something unintelligible.
“Fair point. What about you? Are you part of the peanut gallery, or just here to observe the chaos?”
“I’m here for Maggie’s son, Cooper. The Bluewater Beavers might face your team in the finals, and then we will definitely be enemies!”
We fall into a comfortable silence, the kind where the noise of the crowd fades into the background. Addison fiddles with the edge of her notebook, and I notice the small details — the way her bracelet slides down her wrist, the curve of her smile when she’s half-distracted.
“So,” she says suddenly, breaking the moment. “What do you do when you’re not coaching Little League and fixing soda machines?”
“Construction. Mostly residential. It’s nothing glamorous, but it keeps me busy. And when that’s not keeping me busy, I volunteer as a fireman.”
She tilts her head, clearly intrigued. “Construction. That explains the calloused hands and ease with the soda machine. And volunteer fireman, always ready to save a damsel in distress!”
Her cheeks flush again, and I feel a small surge of pride, like I’ve won a point in an invisible game I didn’t realize we were playing. Before I can say anything else, the umpire blows the whistle, signaling the start of the second inning.
“I should get back to the dugout,” I say reluctantly, straightening up.
Addison nods, but something in her expression makes me hesitate. “Good luck, Coach,” she says, her voice soft but teasing.
“Thanks,” I reply, pausing just long enough to catch her eye. “And try not to drop any more hot dogs, okay?”
She laughs, and the sound stays with me as I jog back to the field.
Back in the dugout, the kids are buzzing with energy, hyped up from their brief break and the promise of post-game ice cream. I call out instructions, pretending I’m entirely focused on the game, but my mind keeps drifting back to Addison.
Her laugh. The way her smile tilted slightly to one side. The way she said ‘coach’ was like it wasn’t just another word.
It’s stupid. I’m here for a tournament, not to make connections with a woman who clearly has deep roots in a town that isn’t mine. There’s no point to it.
And yet, when I glance back at the bleachers, my eyes find her again. She’s still there, pen in hand, completely immersed in whatever she’s writing.
I shake my head and turn back to the field. Time to focus, Dylan.