CHAPTER EIGHT
PARKER
Did I swing by the shop knowing Poppy would be there? Yes, yes I did. Did I also decide to lay on the sexy charm with the hope that it would break her down? Yes, I also did that. Do I have any regrets? Not on this beautiful Tuesday I don’t. Not a goddamn one, in fact.
We exchanged numbers after she stopped me from leaving and I told her I’d text her later with the info for our date. So this morning I wrote:
ME: Good morning, beautiful. This Friday. Pick you up at 7pm.
To which she replied: POPPY: Where are we going?
And then it went like this: ME: Already told you, that’s a secret
POPPY: How am I supposed to know what to wear? ME: Keep it fairly casual
POPPY: Casual cute or casual like we’re going on a five mile hike? ME: you overthink things a lot, huh? POPPY: No. Maybe… ME: Casual cute is fine, mama
POPPY: ok ME: Hey, Poppy? POPPY: Yes? ME: You didn’t even say good morning to me POPPY: Good morning, Parker ME: :)
So yeah, I think it’s going pretty well.
I hear Tom in the back wrestling with equipment when I walk into the office. He’s vowed to “get it cleaned up” in here this year. Then again, he’s been vowing to do that for like three years so I don’t put a lot of stock into it.
I sit my coffee mug on my desk and then hear a loud thud followed by a rare Tom expletive. He never cusses unless he thinks he’s alone. Which, as this moment will show, sometimes he isn’t.
“You alright, Tom?” I call out.
A few more thuds follow and then he appears from the wreckage.
“Yeah, sorry. How long you been standing there?”
To keep his pride intact I say, “Just got here.” His secret use of the word “shit” will remain mine and mine alone.
“Good, good,” he says.
“Guess what?” I sit on the edge of my desk as he nears.
“What?” He asks.
“I got myself a date.” I declare it proudly. There’s probably even a little swell in my chest.
“It’s about time,” Tom says.
“What do you mean? She just got into town,” I say. “I'm not a magician.”
“Naw, son. I’m not measuring it by when she got back into town. I’m measuring it by the first moment your heart ever beat for her,” he says.
I should clarify that Tom has been with his wife, Betty, going on something like forty years now. He always says he knew the moment his heart stopped beating for himself and started beating for her. It’s how he measures all love stories. And if you can’t answer him when he asks, good luck trying to convince him you’re meant to be.
“I guess it’s been a long time, then,” I say.
“That’s what I just said, knucklehead,” he says.
Tom putters back to the back to resume the thudding and banging around and I leave him to it while I turn toward the agenda for practice this evening. Evening practices are better for two reasons. One, it’s the summer and hot as hell until then anyway. And two, parents are off work by then so participation will be higher. In fact, I sent out all the calendar reminders yesterday.
Of course, all I can think about is seeing Poppy. Sure, our date isn’t until later this week but having these practices does ensure I’ll see her for at least a little while. Like a Poppy snack. Something to hold me over. I gotta remember not to say that out loud. Time flies once I turn my attention to organizing the roster and placing kids in groups by their strengths and where I think their focuses should be. And like that, it’s time to head outside and start welcoming players and parents alike. Tom takes his time trailing behind me. I can’t fault the guy for moving slow. But if I make a fuss about it or ask him if he’s okay, he’ll call me a knucklehead again and wave me on. So I don’t even try anymore. As I approach the dugout, I catch a glimpe of a few parents sitting in the bleachers already. I do appreciate punctuality. As I wait for more to arrive, I check my email from my phone. Looks like I have a few replies to the calendar reminder for tonight’s practice, which I’ve ignored up to now. I click on the chain to see a slew of notes from one parent after another withdrawing from the team. Whoa. For a moment, I’m panicked. I start to count, hoping this isn’t some catastrophe that causes me to cancel the season. Then I remember that I’ve got way more boys than I can play and as I reach a total of eleven dropouts, I’m oddly comforted. Without those boys, I have a fairly normal-sized team. While I’m sorry they don’t want to play, it’s sort of a relief. I mean kids drop out every summer. Some sign up on a whim and don’t really realize the hard work behind it. I guess with more showing up this year, I should have expected a higher-than-normal amount of withdrawals. “Hey, you.” Poppy’s words hit me from somewhere to my right. I turn to see her standing at the edge of the field as Aiden jogs from her toward me.
I know I’m instantly smiling. There’s no use trying to hide it. “Hey there, mama.”
“Hey, Coach,” Aiden calls out, coming to a full stop in front of me.
“Hey, man,” I say, holding my hand out for a high-five. “You ready to work hard?”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
“That’s my superstar,” I say. “Head over and put your stuff in the dugout and we’ll get started in a few.” Aiden heads over while I turn my attention back to Poppy, walking over to her. She’s wearing a light yellow sundress and her hair is down this time. She’s dawning those big sunglasses, not that I blame her. But it also means I can’t see her eyes which is a bit of a bummer. “I need to get you a team ball cap to shield your eyes so you don’t have to wear those sunglasses,” I say. “Why? What’s wrong with my sunglasses?” She asks. “Nothing apart from the fact that I can’t see your eyes,” I say. “And I think you have pretty eyes.” Poppy presses her lips together to keep from smiling too big but I know I got her. She reaches up and slides her sunglasses down low on the bridge of her nose, revealing gorgeous blues. Damn. “I figure that will hold you over,” she says, pushing them back into place. What a tease. I bite my tongue from saying so because I don’t want to go there just yet. It’s a little too suggestive for where we are. But if I had to guess, I’d say that’s where we’re headed and I wouldn’t mind if we got there this week. Being suggestive is what I consider the very beginning of foreplay. It’s very gently tilting the scale in the direction we all hope romantic connections go and there’s nothing wrong with that. As a matter of fact, I consider myself a master-suggester. “I’ll take what I can get,” I say. “Let me go coach these boys while you watch me with excitement.” Yeah, that should plant some seeds. An hour later, my team is tired. Everyone, including me, is sweating their asses off. Everyone, including Tom, is yawning. If I know anything as a coach, it’s that I know when to call it a day and that time is now. “Pack up!” I yell, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Good hustle tonight! See you this weekend!” I jog over to the edge of the bleachers as Poppy steps down toward me. I hold my hand out to her, helping her down to the ground level. “You worked up a sweat,” she says. “Good job, coach.” “Yeah, I need a shower for sure. Which means Aiden does too, I’m sure.” I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead. “If I’ve become used to anything as a sports mom, it’s that sports kids are stinky and require showers,” she says. “My mother can attest to that fact as well,” I add.
“So, I guess I’ll see you Friday, then?” She asks, tucking her hair behind her ear.
Her eyes grow doe-like as she looks up at me. There’s a sweetness to her, in everything she does, that I can’t help but adore.
“Come hell or high water.”