Chapter 6 Maxford
MAXFORD
My night consisted of a solid two hours of waterboarding.
Every single time I breathed a sigh of relief, seeing somebody step up who I knew couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a basketball, seconds later, I’d find myself plopping back into the cold.
Nola made it her mission to boost everybody’s self-esteem tonight—bullseyes for everybody was her MO.
She’d let them throw one or two coconuts haphazardly before squawking out parrot-like, “What do we want Coach to do?” and the kids in line would bellow, “Walk the plank!” Then she’d casually bump into the bullseye with her shoulder or knock it with her elbow.
The last thing I’d hear is the roar of shrieking giggles and shouts before I’d be waterlogged again.
When the moon climbs high into the dark sky and the kids are literally buzzing from too much sugar, the carnival comes to a close and I drag my over-saturated self out of the tank.
An immediate puddle forms on the grass around me as I peel off the various layers of clothing.
First the hat and wig, then the beard and mustache, the boots, and finally I shed the jacket and wring it out.
Left in only a thin shirt and pants, I’m freezing.
Nola rolls a collapsible wagon out from behind the table and reaches inside, producing a stack of towels. Walking with too much swagger toward me, she holds one out. “Here.”
I don’t move and she motions again for me to take it. My pride says I’m fine; I’m five minutes from home and will be in a hot shower in no time. However, rationale is betrayed by uncontrollable chattering teeth, and I reluctantly reach out for it.
“Is this your attempt at some kind of penance?” I ask, tossing the long jacket to the ground and wrapping myself up.
The oversized towel is bright pink, fluffy, and smells like lavender.
It’s nothing like the charcoal gray towels I bought on clearance that tend to be more scratchy than nice.
If I take this one home, would she notice?
She stacks the remainder on the table and shoves the parrot hood off her head. Pulling her brown hair from its ponytail, she shakes out her hair with a hand and says, “Penance? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you’re right. All those kids are born pitchers. Makes complete sense every single one of them would hit the target.”
Her lips tug up on one side, and she reaches for another towel.
“I see it in your eyes: you know you’re at fault. Come on, you can say it. I’ll even help you,” I taunt, then falsetto my voice. “Max, you’re right. I was awful tonight and never should have single-handedly given you hypothermia.”
“Nobody asked you to wear a costume that would absorb so much water.” Nola steps toward me but hesitates a brief moment before swinging the second towel out and hooking it around my shoulders.
She’s shed the animosity she’s carried all night and replaced it with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
The same one she had right before she laid one on me.
“Luckily for you, I brought towels, knowing you wouldn’t think ahead. ”
I tighten both pink, fluffy towels around me and don’t break eye contact.
We’re standing inappropriately close for two people attending a family-friendly function, which also happens to be at my place of employment, but I don’t think anybody’s paying attention to us as they take down booths and corral their hyped-up children.
This hot/cold approach she’s going for is new territory for me to navigate.
Once upon a time I was given the title of People Magazine’s Most Eligible Sports Bachelor and women were more than happy to throw themselves at me, no effort required on my part.
Turns out, her take is way better. It’s fun not knowing exactly what she’s thinking when it comes to me.
At the same time, I recognize I’m getting under her skin a little, by the way she huffs and rolls her eyes, but when she thinks I’m not paying attention, I see her smirks.
“Thanks.” I take the high road and lean into gratitude.
“I appreciate you watching out for me.” And I really am grateful.
It’s a late-October evening where I’m soaked—I’m thankful she took one look at me at some point and thought, ‘Now there’s a guy who can’t take care of himself.
’ I wonder if she naturally considers all situations because she’s a mom first and foremost, so it’s part of her DNA, or if she had intentionally stopped and conscientiously thought of me as she prepared everything she needed to bring tonight. I hope it’s the latter.
When she stands this close to me, I’m reminded of how alone I’ve been the last year.
Sure, there has been Stella and I love spending time with my grandma, and I love my sisters—I even look forward to our check-ins over FaceTime—but I’m in my mid-thirties.
I’ve been a serial dater, loosely attached to somebody on the regular but never in any meaningful kind of relationship.
Being on the road for baseball made that hard.
At least that was the excuse I always gave myself.
Alone was easier and kept me focused. I’ve forgotten how being in close proximity to a woman is, well, nice.
She twists her mouth and gives a resigned sigh before stepping back and loading the coconuts and empty cooler-turned-treasure chest into the wagon.
I watch her, wishing I could read her mind, and take another towel, throwing it on top of the other two.
Three is the magic number and I finally get the feeling back in my upper body again.
“Mom! What are we doing Saturday?” Emma runs up to Nola, swinging a plastic pumpkin brimming with candy. “Reese invited a group of us to go to Wahooz to do the go-karts and mini golf. Can I go?”
Nola puts her index finger on her lips while she thinks. “I don’t think we had any plans. Ask her what time she was thinking so I can take you.”
“No, that’s okay. Her mom’s going to take us and she’ll be there the whole time . . .” Emma lets that hang.
“Oh,” Nola's lips fall into a sad smile. “You don’t want me to come.” Emma doesn’t hear the disappointment in her mom’s voice and eagerly awaits the decision. “Sure, Em. That would be fun for you.”
“Yay!” the tween squeals. “I’ll go tell her right now!”
Remembering I’m there, Nola recovers quickly with a forced laugh.
“Would you look at that? Sounds like I’ll be getting a few hours to myself on a Saturday!
” She’s trying to make it sound like the best surprise of her life but it’s not landing.
“I don’t remember the last time that happened.
What do people do with their free time anymore? ”
The mention of Saturday puts Stella’s request front and center in my mind. “I know just the thing for you to do.”
“And what would that be?” Her question is a mix of amusement and curiosity.
“Come join me for what promises to be a wild game of Bingo up the road at White Pine Care Center. Nothing says fun like a room of octogenarians, full from lunch, fighting to win the coveted prize of twenty dollars.”
Nola makes a face like she can’t decide if I honestly mean what I’m offering. “Really?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die, it’s a pirate’s life for me,” I recite, as if this is a well-quoted promise.
“Why are you going there? Do you owe society community service hours or something?”
I chuckle. “No. My grandma is a resident.”
“Oh.” This seems to land in my favor the way she softens momentarily at the thought I’m visiting my sweet, frail granny. Righting herself again, she says, “It seems like a big ask to give up my extremely rare freedom to hang out with you at a nursing care center. Why would I do that?”
“Because you want to do me a favor,” I say matter-of-factly. Her eyes narrow as she considers it, and I can taste sweet victory. Stella’s going to be thrilled, and I’ll have a chance to show Nola I’m more than the bar guy or the mean teacher or the soggy pirate.
“If that’s the case, then I’m guessing you won’t mind a little quid pro quo.” She crosses her arms.
I keep a poker face, knowing I walked right into that. She wants exactly one thing, and it pains me to go against my personally defined teaching boundaries, but before I can wave her off and tell her to forget it, Emma’s back. Her head volleys from her mom to me and she asks, “What’s going on?”
Without looking at her daughter, Nola says, “Coach just offered to let you make up your mile run tomorrow after school.”
Surviving a school day on Halloween was punishment enough.
Now I have to stay after to time Emma’s run.
It’s going to be less than ten minutes but it’s the principle of the thing.
The smug smile Nola gave me after announcing the opportunity to Emma was stuck in my head all night.
Self-satisfied but also so cute. I don’t know how she does it.
Emma finds me at the track and starts into some stretches.
“Are you ready for this?” I adjust my baseball cap and hold up my stopwatch.
Emma shakes her head. “My mom should be here any minute now—she’s going to run it with me.”
“Your mom’s a runner?” I’m not saying she couldn’t be, but when would she have the time? She seems busy taking care of everybody else.
“No.” She gives me a look that holds back a laugh. “But she promised me if you’d let me make up the run, she’d do it with me. I just have to do it in eight minutes and seven seconds for an A, right, Coach?”
I nod and watch a line of wild bodies, dressed in every conceivable costume, load onto a bus. In nine hours, this holiday will be behind us, thank goodness. “Are you going trick-or-treating tonight or are you too old?”
“Why wouldn’t I go? It’s free candy.” Duh, Max.
“You didn’t get enough at the carnival last night?” The handle on her bucket had been one fun-sized Snickers away from buckling under the weight.