2. Concession Stand
CONCESSION STAND
Addison
A s I step inside the shack, Maggie thrusts the nacho tray at me without a preamble. “I’m one ketchup packet away from a meltdown. And game one seems to be wrapping up. We’ll get a rush of customers soon.”
I set the tray on the counter and glance around. The concession stand is as chaotic as ever. Cramped stainless steel counters, the faint smell of burned popcorn, and a soda machine making ominous hissing noises. Outside, the noise of the crowd ebbs and flows like a tide.
“What’s the crisis?” I ask, tying on an apron that smells faintly of vinegar.
“Everything.” Maggie ticks off on her fingers. “We’re out of ice. The soda machine is acting possessed. Brett wants five funnel cakes for the team — five . And the seagulls are plotting another attack.”
“Business as usual,” I say, reaching for the cash register as a mom in a sweatshirt that reads Beavers Rule! hands me a crumpled ten-dollar bill.
“Not for me,” Maggie retorts, filling a popcorn bag with mechanical efficiency. “You live for this chaos. I remember our high school years! You volunteered for every committee like it was an Olympic sport.”
She’s not wrong. Yearbook editor, prom committee chair, volunteer coordinator — you name it, I ran it. Organizing has always been my thing, which is probably why I became an event planner. And yet, here I am, 37, wondering if there’s more to life than making sure the snack bar runs smoothly.
As Maggie turns to refill the nacho cheese dispenser, I glance at the field. Cooper, Maggie’s eleven-year-old, stands in the outfield in his oversized Bluewater Beavers uniform, looking like he’s just spotted a dragonfly.
“Is Cooper playing well?” I ask, sliding a soda across the counter to a teenage girl with braces.
“He’s... enthusiastic,” Maggie says, following my gaze. “Last week, he found a caterpillar in the grass and named it Ted. Brett’s trying to teach him to focus, but honestly? Ted might be our team mascot soon.”
I laugh, picturing Cooper introducing Ted to the team. Maggie’s son is sweet but easily distracted, much like his dad, who’s coaching tonight. Brett’s the assistant coach for the Beavers, a role he takes seriously, though not as seriously as Maggie takes keeping this shack running.
“Speaking of Brett,” I say, glancing around, “where’s Hannah?”
Maggie waves dismissively. “Hanging out with her friend by the bleachers. She’s at the age where helping me is the most uncool thing ever . ”
I nod knowingly, handing a bag of candy to a kid who can barely reach the counter. The steady rhythm of transactions almost distracts me from the ache in my feet, a souvenir from today’s wedding expo in Elmwood. If I have to hear the phrase “rustic but elegant” one more time, I might scream.
“Hey, you okay?” Maggie asks, her sharp eyes catching the sigh I didn’t mean to let slip.
“Fine,” I lie, plastering on a smile.
She doesn’t buy it. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one that says, why am I here handing out nachos when I could be on a yacht or discovering myself in Bali? ”
“I do not have that look,” I protest, though she’s not entirely wrong.
Maggie smirks. “Addy, you’ve been running on overdrive since high school. You organize everything — events, fundraisers, lives. Maybe it’s time to let loose a little.”
Before I can respond, a woman in a rhinestone-studded #1 Baseball Mom hoodie slaps a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Popcorn, no butter. And do you have bottled water?”
“We’re out of bottled water,” I chirp, sliding her change back. “But the soda machine’s extra fizzy tonight. That’s fun, right?”
The woman’s unimpressed glare is so sharp it could cut glass. She snatches her popcorn and stalks off without another word.
Maggie stifles a laugh. “Living the dream, huh?”
“Always,” I deadpan, leaning against the counter as a breeze wafts through the open window.
The familiar buzz of the crowd hums in the background, parents cheering and kids chattering.
It’s the soundtrack of Bluewater Cove, a town where everyone knows everyone, and the biggest drama is the occasional seagull heist.
Maggie nudges me, leaning against the counter as we watch the little league chaos unfold outside the shack. “Seriously, though. Do you ever think about leaving? You know, seeing what’s out there?”
I hesitate, the hot dog I’m holding teetering on the edge of the paper plate I placed it on. It’s a question I ask myself more than I’d like to admit. “I don’t know. I love this town. My parents are here. My business is here. But sometimes I wonder if I’m missing... something.”
“Something like a hot plumber to fix our soda machine?” Maggie quips, nodding toward the line of patrons.
“What?” I turn too quickly, the hot dog slipping out of my hands like a greasy torpedo. It arcs through the air in slow motion before landing with a sad bounce on the counter, only to finish its flight on the ground in front of the line of patrons.
Before I can grab a napkin to salvage my dignity, a man’s voice cuts through the chatter:
“Excuse me. I think this belongs to you.”