4. Mustard, Mischief, & Maggie
MUSTARD, MISCHIEF, the bleachers roar — Beavers at bat. Maggie props her elbows on the window ledge. “Look at him warming up the kids — broad shoulders, save-the-day energy. Like Captain America moonlighting as a little league coach.”
I glance fieldward. The coach is kneeling beside a kid, demonstrating a level swing, golden-hour light gilding his hair like the universe hired a lighting crew. “He’s alright.”
“He’s more than alright. He’s ‘Fine,’” she says wiggling her eyebrows.
“Shouldn’t you be hyping Cooper?”
“Coop’s busy hunting four-leaf clovers.” She nudges my hip.
As I turn to make a drink for the next customer, the fountain coughs — a wet, choked gurgle — and flatlines. Customers groan.
Maggie claps. “Manifestation works fast.”
“Clamp’s just loose.” I duck under the counter, wiggle the hose exactly like the coach showed me. Syrup splatters my arm; the carbonation roar returns. The line cheers — so does Maggie.
“Look at you, Soda Machine Whisperer Jr.” She tosses me a towel. “Admit it — you felt the spark.”
“I can handle hoses without sparks.” Still, a ridiculous grin sneaks out. Fixing it feels like inheriting a superpower.
Orders surge, then taper. During a pitching change, Maggie elbows me. “You still single because you’ve sworn off men or because you keep organizing them into committees?”
“I’m busy,” I protest. “And not in the mood to be cheated on again because I have a busy schedule.”
“Schedule a date then: Friday, 7p.m., optional agenda item — hot soda machine repairman.”
I choke. “I don’t even know the guy’s name! And didn’t you notice he’s a tad younger than me?”
“That’s what dates are for — fact-finding missions with snacks. And who cares about age difference?”
“I do, when it means that men are immature and…”
“It’s not because he’s younger that he’d cheat on you Addy,” Maggie quips. Famous last words.
Brett signals his pitcher: palm down, slow breath. The kid fires a strike. I glance at the Hawks’ group, still practicing.
“You’re staring , ” Maggie sing-songs.
“I’m observing training strategies.”
“He has great form , ” she whispers, definitely not talking about baseball.
Final out: Beavers win, 4 to 3. Our bleachers cheer. I shove the orange slice tub into Maggie’s hands. “Go — team mom duties.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll close. You celebrate with the team.”
She squeezes my arm, then hustles off. The Hawks coach gathers bats, then tips two fingers my way like he can feel my gaze. I pretend to polish the window, my heart thudding.
By nine, the lot’s half empty. I count cash, wipe counters, restock straws. Silence feels weird after hours of crowd noise.
Maggie pops her head in, bun frizzing out. “Cooper’s ecstatic. I’m heading home for the world’s cheesiest bath.” She peers over the counter. “But if you’re going to sit there doomscrolling, at least admit what you’re really doing.”
I keep thumbing my screen. “Catching up on world events.”
“Uh-huh.” She snatches the phone, squints, and grins. “Funny — these ‘world events’ all involve a certain Coach Cutie with heartbreak-blue eyes.”
I snatch it back, cheeks flaming. “I was not stalking Coach Cu— Dylan.”
Maggie props her chin on her hand. “Addy, you zoomed in on a team photo so close I could see the reflection in his sunglasses. That’s… dedication.”
“It was an algorithmic accident.” I fold napkins with unnecessary force. “Besides, he probably has a girlfriend. Or twelve.”
“Or none,” she sings. “And since you’re clearly invested, why not say hi tomorrow?”
“Because normal people don’t introduce themselves with, ‘Hi, I enlarged your sunglasses on Instagram.’”
Maggie laughs, sliding her cheese into its wrapper. “Fine — start smaller. A wave, a smile, a casual ‘So, Coach, liked the infield drill today.’”
“That sounds completely natural,” I deadpan.
She heads for the door, mask cracking when she smirks. “Night, Addy. Dream sweet — preferably about forearms and baseball caps instead of doom and gloom.”
I internally roll my eyes at her. Just then my phone buzzes. Meredith Langford!
Hey Addy, status check! The arch design file came through this morning — cute — but I assume we’ll refine? Also, Vivienne had to take the waist in another quarter-inch. Perfection takes vigilance! Can’t take a second off, got to stay on top of everything.
Evening, Meredith! Concession-stand fundraiser just wrapped, but I’ve confirmed lumber delivery and will be on-site Monday morning as scheduled. This week’s task list: footing depth, stain swatches, updated floral mock-up.
Footings, fabulous. Just ensure no one sees footings. I want the structure to float, not resemble a 4-H barn raising. BTW, someone sent me a candid from the ballpark — young man in a backwards cap “fixing something” beside you? Locals love their gossip.
Across the outfield, Dylan tosses a bag of bats into his truck bed, forearms catching the glow of the floodlights. My pulse does a little hop.
One of the volunteer coaches. Maggie roped him into helping out when the soda line burst. Very handy in a pinch.
Volunteer coaches, how… heartland. Just remember: experienced professionals, especially a woman of your refined years, must guard their brand. Pairing competence with, shall we say, youthful distractions invites chatter.
I inhale through my nose. “Refined years,” really?
My focus is entirely on delivering an impeccable event. Community volunteers pitch in all the time here. It’s part of Bluewater Cove’s charm.
Charm sells jam, dear. My guests expect sophistication. On another note, Daddy arrives a little less than 1 week before the wedding for a walk-through; loose boundaries, bolts, or volunteer handymen will not impress.
Noted. You’ll have a polished site and a flawless schedule by then.
Splendid. Off to sip my chamomile and visualize perfection. Night!
I lock up and step outside. Under the field lights across the park, Coach Dylan hoists the last buckets of softballs into his truck, muscles flexing in perfect silhouette.
I’ll hang on to that and not the high-intensity texting with a bridezilla in the making.