6. Rain Check
RAIN CHECK
Addison
A new day, the sun is playing tricks on us for the last day of the tournament.
One minute, it’s blazing like it’s trying to fry everyone in the bleachers; the next, clouds roll in like some moody artist swiping a charcoal smudge across the sky.
I shift uncomfortably on the aluminum seat, regretting my shorts choice.
They’re great for a sunny summer day — not so much for unpredictable lakeside weather.
Maggie nudges me, holding a soda precariously in one hand and a tub of popcorn in the other. “You look like you’re concentrating too hard. It’s Little League, Addy, not the Olympics.”
“I’m just cheering silently,” I reply, my eyes locked on the field, which is only half true.
The Bluewater Beavers are warming up, a chaotic mess of kids stretching, throwing balls, and somehow managing to trip over nothing.
Maggie’s son, Cooper, is in the mix, looking more focused than usual.
The last game of the end-of-summer tournament has some serious bragging rights on the line, and you can feel the tension buzzing in the air.
But it’s not the Beavers I’m watching. Not exactly.
Across the field, the Birch Harbor Hawks are gathering, and their coach, Dylan, is calling out instructions, his voice carrying over the low hum of parents chatting and kids shouting.
He’s pacing like he’s got all the energy his players should have.
His navy blue Hawks cap is pulled low over his dark hair.
It draws my attention to the slight scruff on his jawline.
I hate how my eyes keep finding him.
“You’re definitely concentrating too hard,” Maggie teases, following my gaze. “Or not hard enough.”
“What?” I snap too quickly.
Her grin widens. “Oh, come on. You’ve been sneaking glances at the hot soda repairman all morning.”
I groan and pull my ball cap lower over my face. “He’s not a soda repairman. He’s a coach, a construction guy, and a volunteer fireman.”
“Uh-huh. And he just happened to fix the soda machine on Friday while flirting with you over a spilled hot dog?”
“I wasn’t flirting,” I mutter, though the memory of his easy grin and teasing remarks annoys my stomach.
Maggie isn’t buying it. “Sure you weren’t. And I’m the Queen of England.”
Before I can argue, the clouds above us grow darker, heavy with unspoken threats. A low rumble of thunder rolls across the lake, sending a ripple of murmurs through the crowd.
“Do you think…” I start, but I don’t get to finish.
The sky opens up just then, and rain pours down like someone tipped over a bucket.
The bleachers erupt in chaos. Parents grab blankets, kids squeal and scatter, and Maggie shoves her popcorn at me as she pulls her jacket over her head. “Find cover!” she shouts, bolting toward the concession stand.
I hesitate for half a second, clutching the popcorn like it’s some kind of life preserver. The rain soaks through my hat and into my hair, cold and insistent, and I realize I need to move fast.
The closest cover is a small awning near the dugouts, and I make a beeline for it, dodging puddles and kids with abandoned bats. By the time I get there, I’m drenched.
And, of course, Dylan is already there.
He’s leaning casually against one of the support beams, water dripping from the brim of his cap. His navy jacket is soaked, but he doesn’t seem to care. When he sees me, his lopsided grin appears like he’s been expecting this moment all along.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm despite the downpour. “Welcome to the dry-ish zone.”
I shake the rain from my hat and take in the space, barely big enough for two people. “Dry-ish is right.”
“You always bring snacks on a first date, or am I just special?”
“This is not a date,” I say, heat creeping up my neck.
“Sure. But if it was, I’d give you points for creativity. Popcorn in a rainstorm? Bold move.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been clutching it like a lunatic. “Oh. Right.” I set it down on a bench nearby, trying to salvage what little dignity I have left.
“Rookie mistake,” he teases, leaning a little closer. “Rule number one of outdoor sports: always assume it’s going to rain.”
“And here I thought it was ‘always bring snacks,’” I counter, crossing my arms.
He chuckles, and it’s the kind of laugh that feels genuine, not the polite kind you give when someone makes a bad joke. “Fair point. Snacks are essential. But you’re still soaked, so…” He shrugs.
I glance down at my damp clothes and shrug back. “Part of the charm of small-town tournaments, right? Who needs luxury when you have character?”
“Exactly. And nothing says character like getting drenched while watching a bunch of ten-year-olds slide into puddles.”
I laugh, and for a moment, the rain doesn’t feel quite so miserable.
“So, what got you into construction? Was it always part of the plan, or something that fell into place?”
Dylan glances at the field, his gaze lingering on the kids playing in the rain. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll sidestep the question. But then he speaks, his voice thoughtful.
“It wasn’t really part of the plan. I was all about baseball in college. Had this big dream, you know? Make it to the majors, do what I love, and live the dream. But...” He pauses, his jaw slightly tightening as if he’s trying to choose his words carefully. “An injury benched me. Permanently.”
I don’t miss the flicker of emotion in his eyes and how his shoulders tense for just a beat before he shakes it off.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, wishing for a better response.
He shrugs, his smile small but genuine. “It’s life.
You get curveballs, right? Construction wasn’t on my radar, but my uncle had a company, and I needed something to focus on after baseball was…
done. Turns out I liked it. I like building things.
Taking something from nothing and turning it into something solid, something people need. ”
“So you traded curveballs for concrete. Still making people swoon, just with power tools now?”
He grins. “Only the ones who appreciate a good foundation.”
“You saying you’re solid and dependable, Coach?”
“I’m saying I don’t crumble under pressure.”
His words resonate, and I find myself leaning a little closer. “That makes sense. It’s kind of like coaching, isn’t it? Helping something grow, shaping it, putting your stamp on it.”
His grin widens, a bit of that easy confidence returning. “I never thought of it like that, but yeah. I guess so.”
“And coaching? Was that part of the curveball, too?”
His eyes soften as he looks back at the field. “Yeah. After I got hurt, I realized I still wanted to be part of the game, even if I wasn’t playing. Coaching lets me share what I know, what I love, with these kids. I get to help them find their passion for it.”
“That’s…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Really great, actually.”
He shrugs again, but his expression tells me my words mean something. “Baseball’s always going to be part of me. I couldn’t just give it up completely.”
I nod, letting the conversation settle momentarily as the rain lightens. It feels like a window has opened — just a crack — but enough for me to glimpse the person behind the grin and the quick comebacks.
“Looks like you’ve found your balance. Construction by day, baseball by... well, also day, I guess.”
He chuckles, the weight lifting from his expression. “Yeah, something like that. Though I think your version of balance — juggling events and glitter and committees — is probably more impressive.”
“Hey, glitter’s underrated. Don’t knock it,” I joke, and the warmth in his laugh feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
“You’d be surprised how much overlap there is. It’s not glamorous, but… I love it. Seeing everything come together, watching people enjoy something I helped create — it’s worth the stress.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression softening. “That’s cool. Not many people find something they love and stick with it.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended.
The rain continues to lighten, and the steady drumming on the awning becomes a soft patter. The smell of wet grass and lake air fills the space, and for a second, it feels like we’re the only two people here.
“I think the rain’s letting up,” I say, more to break the silence than anything.
“Looks like it,” he says, but he doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
The spell breaks when someone shouts from the bleachers, calling for a lost glove. Dylan steps back, the easy grin returning to his face.
“Guess I’d better check on my team,” he says, tipping his hat slightly.
“Yeah. Good luck out there, Coach.”
He pauses, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than necessary. “See you around, Addison,” he says, starting to walk away — then stops. “Unless you’re planning to hide under more awnings just to bump into me again.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me under the awning with a soggy tub of popcorn and a fluttering in my chest I’m not ready to name.