Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
Nate
It’s nice playing a home game without Jeffrey around.
The Red Armadillos are on the road tonight in Moonshine County, leaving the Gray Armadillos at home to face the Wisteria Mud Cats.
That should make for a fun game.
The Apple Cart Armadillos and Wisteria Mud Cats are the two high school teams in the county and have a heated rivalry dating back to long before I came around. Legend has it that the Mud Cats feed their football players rattlesnake each year before the big game against Apple Cart.
The hatred trickles down to Toy Bowl and Little League too, which is why Bradley is here.
Bradley Manning grew up in Wisteria, but now lives in Apple Cart and has been the county sheriff for a while. Long enough that I think he’s coming up for reelection.
“Hey, big dog.” Bradley nods to me, then straps on a pair of leg guards.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m not just here to patrol for potential fights. I’m helping ump to keep all these crazy coaches and parents straight too.”
“I didn’t know you were an umpire.”
He slips on the chest protector without removing his signature cowboy hat—impressive. When it’s over his head, he grins. “Got certified last night online.”
“Don’t you have to go through some kind of process with the county to make it official?”
His grin turns into a mischievous smirk. “I am the county official.”
I shrug. Can’t argue with that.
“Are you coaching the Gray ’Dillas?”
“No, just helping them practice. Morgan is coaching.”
“Morgan Archer?”
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head. “Better keep my handcuffs handy. That woman is a handful.”
I laugh. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Keep her in line for me tonight.”
“I’ll try.”
Bradley starts buckling his gear.
“I’ll see you from the sidelines.”
He glances up as I walk away and calls out, “Good seein’ ya, big dog.”
I head to the home dugout, where Easton is giving the kids a pep talk. It’s actually pretty inspiring. He finishes on a high note, and I attempt a slow clap, but it doesn’t catch on.
They’re too young to appreciate a special moment.
Morgan hands him the book and Aniston the lineup.
I crane my head inside the opening. “Good luck, guys. Y’all got this.”
They offer fist bumps and high fives. Charlie’s hand leaves mine sticky. He immediately picks up a frozen pickle pop.
I slide back from the dugout and wipe my hand down my shorts. Brooke stands near the fence, smiling at me. My knees buckle, and I lean against a bleacher to steady myself. Other than speaking to her briefly Sunday at church, I haven’t spent any time with her since she sprayed my shirt.
And we almost kissed again.
I don’t want to come off as too eager to be with them. However, she did text and invite me to the game. I can thank Morgan’s scheming for that. My phone hasn’t seen any sign of Brooke in almost a decade.
Bradley brings the head coaches and the other umpire to the plate and goes over rules. The Mud Cats coach snarls at Morgan like they’re opposing gang members.
This should be fun.
On that note, I go to the concession stand and buy a bag of popcorn.
“Wassup, Nate,” Tami calls to me from inside the window.
I duck my head to find her scooping nacho cheese with one hand and bouncing a baby on her hip with the other. She’s wearing a tight, short jean skirt and baseball heels. That’s something you don’t see every day.
“Hey, can I get some popcorn?”
“Slim!” she yells over her shoulder.
A tall, slim guy comes to the window. “What you need?”
“Popcorn and a Coke, please.”
“What kind of drink?”
I’ve traveled and spent so much time in bigger cities that I forget “Coke” is the small-town equivalent to “drink.”
“An actual Coke is good, or Mountain Dew, if y’all have it.”
Slim lifts his chin. “Four dollars.”
I pay him and wait as he slowly pours a bag of popcorn and retrieves my drink. He gives me a Gatorade even though I saw at least five types of soft drinks.
I decide it’s not worth correcting him and go find a seat near the dugout.
Aniston holds up a bag of mixed candy. Jack and Charlie jump for it, and she stretches farther. “You have to do something good to get candy.”
A kid in a Mud Cats jersey runs by and stops at our dugout. “Can I have candy?”
“You’re not on our team.” Aniston scowls.
“Booger, get over here. You’ve had plenty of time to pee!” a man yells from the visitors’ side.
The boy jerks his head that direction, then runs.
Aniston studies the back of his jersey. “Booger. That gives me one name I needed.” She makes a note on the lineup. “No wonder Maribelle quit after one game.”
Once Booger is in place, the first batter lines up.
I thought Jeffrey was the most entertaining coach to watch. Well, this Mud Cats guy may have him beat. He doesn’t wind up like Jeffrey, but after every pitch, he calls out the count. Loudly.
Some of these kids look like a deer in the headlights. Others get frustrated. It only takes four batters to get three strikeouts.
I’m glad I bought popcorn.
Carter is our first batter. He gets a double off an error. We all clap, and the kids cheer. The next kid strikes out, then Timothy gets a double and hits Carter home.
I don’t think I could be any prouder if he were my own son. He smiles at me from second, and I give him a thumbs-up.
Unfortunately, they tag him at home.
We manage to get in two runs in the first inning. The next inning they score one. A bigger kid nails the ball on the first pitch. I guess he didn’t want to wait to hear the count.
I wouldn’t.
Our kids score one in the second inning. Then the other team scores one, but Timothy catches a fly ball for the third out. This kid is on fire today.
The boys celebrate when they get in the dugout. Morgan gives them a quick speech about how they’re only a point ahead and we need to hold them.
Booger is up to bat. He steps toward the plate and bends at the waist. Everyone groans as he spills his guts on the plate.
Bradley waits until he’s done, then brushes the base. I’m a little squeamish already, and when the kid throws up a second time, I turn my head.
The coach talks to Bradley, and Booger goes back to the dugout. Bradley calls the kid on deck to the plate, but he’s against the fence holding his stomach.
Bradley calls time. He and the head coach go to the Mud Cats’ dugout. From what I can see, most of the kids are bowed over or holding their mouths.
Some kind of virus must be going around.
Bradley nods and talks with the coaches a few minutes before returning to the field. “Mud Cats have forfeited due to sickness. Armadillos win!”
Morgan and Brooke stare at each other in shock. The kids go crazy, until Aniston settles them down. “They’re sick. Show sportsmanship,” she snips.
Everyone quiets. Maybe Aniston should coach.
She lines them up and gives them instructions I can’t hear. Andrew leads the team across the field. They march past the opposing team’s dugout saying “good game,” then rush back to our dugout.
“Now, you can celebrate.” Aniston tosses candy in the air, and they go crazy.
The other team gathers their belongings and helps the sick kids to the parking lot. Slim almost hits me when I’m walking toward Brooke and Morgan. He’s carrying a broom and some trash bags. “I heard there was a lot to clean up,” he says.
“Unfortunately, lots of throw up,” Bradley says.
“I once worked night shift at the Waffle House. There ain’t nothing I ain’t seen.” Slim lifts his chest.
Bradley pats him on the arm. “Get it, big dog.”
Morgan glances back at the field, then at Bradley. “I’m glad we won, but bless their hearts. They all got sick so quickly.”
Carlton stops packing up his kid’s gear and frowns. “We sat close to the other side. Someone said a kid brought gum in the dugout because he wanted candy, then shared it with everyone.”
We exchange puzzled looks.
“Was it expired?” Brooke asks.
Carlton’s eyes widen. “It was Nicorette.”
“Ohhh,” we all say.
Bradley slams down the chest protector and straightens his hat. “If you guys will excuse me, I smell someone needing a citation for subjecting minors to narcotics.” He rushes out of the park, still wearing the leg guards.
After the shock wears off and everyone continues gathering gear, I speak up. “If y’all want to celebrate, dinner is on me.”
The kids scream with excitement.
“What are you cooking?” Morgan asks.
“Nothing, I’m taking y’all out.”
Aniston checks her phone screen. “Mary’s and Big Butts are closed.”
“Waffle House?” Carlton suggests.
“Not after what Slim said.” I shudder. “Who likes Mexican?”
* * *
Brooke
I should’ve thought before I agreed to Mexican.
Somehow I’ve made it twenty-seven years without eating at Enchilada. Surely it won’t make me as sick as the poor kids trying to blow bubbles with Nicorette.
It’s not the food that scares me as much as the atmosphere. When you share retail space with a sketchy motel and a liquor store on the county line, it doesn’t exactly make people feel safe.
Even worse, the bulbs in “Quality” are out at the motel, so the signs read “Inn The Hole Enchilada.”
I wait until Nate gets out to unlock our doors. He meets me at the car. Timothy hops out and stares at the neon lights. “Is this the place on the way to Double Drive?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw a Double Drive sign. Who owns that?” Nate asks.
“Earl Ed Mayberry.”
His brows lift. “I thought he was in jail.”
“He got out on good behavior and started a go-kart and putt-putt place.”
“Good for him. I thought he got a bad break going to jail for stealing mail.”
“Yeah. The place is pretty fun, actually.”
“You should go with us sometime.” Timothy peeks around me at Nate.
“I will.” He smiles at Timothy.
Then he looks at me and smiles deeper, like he’s trying to convey a hidden message, or maybe flirt. Whatever he’s trying to do, it’s working. I dip my head and follow him inside.
Our group gathers at the door, and a man not much taller than me asks how many are with us. Morgan quickly counts all the adults and kids, then throws out a number that makes his eyes bulge.
“Is it okay to do two big tables and a booth?” he asks in a heavy accent.
“Yep.” She turns to us. “Kids at one table, adults at the other.”
The host leads us to the dining area and speaks Spanish to a waiter. They pull together a bunch of tables, leaving one walkway in the center of the room. The kids pile around one table and the adults at the other. I pull out a chair to sit on the end, and Morgan jumps in it.
She bats her eyelashes at me. “I guess you and Nate are stuck with the booth. Sorry.”
I frown when she drags out “sorry.” Sarcastic minx.
“That’s fine.” Nate takes a couple of menus from the waiter, and we find a nearby booth.
I’ve barely had time to read the specials when I sense someone standing over me. I open my mouth to say I need a few more minutes, assuming it’s the waiter.
No, it’s Jeffrey and Bubba. Two more coaches get up from the booth behind us.
Jeffrey crosses his arms, showing off his fake sleeve and gold watch. His eye is still swollen from this past weekend. “What brings y’all here?”
Nate lifts his menu. “Food.”
“We won tonight,” Jeffrey says with a huff.
“So did we,” Nate says.
“ We ? You better not have helped coach.”
“I didn’t. I said ‘we’ since I’m a fan. Ask Bradley Manning, I sat on my rear and ate popcorn.”
He sniffles. “Glad to know they won. We can’t have the gray team ruining the Armadillos’ reputation.”
He walks by and his entourage follows. I scrunch my face and watch them march away in a line like ducks in a row. Arrogant, ugly, redneck-men ducks.
“Well, that was entertaining,” Nate says once they’re out of sight.
“And rude.”
“That’s just sports, dumpling. You’ve got to overlook it.” He flips a menu page and continues browsing.
My mouth drops and two very different emotions get in a bidding war for real estate of my brain.
“What?” he asks when he glances up.
“It’s nothing. You called me dumpling, that’s all.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s fine.” Without thinking, I reach across the table and grab his hand.
He wraps his strong fingers around my much-smaller hand and my pulse elevates.
The waiter comes back with chips and salsa. “Can I get you drinks?”
I let go of Nate’s hand and clear my throat. “Water. Ice water, with extra ice.”
“Okay.” He turns to Nate.
My heart kicks into mild cardiac arrest as I scan the menu absentmindedly to act as if nothing is out of the ordinary. In reality, everything is out of the ordinary.
My child and I are about to ingest food from Inn The Hole Enchilada, Nate just called me dumpling for the first time in ages, and we were holding hands. Either I’m in some sort of twilight zone, or I’m having an early midlife crisis.
Nate orders sweet tea, and I find the word “taco.” I call out the number for what I hope is chicken tacos and hand the guy my menu.
The kids are laughing, and the adults are smiling as they chat.
“I like our team.”
Nate turns toward them and smiles. “They’re good people.”
“It’s kind of cool. There’s no other situation that would have Tami sharing cheese dip with Georgia.”
He laughs. “Or have Georgia eating here.”
“Confession.” I wince. “I’ve never eaten here either.”
He shrugs. “As long as you don’t get the special, you’re good.” He pops a chip in his mouth. “It’s known as a natural laxative.”
“So I’ve heard.”
We laugh, and I relax against the backrest. Sharing a basket of chips in a booth alone with Nate feels way too much like a date. And I love it.
A little too much.
This team also brought us together. Not that I wouldn’t have crossed paths with Nate eventually. But my kid standing in his yard asking for baseball help made that happen sooner than later.
I thought it was too soon, but I’m warming up to it being a blessing in disguise.
Our waiter delivers the drinks, along with an extra cup of ice for me. I glance at Nate, with his tight T-shirt and chiseled jaw. Maybe I should save myself the trouble and toss the ice on my face.
Nate and I chat casually until eventually we’re interrupted by a cloud of smoke, followed by a crackling sound, coming from behind us. A muscled bald man with a handlebar mustache brings a pan of fajitas and my tacos.
“Hot plate!” He all but drops the fajita skillet in front of Nate.
I lean back in case he’s dangerous with the tacos, but he isn’t. He hurries off and returns with more food for the tables.
“Tacos. Safe choice,” Nate comments.
“That was the plan.”
He rolls a fajita as I take a bite. “Not bad.”
“See, I told you.” He bites into his food and smiles.
Loud, annoying laughter catches my attention. Tami is standing in the center of the room, talking to handlebar mustache.
He disappears to the edge of the room, then returns with a microphone.
“What in the?”
Nate laughs. “They do karaoke on weekends. I guess Tami wanted a wild Tuesday night.”
“You go to that?” I arch a brow at him.
He laughs harder. “I’ve gotten fajitas to go on a Friday night.”
I sigh, relieved Nate doesn’t frequent Enchilada. The tacos and salsa are good, but I imagine a rough crowd here for Friday karaoke.
The microphone squeaks and I almost choke on my water. An older box TV cuts on in the corner with lyrics. The cliché Hispanic beats playing over the speakers are replaced with pop music.
Tami is in her element, jamming out every word to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.” Nate and I exchange a look, and he smirks. I bite back a laugh and give it time to pass before attempting to eat more.
We continue eating and chatting about the game. He compliments Timothy and how far he’s come in a short time. “I think he’s a natural.”
He got it from his daddy. I clear my throat and choose not to say that out loud. We’re getting along so well, and there might be potential for something here. I don’t want to drop a bomb on him until I’m sure he’s interested in me, along with the kid plus Apple Cart County package I’m carrying.
“Thank you for helping him.”
Nate smiles.
“Seriously. Daddy didn’t play ball, and my brothers aren’t around much anymore. Not that they were superstars, anyway.”
“Come on, give them more credit than that.”
I roll my eyes.
“Single Ladies” finally comes to an end and “Strawberry Wine” starts playing. Maribelle and Georgia jump up and Tami shares the microphone. Nate and I watch with amusement.
“That’s a trio you don’t see every day.”
“Nope,” he agrees.
The lyrics make me a little sentimental about dating Nate back in the day. I look down at my plate and try to block out the song.
“You okay?”
I lift my eyes to Nate staring at me. “Yeah.” I shake my head. “My tacos are a little spicy,” I lie, and blot at a stray tear.
Nate hands me a napkin.
“Thanks.”
“I know we both have crazy schedules, but I’d love for just the two of us to have a quiet night in Tuscaloosa soon.”
My face involuntarily jerks into a huge smile. “I’d love that.”
Maybe one day I’ll muster up the courage to say that I still love him.