Chapter 2
FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING
GREY
Molly's eyes widen the split second before she starts to fall, her arms wheeling around like a windmill as she teeters over.
It happens in a weird sort of slow motion, and I'm halfway to her before I make the decision to move, despite there being zero chance I could get to her in time to do anything about it.
Cass catches her, and Wilder catches Cass--they barely escape Molly's noodle arms taking them all down.
When she's upright and everyone's chuckling, her face is beet-red, her chin down a hair like she's embarrassed.
Which is dumb, because even falling down like she's in a Bugs Bunny cartoon is fucking adorable.
At the thought, I turn on my heel to pace away, just like I do every time I think about how fucking adorable Molly is.
The second I saw her after she moved here in August, she blasted me with a ray of sunshine I think I'm still blind from.
And ever since, I've found myself in her orbit.
I don't even mean to do it. Nor do I mean to scare off every idiot who's stupid enough to hit on her in my earshot.
But I know these assholes, and I know what they want from her, and for some reason my brain has decided that I should be the one to gatekeeper her.
Not because she can't decide on her own--I'd never stop her from hitting on somebody.
But the thought of her getting taken advantage of by some greasy shithead pisses me off.
It pisses me off way more than it should.
When I come to a stop at some arbitrary spot between first and third base, I flip through my clipboard like there's something important to note while my colleagues get ready for practice.
Five men, four women, and Shelby and I are the coaches.
Shelby is Wilder's twin and the head coach of the high school girls’ softball team, but we coach the Ramblers together too, our rec league team.
The guys are so good, we're thinking about going to travel ball, even though we lost one of our star players, Remy, to the minors this season.
Shelby is walking the dugout, giving notes, answering questions.
She stops at Molly but doesn't move on, and I try not to listen but fail.
"No, I don't really have any athletic clothes," Molly admits.
"I have some, but I'm a little bit taller than you," Shelby notes. Funny, given she's nearly six foot and Molly is 5'1 on a good day.
"I have a ton," Cass says. "What size shoe do you wear?"
"Six and a half."
"Perfect. I have a pair of sneakers, some leggings, a bunch of stuff. I'll put a bag together for you and bring it to school tomorrow."
Molly sighs, relieved. "Gosh, that would be great. I swear I've put every penny I have into buying my house and every penny I don't have into fixing it."
"Oh, that's right! The Genoa's old house, right?"
My frown deepens. The Genoa's house should have been condemned, not sold as is to a first-time homeowner, which I also heard about her.
Because everybody loves to talk, and I'm a real good listener.
I can't even imagine the shit she's already had to fix or how much it cost. I wonder who her handyman is.
There are two in town, and one of them's a crook. I make a note to ask her.
"All right," I say to the group, and they begin to gather, their faces turned to mine.
"Welcome to tryouts for the Roseville Teacher's Softball League.
And a special thanks to our newcomers, Cass and Molly.
Without them, we'd leave Franklinville to win the trophy again.
" They heckle and boo like I knew they would, and the corner of my mouth ticks up.
"Now, I use the term tryout loosely--we have exactly enough players, so congratulations, you all made the team.
" A chuckle rolls through them and a few whoop.
"Mostly, we need to see what kind of skills we're working with so we can figure out where to put you on the field.
So we're gonna start with skill stations.
One at a time, we'll work on fielding, then batting, and if we have time, we'll scrimmage. Any questions?"
Molly's hand shoots up.
I nod at her.
"Ah, what if we don't have a, um, a bat or a glove or anything?"
"Shelby and I both have gear for y'all to use, so don't worry about it."
She smiles, relieved.
"Anybody else?" When no one responds, I nod again. "All right. We'll take you one at a time when I call your name. If you don't have a bat and glove, Shelby has a bag of gear for the ladies, and one for the men. Gear up and get on the field."
I grab my glove and a bucket of balls and head to home plate.
Molly passes me, wholly focused on trying to shove her glove on the wrong hand.
Doing my best not to smile, I stop her, pull the glove off with no effort, and put it in her other hand.
I ignore the color in her cheeks. I ignore the shy smile.
I ignore how she ducks her head just a little so I can see the fan of her lashes across her flushed skin. Completely ignored. Didn't see a thing.
Once scattered on the field, I start hitting grounders and pop flys for us to catch.
Hannah, the bubbly kindergarten teacher shouts Mine!
every time one comes her way. Once, a pop fly heads right for Molly, and she gets under it to catch it, but at the last second, she screams and ducks out of the way.
And when she picks it up to throw it back, the ball somehow comes out of her hand on the throw and ends up behind her.
She almost busts a rib laughing. The ball never makes it to Molly again, but she seems to be having too much fun to care.
Shelby and I encourage the lot of them, give them tips, watch.
Molly's going to need help. A lot of help.
I only consider asking Shelby to do it for a millisecond before deciding to do it myself. Because I'm such a good coach and all.
When I call them in, it's to send them to the dugout to wait their turn to bat.
"First up--Darren," I shout.
"You got it, Coach!" he answers, ever eager. He's in his early thirties, the PE coach and a gym rat, his body shredded and his hand eye coordination utter trash. Still, he saunters up to the plate, hopelessly delusional.
I set down my clipboard and grab my gear, flipping my hat backward to put on my catcher's face guard. Glove on, I crouch behind the plate, my knees creaking like the hinges on a colonial door. Shelby pitches, and Darren swings like he's playing for the Yankees.
He whiffs it.
Frowning, he steps out of the box. "These stupid gloves are fucking new," he says, adjusting them before stepping back in. Shelby and I share a look, and she pitches again. Dude swings so hard, he almost brains me when the bat keeps going, swinging dramatically behind him.
"Easy, tiger," I warn.
"Sorry, Grey. Sometimes I don't know my own strength."
I hmph, raising my glove for another pitch.
He misses five more before he finally connects, and he only tips it.
I send him back to the dugout and call the next one.
Almost everybody does better than Darren, even Clara, the high school history teacher who gave up chain smoking for chain coffee consumption.
You'd never think the wisp of a woman could smash a ball into the outfield, but I guess caffeine is a drug after all.
She could probably flip a car, if pressed.
Molly is the last one up to bat. Her helmet is too big, her cardigan sleeves pushed up, eyes determined behind glasses, looking like she wandered onto the field in search of book club.
"Okay," she starts as she approaches, "I have to warn you that I've never hit a ball before."
"First time for everything."
"I haven't thrown one either. I mean not with intention."
One of my brows rises. "Ever?"
She shakes her head, holding the bat awkwardly with both hands, but off to the outside of her leg so her torso is turned. "My parents aren't really sportsball people."
I chuckle as I squat. "Don't worry. Anybody can do it. You watched them all bat, so you have an idea how to hold it, right?"
"I think so."
"Okay. Now, step into this box. You're right-handed?"
"Left."
"Then step into this box." I indicate the one on my right. "Now, if you're standing in this box, the pitcher can throw the ball whether you're paying attention or not, so make sure you're ready to hit if you're in it."
She nods, her batting helmet bobbing.
"All right. Now, position the bat over your back shoulder--"
"Like this?"
I take a look but don't correct her, wanting to see what she'd naturally do first. "Pretty much. And the only other thing for now is to keep your eye on the ball. Easier for your body to know where to put the bat if your eyes are connected to what you're hitting."
"Got it."
I'm a little nervous for her but shake it off and nod at Shelby.
She soft pitches one nice and slow, and a quarter second too late, Molly swings.
Hard. So hard, in fact, that the force spins her around in a full circle and off balance.
I don't even have time to get up, just judge where I think she's going to fall and get my arms out to catch her.
We both let out an oof, and our weight shifts to my back knee, which is planted firmly in the dirt.
She's soft in my arms, her arm slung over my shoulder and her helmet tipped forward and covering her eyes.
Slowly, she lifts it, her eyes big and wide and velvety brown, a ring of gold bursting from behind her pupil like the sun in an eclipse.
Her glasses are crooked. I don't notice until she rights them, and with the motion, I find myself, setting her down and standing once she's on her feet.
"Maybe a little less heat on it this time," I say with one corner of my lips higher than the other.
"You've got it, Coach," she says, and winds up to miss again.
"Hands higher," I suggest, standing to throw the ball back to Shelby. When I look down at her, they're too high. "Not like that." My fingers brush hers as I reposition her hands, lining up her knuckles. Her skin is soft, warm, distracting.
Cut it out.
"Loosen your grip," I mutter, gruff to cover the slip. "You're strangling it."
She laughs nervously. "I've never strangled anything before."
"Coulda fooled me." I shut down a smile, nudging her sneakers apart with my foot.
"Wider stance. You're gonna tip over again.
" Her laugh is bright, unguarded. I lift her elbow just a touch, then square her shoulders with a palm between her shoulder blades, stepping back brusquely.
"There." The word is clipped. "Now swing level. Eyes on the ball."
She does as she told. Misses, but not by much, and the dugout cheers her on. She lights up like she smashed one over the fence.
The sight almost breaks my demeanor. Gruffly, I say, "Better. Again."
But her grip is all wonky again, and she whiffs it.
"Aw, man," she says, frowning.
She just needs a little practice is all. Just needs somebody to show her how it's done.
And I guess I figure I'm the guy to show her when I blurt, "If you want some help with the basics, come by the field on Friday at six. I'll teach you."
Molly pauses for a second, her smile lifting with her gaze when it meets mine, a flicker of something in her eyes that strikes something in me. "Sure, Coach. Thanks."
I clear my throat, nodding as I turn for the dugout so I won't look at her again. She needs help, and I'm just being a good coach, that's all. She's twenty-four. I'm forty-four. Even if she was for some baffling reason interested, they'd cart me off to jail for even thinking about considering it.
I think about it anyway.