Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
EPILOGUE
“LISTEN UP! We’ve worked all year for this. We’re going to tear them to shreds! We’re going to run them into the ground! I want to see blood, sweat, and tears on the field today. DO YOU HEAR ME?!”
A dozen voices echo in unison, “YES, COACH!”
Their collective shouts rattle my eardrums.
As I watch this highly entertaining pregame pep talk, Lindsey comes up beside me and holds out a red Solo cup. Salt glistens on the rim. “Want a margarita?”
“Thought you’d never ask…” I take the drink from her and tip it in the direction of the Cedar Valley dugout, where their coach is now leading the team in an earsplitting rendition of Queen’s “We Will Rock You”. Freddie Mercury is rolling over in his grave.
It’s so interesting to watch them. I’m horrified, of course, but I can’t look away. I stare on as a guy aggressively tears open a packet of something with his teeth—energy goop? steroid juice?—and then he squeezes the contents into his mouth before giving a rowdy “Hoo-rah!” and chest-bumping his teammate.
I glance at Lindsey, she glances back, and we share a private smile. “I honestly thought they would have mellowed…”
“Are you kidding?” She laughs. “The fact that we beat them last summer probably ruined their entire year. They’ve done nothing but practice day and night ever since. That coach has thought about nothing else.”
She’s probably right.
“Why do they take it so seriously?”
This is the first game of the season. Most of us haven’t touched a baseball in months; I definitely haven’t. I’ve had my hands full with newborn life.
She shrugs. “Don’t ask me. Like usual, I’m only here for the margaritas, and more importantly, between you and me, I like the way David looks in his baseball pants. I accidentally on purpose shrunk them in the wash this week.”
She admits the last part with a proud wink.
“Lindsey!” I dry heave.
Unbothered, she replies, “Sorry, your brother’s got a great tush.”
Gross.
“You better watch it or you’re going to have baby number two.”
She shrugs, totally unbothered by my warning. “You know what? I just might.”
Oh god. Queenie would love that. Two grandchildren aren’t enough for her. She’s made it clear she wants a half-dozen more. In her words, we’d all better “get to work” on it.
“Speaking of kids.” I glance over her shoulder. “Where are ours? Queenie said she was going to bring them early.”
Our bleachers are mostly empty. No Queenie in sight.
“Cruz probably made her stop for donuts.” She shakes her head. “He knows she’ll always cave—”
“Hey, y’all. Listen up!” Sawyer hollers, getting everyone’s attention.
I’m all too happy to give him mine. He’s over near the dugout door, looking oh so perfect. I don’t even feel bad about checking him out. Sure, we’ve been in a relationship a long time now and I get to lay eyes on him any ol’ time I wish. Even this morning, we woke up together in bed and enjoyed a quickie before we heard cries over the baby monitor, but I just can’t get enough. The way he looks right now…well, I feel like Lindsey. I love Sawyer in his Heatwave captain’s shirt and backward hat—and with that assertive tone? Oo la la.
He looks my way, and I have to hide my devious smile behind the rim of my margarita. Still, he knows exactly where my thoughts have gone, i.e. straight to the gutter. I don’t miss the fact that he stalls and looks down at his clipboard for a second, totally blanking on what he was about to announce to the team. I’ve successfully distracted him, and I’m not even a little sorry about it.
Lindsey nudges me with her elbow. “Knock it off or we’ll lose this game.”
“Okay. I’ll behave.” I hold up a three-fingered scout sign. “I swear.”
Just as Sawyer picks up his train of thought, a pink puffball, aka Charlotte, comes barreling into the dugout with a glittery pink bag slung over her shoulder and her keys jingling against her signature pink Stanley cup. I wonder how much whipped cream she’s swirled into her coffee today.
“I’m here! I’m here! Sorry, everyone!” Charlotte apologizes profusely, dabbing at the pink glitter she’s applied to the outside of her eyes. “I completely overslept!”
“It’s all good,” Sawyer assures her. “I was just going over the lineup.”
She hurries to hang her bag up alongside everyone else’s and then sips from her Stanley. She scans the crowd and spots me, her eyes widening before she looks away quickly.
I’ve seen Charlotte out and about around town in recent months. I’ve even said hello to her a few times and we’ve pretended everything is A-OK between us, but as Sawyer reads the lineup and I take my seat toward the end of the dugout bench alongside her, I realize this is the first time we’ve been face to face for longer than a few seconds since that fateful day in the coffee shop, the day she made it very clear she thought I was a villain and totally undeserving of Sawyer, my now fiancé…