Reminders of Him

A niece?
Or could it be his deceased best friend’s daughter?
Does he shop here with my daughter?
I somehow force a smile through the onslaught of emotions suddenly
spiraling through me. I thank her again, but then I leave in a hurry, hoping
by some miracle Ledger’s truck is still outside and that my daughter is in
the truck with him.
I look around the parking lot, but he’s already gone. My stomach
sinks, but I can still feel the adrenaline disguised as hope running through
my body. Because now I know he coaches T-ball, and Diem more than
likely plays on his team, because why else would he coach if he doesn’t
have children of his own?
I debate going straight to the T-ball field, but I need to do this right. I
want to speak with Patrick and Grace first.

---

CHAPTER TEN
LEDGER
I’m in the dugout pulling the equipment out of the bag when Grady slips his
fingers through the chain-link fence, gripping it. “So? Who was she?”
I pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “Who was who?”
“The girl you had in your truck last night.”
Grady’s eyes are bloodshot. It looks like the night shift change is
taking a toll on him. “A customer. I was just giving her a ride home.”
Grady’s wife, Whitney, is standing next to him now. At least the rest
of the mom brigade isn’t with her, because I can tell immediately by the
way she’s looking at me that everyone on the T-ball field is already talking.
I can only be confronted by one couple at a time. “Grady said you had a girl
in your truck last night.”
I shoot Grady a look, and he holds his hands up helplessly, like his
wife yanked the information out of him.
“It was no one,” I repeat. “Just giving a customer a ride home.” I
wonder how many times I’m going to have to repeat this today.
“Who was she?” Whitney asks.
“No one you know.”
“We know everyone around here,” Grady says.
“She’s not from here,” I say. I might be lying; I might be telling the
truth. I wouldn’t know since I know very little about her. Other than what
she tastes like.
“Destin has been working on his swing,” Grady says, changing the
subject to his son. “Wait’ll you see what he can do.”
Grady wants to be the envy of all the other fathers. I don’t get it. T-ball
is supposed to be fun, but people like him put so much competitiveness into
it and ruin the sport.

---

Two weeks ago, Grady almost got into a fight with the umpire. He
probably would have hit him if Roman hadn’t pushed him off the field.
Not sure getting that heated over a T-ball game is a good look for
anyone. But he takes his son’s sports very seriously.
Me . . . not so much. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because Diem isn’t
my daughter. If she were, would I get angry over a sport that doesn’t even
keep score? I don’t know that I could love a biological child more than I
love Diem, so I doubt I’d be any different when it comes to their sports.
Some of the parents assume that since I played professional football I’d be
more competitive. I’ve dealt with competitive coaches my whole life,
though. I agreed to coach this team specifically to prevent some competitive
asshole from coming in and setting a bad example for Diem.
The kids are supposed to be warming up, but Diem is standing behind
home plate shoving T-balls into the pockets of her baseball pants. She’s got
two in each pocket, and now she’s trying to shove a third in. Her pants are
starting to sag from the weight.
I walk over to her and kneel. “D, you can’t take all the T-balls.”
“They’re dragon eggs,” she says. “I’m going to plant them in my yard
and grow baby dragons.”
I toss the balls one at a time to Roman. “That’s not how dragons grow.
The momma dragon has to sit on the eggs. You don’t bury them in the
yard.”
Diem bends forward to pick up a pebble, and I notice she has two balls
stuffed down the back of her shirt. I untuck her shirt, and the balls fall to her
feet. I kick them to Roman.
“Did I grow in an egg?” she asks.
“No, D. You’re a human. Humans don’t grow in eggs—we grow in
. . .” I stop talking because I was about to say, “We grow in our mother’s
bellies,” but I’m always careful to avoid any talk of mothers or fathers
around Diem. I don’t want her to start asking me questions I can’t answer.
“What do we grow in?” she asks. “Trees?”
Shit.
I put my hand on Diem’s shoulder and completely ignore her question
because I have no idea what Grace or Patrick has told her about how babies
are made. This isn’t my wheelhouse. I wasn’t prepared for this
conversation.

---

I yell for all the kids to go to the dugout, and luckily Diem is
distracted by one of her friends and walks away from me.
I blow out a breath, relieved the conversation ended where it did.
I dropped Roman off at the bar to spare him a trip to McDonald’s.
And yes, we’re at McDonald’s even though Diem didn’t wear her
cleats at all during the game, because she gets her way with me more often
than she doesn’t.