Marriage On His Mind
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“Twice more,” she announced. “Then we’ll call it a night.”
Each attempt got easier and better. He yanked up the base after the last slide and headed toward her.
“Keep it,” she said, backing away. “Use it to practice.”
“Will you work with me again?”
“You don’t need me.”
“Will you come watch the game Thursday?”
She hesitated. “I’ll be there,” she said finally. “One last word of advice.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you got a hot tub or Jacuzzi?”
“Yeah.”
“Go home and soak. Take a couple of Ibuprofens. Or by tomorrow morning you won’t be able to move.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.” He wanted to see her eyes, which couldn’t lie like words could, but she never stopped hiding. His gaze lingered on her lips, then blazed a trail down her throat and beyond, taking a detour at the nicely rounded breasts her loose T-shirt couldn’t hide. Baggy shorts revealed slender thighs and drew attention to her legs, lightly muscled and delicately tanned. When he sent his gaze on a return trip, he sensed her cataloging him, as well. His muscles tightened in response.
People milled around them, in the stands and on the field, but he paid little attention to them, his gaze locked with hers.
He found his voice only after someone asked him to move. “See you Thursday, Coach.” Hefting the base over his shoulder, he watched her jog up the stairs and out of the stadium. “Thursday,” he repeated to himself. Three days. It might as well be a month.
From the dugout, Jack surveyed the stands. She usually arrived fifteen minutes or so after the game started—to avoid pregame conversation with anyone, he guessed—but he thought she might be there for the entire game this time, to watch his progress.
His ex-wife’s husband plopped onto the bench beside him.
“Have you met your tenant yet?” Drew asked.
“Nope. I was in Chicago the weekend he moved in, but I left a note telling him to give me a call. Since I hadn’t heard from him, I walked over the other day to introduce myself but his truck was gone.”
“What’s the guy’s name again?”
“Mickey Morrison. He’s supposed to start teaching math at the community college next week.”
“Any regrets about renting the place out?”
Jack shrugged. “It was cozy enough while I was remodeling the big house, but no. It served its purpose.”
“Except Dani’s furious that you gave her ‘dollhouse’ away.”
Jack smiled, remembering how his daughter had declared the guest house her playroom and that he absolutely could not let anyone else live there. “There’s nothing quite like a scorned four-year-old,” he said to Drew.
“She’s a special little girl, Jack. You and Stacy have done a great job raising her.”
“You’re contributing your share.” He continued his perusal of the stands as Drew tapped the ground repeatedly with his bat.
“I wanted to thank you for letting her call me Dad. It means a lot to me,” Drew said after clearing his throat.
Jack shifted on the bench, hammering down the flash of insecurity he’d been struggling to control ever since Dani had broached the subject with him. “She seemed concerned that when her new sibling arrives he or she would be confused by big sister not calling you Dad. She calls me Daddy, so it’s different.”
“She’s always been particularly sensitive to people’s feelings. Amazingly so, for a child.”
“My brother was like that. God, I miss him so much. If Dan had lived—”
“Life would have been different for all of us, Jack. Immeasurably different.”
Unwilling to step back in time, Jack tuned in to the noise and activity around them, catching snippets of conversation and laughter until he spotted The Mou—Coach sliding into a vacant seat. He raised a hand to her and was rewarded with a quick wave in return. Inordinately glad that she’d already singled him out from so far away, his confidence rose. Maybe he’d hit a home run today, or start a double play, or—
He struck out once, flied out twice and got on first because of a fielder’s error. Not exactly the shining example he’d wanted to present. Plus he’d never even had a chance to slide. On the other hand, he’d gotten three runners out at second and had thrown right on target to the first baseman.
Coach had been uncharacteristically quiet during the game, as if she sensed his disappointment over his performance. He missed the badgering. He wanted to hear, “Hey, Ponytail,” followed by a caustically given instruction—or even an insult. Wondering where her gruff exterior had fled, he kept an eye on her as he shook hands with the opposing team members after the game. He saw her descend the stairs to stand by the railing, and he walked over, gauging how close to get by observing her body language, a skill at which he was becoming entirely too competent.
“Your fielding’s improving,” she said.
“My hitting stinks.”
She shrugged. “It could use some work.”
“I’m willing to put my ego aside again, if you’re willing to teach me.”
He watched her ponder his words. The old Jack would have pushed. The newer, improved model dug deep within himself for patience.
“Bring a couple of bats and as many softballs as you can borrow,” she said after a long debate.
“Monday at six?” Why do you look so sad? he wanted to ask, noting weariness in her posture, as if she’d been defeated in battle and needed to mend.
She nodded, then pushed away from the railing.
“You okay, Coach?” he asked as she turned away.
Mickey shoved her hands into her pockets. I need a hug, she wanted to say. I’m lonely and I’m tired of not sleeping. And I get scared of the noises in the woods.
“Coach?”
She shifted to face him again. He had a nice face, a face with character—deep blue eyes dark with obvious concern for her, a jaw that held an edge of stubbornness, a mouth that looked as if it could utter soothing words or deliver hot, arousing kisses, both of which she could have used, neither of which she dared accept. He projected self-confidence and strength. He wasn’t afraid to take chances. He wasn’t afraid to fail. She wondered if he could teach her that as easily as she’d taught him how to slide.