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That’s the last I want to talk about online dating. It’s not for me.
“I’m just waiting for the girls to show up. Practice is supposed to start in fifteen minutes,” I say.
This is our first time coaching a team, but Damon came to us and asked if we would be willing to step up this season. Baseball and softball have things in common, and he didn’t want Emily to have to drive to another city to play. He has a good way of talking me into things. I’ve always enjoyed helping others, and getting to help youngin’s learn the sport is gratifying.
I might not ever get the chance to have kids of my own, but one day I would love to coach my future daughter’s little league. I’m sure every parent says this, but she isn’t pressured to play a sport just because I like it. She won’t be responsible for helping me relive my glory days. This is so common, and it hinders the players' growth and love for the sport. They should play because they enjoy it, not because we forced them to. So many parents make this mistake and ruin the fun for the child.
“Let’s take the uniforms and the cooler to the dugout. I brought waters since it’s like a million degrees out here,” I say, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
Even in shorts and a t-shirt, it’s like I’m sitting in a sauna. It’s important to stay hydrated, especially in this blistering weather, so we have to make sure the girls drink plenty during practice. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone getting overheated or sick.
Tristan and I grab the two boxes from the bed of my truck, and take them to the dugout, waiting for the kids to show up. Our uniforms almost didn’t make it in time. If I didn’t pay for the express shipping, then there’s no telling when we would have gotten them in. You would think six weeks would be plenty of notice to get uniforms, but not for this company.
“Hey, look,” Tristan says, tapping on my shoulder and pointing to a woman in the grass, getting out of her car.
“This isn’t for you to pick up women. Come on.”
I try not to stare, but her hair is blowing in the wind, and the shorts she has on are only drawing my eyes to her long, tan legs.Who the hell is she?I shake my head, trying to rid myself of these thoughts, and focus on the task at hand. She is off limits.
“Now, she looks like trouble,” Tristan says, still staring at her like a creep.
Cars pull up, and kids are filing into the dugout. It’s nice how excited they are. I wait until all twelve girls have arrived and then we begin.
“Welcome, ladies. My name is Brodie and I’ll be your coach. This is my assistant, Tristan. We are looking forward to working with you girls over this season.”
I call out names from the roster, and Tristan hands them their uniforms. When I call out Sherrie’s name, she steps up with a smile and then peers back at her mom.
“Welcome to the team, champ.”
After I have handed the uniforms out, we have the girls play catch to warm up. It gives us time to assess them and learn what we need to work on as a team. Since it’s our first season with them, we have to learn each players’ strengths and weaknesses. It’s almost like starting from scratch. One benefit we have is the girls have been playing together for years, so there is already a level of trust built among the team. Now, we just have to build their trust in us as coaches. It’s hard when a new one comes in and tries to nitpick, but I’m not that guy.
Tristan has been paying more attention to the mom’s than what’s going on at practice. So, I dig my elbow into his side and he winces. “Dude, let’s not make this weird, okay? Stop.”
He clears his throat. “My bad. I can’t help it sometimes.”
His attention is back on the field where it should be, but not for long. We do some drills at first base, and all he has to do is throw the ball so they are able to catch it and tag the base, but his eyes are focused on the moms in the bleachers talking. What does he see in them? A majority of them are fake blondes, with faux fingernails, and pasted on eyelashes. Who wants to be with a fake barbie? I prefer a more natural look with no pound of makeup. High maintenance is something I stay away from and avoid at all costs.
“Tristan, eyes on first base.”
For the rest of practice, Tristan keeps his eyes averted and I don’t have to get onto him again. I hope the whole season doesn’t go this way, because there doesn’t need to be any drama. If we screw this up, then it ruins our chances of being asked to come back next year. Tristan doesn’t seem thrilled about it like I am, but by then, someone else will step in. Piss off the moms, and that’s one sure fire way to make us not wanted on this league anymore.
“Dude, find women somewhere else. They are off limits. Got it?” I say, nudging him against the fence.
Okay, so maybe my eyes did wander a couple of times, but at least I didn’t make it obvious like he did. The woman from earlier has been on her phone most of the practice. There is no ring on her finger, but that doesn’t mean anything.Fuck.I keep telling myself she is off limits, but my eyes want to drink her in.
Her eyes come up off her phone and then she makes eye contact.
“Hey, coach!” she yells, waving me over.
Tristan glances my way, and I smile as I walk over to the chain link fence. “Yeah?”
“How much longer is practice going to be? Sherrie is supposed to be at her dad’s by seven and we haven’t even eaten dinner yet.”
I follow her eyes as they trail down my body. She is totally checking me out.
“About fifteen minutes, probably. I’m Brodie, by the way.”
“Vanessa.”
