Susan Crosby - Marriage On His Mind

“I debated,” she admitted. “I decided your team needs you to learn this.”

“So, you’re doing it for the team, not me?”

“I’m doing this for baseball, Ponytail.”

He repressed a chuckle. “Ah. I’ve lowered the standards of the whole game, have I?”

“I think there’s hope, or I wouldn’t be here.”

He wandered closer, noting how she tugged her cap down defensively the nearer he got. When he saw she was about to take flight, he stopped. “I can’t keep calling you The Mouth. What’s your name?”

She seemed to grab a smile back just before it could escape. “Coach.”

He shook his head slowly. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Ready to get to work, Ponytail?”

“I think I’m going to regret this,” he muttered as he returned to first base and awaited her instructions.

“First of all, move to the outfield so you can practice on the grass. When you’ve teamed how to slide where you can’t kill yourself, you’ll move onto the dirt.”

“You gonna just stand there and yell instructions to me?” he called over his shoulder as he jogged out to the grass.

“Yep.”

“How do I know you can do this if you don’t demonstrate it?”

“A person doesn’t have to be able to do in order to teach, Ponytail.” She walked parallel to him, one hand on the railing, stopping when he did. “Close your eyes. Visualize what I’m describing. Go through it in your head. If a part isn’t clear, we’ll do it again until it is. Don’t hesitate to stop me and ask questions. Okay?”

Jack closed his eyes. “You want to know if I can touch my nose with my finger?”

Her sigh was both loud and dramatic. “Let me guess. You’re in law enforcement.”

“Close. Lawyer.”

She groaned audibly. “And I said you could stop me anytime and ask questions. We won’t get out of here until dark.”

He grinned. “We have to be out of here by about 6:50. League takes over then.”

She looked at her watch. “Okay, we’ve got half an hour. Let’s go. Close your eyes.” She talked him through the steps, meticulously explaining the reasons for every action, then made him practice again and again on the grass until he could consistently slide while keeping his torso almost upright, trailing his left hand, his left leg tucked under him.

“You’re ready to move onto dirt, Ponytail.”

“Am I?” Every muscle complained as he walked to first base.

“Ready as you’ll ever be.”

“Somehow I don’t find that comforting, Coach.” He liked the sound of her laugh, a little wicked, a little playful. “You think I can master this in one lesson?”

“Sure. Remember to keep your right foot up so you don’t catch your spikes, then hit the bag with your heel, push off with your left leg, and you’ll be standing.”

“Can’t I just slide into it?”

“It’s going to depend on how much time you think you have. If you can stay on the ground and sort of slide around the base and catch it as you go by, that’s okay. Usually, there isn’t enough time. And, of course, if you’re needed to break up a double play—”

“One step at a time, Coach.”

Concentrating, he stood for a few seconds just staring at second base, then he took off at a dead run and dropped into a slide when she yelled, “Now!”

His cleat caught the edge of the bag and held before he could push himself upright, the impact jarring him from toe to head. He lay there swearing for fifteen seconds before her voice penetrated the buzz in his ears.

“Try it again.”

“I don’t think I can even walk.”

“You just learned what not to do, Ponytail. This time keep your foot up a little higher.”

Jack rolled over and pushed himself up, fighting the pain vibrating through his body. He hobbled back to first. “How is it you know so much about this game?” he asked.

“Baseball is my life.”

Her droll tone drew a laugh from him.

“You’re doing great, Ponytail.”

At her praise, a resurgence of energy numbed his pain. “You’re a good teacher.”

“Thanks. So, do you have a law practice here in town?”

He shook his finger at her. “No fair. I won’t answer personal questions if you won’t.”

She tipped her head to one side. “I’ll bet you’re dynamite.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re willing to work harder than the average person. You wouldn’t be content being anything less than best.”

They stared at each other, making some kind of connection that Jack couldn’t describe, only feel. He turned away when some people entered the stadium.

“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.

“I’m fine, Ponytail. I was just thinking about the Help Wanted sign I saw hanging on the snack bar. You might keep that in mind as an option.”

He looked relieved that she teased him, seemed her old self again. She’d gotten good at bluffing. Too good, she realized. She’d had a difficult week, had missed her family more than she ever could have imagined. Aside from her lesson with Ponytail and polite exchanges with clerks in stores, she hadn’t spoken to anyone except a dog that joined her by the stream one day this week. He’d laid his head in her lap and let her pet him for a few minutes, then after one lick of her face he’d loped away, his golden coat gleaming in the sunlight, his tags jangling.