Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing. My sister is ridiculous.”
“So is mine. Did I tell you that in addition to believing I am a responsible adult, she’s insisting I dance with her at this wedding?”
I smiled and licked some icing from my finger. “You don’t like dancing?”
He gave me his grumpy old man face. “No.”
“Well, the father-daughter dance is a tradition,” I said gently. “You’re playing that role for her. And it’s two minutes—three at the most. You can get through one song for her, right?”
He stabbed a potato with his fork and stuck it in his mouth.
“Right?” I repeated forcefully.
“She wants me to pick the song,” he complained. “I don’t know any songs that would be right for that.”
“I’ll help you.”
“Everyone will be watching me.”
“Everyone watched you for years on the field and it never bothered you. In fact, I am pretty sure you enjoyed it.”
“That’s different.” He picked up his coffee and took a drink. “I was good at baseball. I have never been good at dancing.”
I tore off a doughy piece of cinnamon roll and popped it into my mouth. “Will it make you feel better if I show you a few simple moves to show her off so no one focuses on you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can teach you a few easy, partnered dance steps so you feel like you know what you’re doing. I’ve done it for brides and grooms before.”
He looked confused. “Like, twirls and shit?”
Laughing, I took another bite. “Something like that.”
“Excuse me,” said a scratchy voice to my right.
I looked up to see an elderly man standing to the side of our table. He looked like he might be in his eighties or close to it—his posture was stooped, his belly was round, he needed suspenders to hold up his pants, and he wore thick glasses. His ears looked too big for his head, on which he wore a bright red ball cap. Tufts of white hair stuck out beneath it.
“Coach?” Tyler blinked at the old timer.
“Is that you, Shaw?”
“It’s me.”
“I thought so. But my wife says I can’t see shit, so I wasn’t sure. Came to take a closer look.”
Tyler laughed as he rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Good to see you, Coach.”
The old guy shook it but pulled him in for a hug too. Whacked his back a few times. “Good to see you too, son. You playing any ball?”
“Nah, I’m retired.”
“Where you hanging your hat these days?”
“I’m still in San Diego,” answered Tyler. “Just in town for my sister’s wedding.” He nodded at me. “This is April Sawyer. April, this is Virgil Dean, one of my old coaches.”
“His favorite one,” added Virgil.
Smiling, I stood and offered my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dean.”
He took my hand, and I noticed how his trembled. “Nice to meet you too,” he said. Then he looked at Tyler. “This your wife?”
Tyler shook his head, and we exchanged an amused glance. “No, just a friend.”
“I was gonna ask how you got someone like her. She’s too good-looking for you.” Virgil winked at me.
“She is,” Tyler agreed, folding his arms over his chest. “So how’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know. Got some back pain. Some blood pressure trouble. Had one knee and both hips replaced. Can’t see shit—my wife is right—but I don’t hear too well either, so mostly I can ignore her carping at me.” He shrugged. “I’m still walking around, so I guess that’s good.”
“Are you still coaching?”
“Not too much. I get out there every now and again and help my son David over at the high school—he’s the head coach at Central now—but mostly, I try to stay out of the way. He doesn’t like his old man to interfere too much.”
“He’d be lucky to have you interfere.” Tyler nodded toward his old coach and spoke to me. “You’re looking at the man responsible for my fastball. Taught me everything I know.”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “I’m impressed. People are still talking about that fastball around here.”
“Hell of a pitch.” Virgil nodded proudly, then looked at Tyler. “Hell of an athlete. Say, you’re not sticking around here for any length of time, are you? They think I’m an old fart over at the school, but they could use a good pitching coach. The last one didn’t know his ass from his elbow.”
Tyler shook his head. “Nah, I’m leaving Sunday.”
“Why so soon?”
He shrugged. “I gotta get back.”
“Thought you said you retired.”
“I did, but—”
“So stay a while. What else you got going?”
Tyler paused. “Maybe you haven’t heard, but baseball just isn’t my thing anymore, Coach. I lost my arm.”
“Bullshit. Baseball isn’t here, son”—Virgil tapped Tyler’s shoulder—“it’s here.” He thumped a gnarled fingertip on Tyler’s chest. “And here.” He tapped his head.
Tyler pressed his lips together. “I’ll think about it.”
His former coach lifted off his red cap, scratched the back of his head, studied Tyler with a shrewd eye, and looked at me as he replaced it. “See if you can get this guy to stay a while, get over to the high school. The kids could use his knowledge.”