Something about that must have been the wrong thing to say because the dark-haired man shrugged like he was shaking off something he didn’t like, his gaze darting to Mac quickly. “Make sure to be careful with him running off. We don’t get a lot of traffic, but shit happens,” the rough-voiced man warned me, forcing the smile off my face.
I didn’t know why his concern irritated me from one second to the next, but it did. “Yeah. I will.” Did he think I was stupid and didn’t know that?
“Buttercup!” Louie yelled from across the street where he was standing on the front lawn, waving me over violently.
I waved back at him before turning to my neighbor one last time, trying to tell myself I didn’t need to get annoyed with his suggestion about keeping better track of Mac. He probably hadn’t meant anything condescending by it. “I should get going. Thanks for—” I pointed in the direction that his brother had gone in. “I don’t know what I did to make him mad, but see you.”
He took my leaving instantly, that sharp, serious face making a dismissive sound but I didn’t miss the way his gaze slid back in the direction of his house. “You didn’t do anything.” His attention shifted to the five-year-old waiting impatiently on the lawn and stayed there for a moment. “Later.”
I smiled at him. “See ya.” Tugging on Mac’s collar, we took a few steps toward the street before I used my grown-up voice on the stubborn-ass and whispered into his floppy ear, “The things I do for you.”
With his head turned over his shoulder, he gave me that silly dog grin of his that erased every frustration I felt toward him. He followed me across the street without a single problem, where the boys were waiting and watching.
“What are you doing standing around? That’s not what I pay you for,” I called out to them.
Louie gaped before asking his brother, “She pays us?”
*
“Son of a bitch.”
From her spot inside the break room, I heard, “Did you cut yourself?”
I shook my head, not bothering to see if Ginny had peeked out at my words or not. My eyes were laser-focused on the e-mail I’d just gotten. “No. I just got the schedule for Josh’s baseball team. They want to bump practices up to three times a week. Three times a week. Like four hours during the school week isn’t enough on top of him already going to batting and catcher practice. When am I supposed to have an afternoon to poop in peace?”
“Diana!” Ginny laughed, her voice getting louder, telling me she either had stuck her head out or she’d walked out.
“Who agreed to this?” I asked myself more than her. Practice three times a week and tournaments twice a month minimum. Jesus Christ. At this rate, I was going to need to buy a sleeping bag and just camp out at the facility every day.
“One of my cousins,” she sacrificed them both. “It’s that bad?”
“Yes!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her approach me with a bowl of whatever she’d brought for lunch. “Why don’t you call Trip or one of the other coaches and complain? You can’t be the only one thinking about buying real estate by the field if it’s that bad.”
She had a point. I also didn’t fail to catch that she didn’t suggest Dallas, who was the head coach, to be the one I called.
When the team mom had e-mailed all of us after posting the roster, we’d been given all the coaching staff’s phone numbers and all the fellow parents’ numbers. I’d called Josh’s last coach just about every week for one reason or another. I’d had that crazy, moody asshole on speed dial I talked to him so often.
So calling Trip or Dallas wouldn’t be some crazy unheard of thing.
Would it?
“You have a tournament one week in Beaumont and the next week in Channelview? That’s a pickle,” Ginny said from over my shoulder.
Blinking at the list on my phone, I reeled back as I took in the information she had just told me about. Those were both three-hour plus drives! What in the hell? I could only take off one weekend a month, and every other month I managed to get two off. The Larsens wouldn’t hesitate to take Josh somewhere that far away, but it seemed unfair to have to ask them to do that.
Without even thinking about it, I exited out of that e-mail and opened the one with the phone numbers, almost angrily punching Send on the screen when Trip’s phone number transferred to the correct screen. “This isn’t going to work,” I said to Ginny as the phone rang. “They’re out of their minds. I’m calling Trip right now.”
I did and he didn’t answer. Damn it. Facing the list of four phone numbers for each staff member—including that rude one, Jackson, who only ever talked to the boys—I eyed Dallas’s digits for a moment, wondering whether he should be my next option or not. I hesitated. Then I reminded myself of how I was going to be stuck dealing with him for a while; it didn’t need to be weird for whatever reason it could or would be. I hadn’t done anything to make him feel strange around me.
So I copied the number and pasted it into the keypad. “Your cousin didn’t answer so I’m calling Dallas.”
There was a short hesitation before she said, “Might as well.”
“Yeah. This is stupid.” Why was she hesitating so much, I wondered as the line rang. “Hey, is there something wrong with—”
“Hello?” a raspy, masculine voice answered on the other end.
I paused for a second, my words to Ginny hanging off my tongue before I snapped to attention. “Hi. Dallas?”
“This is me,” he replied evenly, almost professionally.
“Hi. This is Diana Casillas. Josh’s—” What the hell was I going to call myself? “Your neighbor.”
There was a brief pause while I’m sure he tried to remember who I was. His neighbor. The one who had saved his brother’s ass. The same one who had a nephew that was—in my opinion—the best player on his team, not that I was biased or anything like that. “Oh.” There was an awkward pause. “Hi.”
That sounded real friendly and honest. Not. “I was calling about the e-mail I just got regarding the schedule,” I tried to prep him.
The deep sigh that escaped him made me feel like I wasn’t the first person to reach out to him today about the same exact thing. “Okay,” was his answer that pretty much confirmed that suspicion.
So I just went right for it like I would have with Josh’s old coach. “Look, I don’t know what you guys were smoking when you put the schedule together, but this is way too busy.” I was doing it. Fuck it. I was a terrible bullshitter. “Three practices a week? He already has coaching two other days. All that with weekend tournaments multiple times a month isn’t going to work either. They’re kids. They need some time to do… kid stuff.”
There was a pause on his end, a controlled exhale. “I get what you’re saying—”
This wasn’t going to end well. I needed to go ahead and accept that.
“—but this is just preparation for when they’re older, playing more competitive ball.” He ended in that deep tone that sounded like he’d lost his voice once and never regained it.