“I think we have three or maybe four more years for that. I think they’ll be fine playing tournaments once or twice a month, and practicing two times a week. There’s no way I’m the only person that this isn’t working for.”
“Three other sets of the parents approved the schedule before we sent it out,” Dallas said in a voice that reminded me how Ginny had mentioned him being in the military. He was telling me this information.
Unfortunately for him, I had a problem with people telling me what I could and couldn’t do.
“Well, those three parents must only have one kid, no lives, and that one kid must hate them because they don’t do anything that isn’t baseball related,” I grumbled back, surprised at what he was telling me. What the hell was wrong with these people?
There was a shout in the background that sounded surprisingly like “Boss!” Then a muffled shout back that I was pretty sure came from Dallas before he returned in a cool, quick voice. “I gotta go, but I’ll think about what you said and somebody will get back to you about the schedule.”
That was it? “Somebody” was going to get back to me? Not him? “Please think about it—”
“I gotta go, sorry. Bye,” he cut me off a split second before the line went dead.
With a groan that came straight from my gut, I pressed my finger against the screen and ground down on my molars. “Damn it.”
*
When three days went by and I hadn’t gotten a new e-mail about the schedule being changed for the better, I started to get a little frustrated. When another day went by, including a practice, with half of the parents complaining to one another about their outrage regarding practices and tournaments, and still none of the staff commented about anything being done… I got more frustrated. But it wasn’t until four more days passed, including another practice, with nothing changing and no one saying anything, that I realized the truth.
Nothing was going to happen.
And that just wasn’t going to work.
I’d already talked to my parents and the Larsens about Josh’s insane schedule and they had all assured me we could make it work between all of us, but that wasn’t the point. What about the parents who didn’t have four extra people to help them out? What about the parents with more kids, who all had other sports and activities? What about my Louie who liked going skateboarding and riding his bike from time to time?
I understood how highly competitive sports worked. I had family members who had grown up to be professional athletes, but a ten-year-old completely sacrificing all of their free time? That didn’t seem like the best idea to me. They needed a couple more years to be kids, didn’t they?
So between clients, I picked up the phone and redialed the numbers I had saved in my contacts a week ago. And when it went to voice mail, I left a message. Four hours later, when I still hadn’t gotten a response, I called Trip again and left him a voice mail. In my desperation, I called again and left another message on Dallas’s phone. I may or may not have been making faces the entire time it took me to get home from work at seven that evening, making up all kinds of random excuses why I hadn’t gotten a call back from the team’s head coach when I lived across the street from him and worked with the assistant coach’s cousin, who worked down the block. The only thing that had kept me from walking to the mechanic shop where I’d overheard Trip worked was that would be creepy and crossing the line. A work place was a work place.
“This is bullshit,” I finally whispered to myself as I sat in my car before opening the door and heading up the path to my house. Unfortunately for Dallas, I dropped my keys on the ground and it took forever to wipe the fob off on my pants, otherwise I might have missed him getting home. The fact was I didn’t miss anything. As an old, Ford pickup rumbled its way down the street and turned into his driveway, I stood there. In the cab, I spotted that familiar buzz-cut dark head of hair behind the wheel of his big, old F-350.
I stood there, watching and debating whether to leave Dallas alone or not.
I went with not leaving him alone.
Before his truck had even disappeared into the garage set back along his driveway, I was already crossing the street and making my way over, hands tucked into the back pockets of my black jeans.
“Hi,” I called out to him as I approached. He already had one leg hanging out of the driver side, the door flung open wide.
“Hey” was his response as he got out, his eyes going a little wide into what I knew couldn’t be exasperation, right? Dressed in a long-sleeved, button-up, navy blue work shirt and khaki cargo shorts with more holes in them than pockets, Dallas was dusty as hell. I still hadn’t figured out what he did for a living, not that it mattered or that it was even my business.
I smiled at him, trying to be as sweet and nonthreatening as possible. My abuela, God rest her soul, had always told me you get a lot more out of life being nice than being a cabrona. God, I had loved that woman. “I wanted to see if you had changed your mind about the schedule,” I said, still smiling, trying to be all nice and innocent.
Almost as if sensing my bullshit, Dallas narrowed those hazel eyes at me. “It’s been brought up, but nothing has been decided,” was his political bullshit answer.
I was a lot of things, but a quitter wasn’t one of them. “Okay. In that case, I hope you guys see reason and change it because it’s crazy.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone with the “C” word. Maybe.
When those light-colored irises went even smaller, I decided that yeah, I probably shouldn’t have. “I’ll make sure you know if anything changes.” His tone clearly said, “get out of my face,” so I knew he was full of it.
“Please,” I peeped, getting desperate. “Everyone was complaining about it. Even Josh said he was tired just looking at it, and he doesn’t really have an off switch.”
Dallas eyed me one last time before starting to make his way around me. “I got you,” he threw over his shoulder, not bothering to spare me another glance. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“Thanks!” I hollered after him, squeezing my fists at my sides at the brush-off he’d just given me. Son of a bitch.
The man whose brother owed me the teeth in his mouth lifted a hand as he walked into the house right before the security door slammed closed behind him. I was getting sick and tired of him brushing me off. If he wasn’t going to listen to me, then damn it, I knew other people would. Because like my grandma would also say, if being nice doesn’t work, que todos se vayan a la fregada.
*