The Secret Hook-Up

There are several places I could be this morning.

I could wake up Paisley with a bribe of breakfast if she’ll keep me company.

I could drop by any of my teammates’ or former teammates’ places to say hi.

I could hit a golf course. Leave town and head into the Blue Ridge Mountains for some hiking. Take a float trip.

Instead, I’m knocking on Addie’s apartment door.

Am I obsessed?

Yes.

But also, she saved me yesterday at the stadium. I owe her a thank you that’s more than dropping a hint-laden bomb that I’m hanging up my skates soon.

That definitive decision isn’t giving me the anxiety I’d expect.

Maybe because what I want to do after hockey is so crystal clear. Not all of it, but enough of it.

There’s a chance she won’t answer. Might not be home. Could be showering. I doubt she’s still sleeping.

She’s a morning person.

Being a morning person is a pain in the ass when your team plays until ten or eleven nearly every night, especially at the end of road trips when you get home after a red-eye.

If she were a player, her coaches and trainers would have something to say about her 6:00 a.m. wake-up every morning.

But since she is a coach, nobody questions her early bird habits that sometimes require extra coffee.

My coffee-adoring and early morning-loving ass flipped her off a few times back in the day when she’d indulge in both while I was supposed to be sleeping later before or after a game.

And I do mean only a few times.

Weren’t many nights either of us stayed over with the other when baseball and hockey were both in season.

The lock clicks, and the door opens just wide enough for me to see two-thirds of Addie’s face.

Suspicious doesn’t touch the raw wariness lurking in her pretty brown eyes. Determination flows through my veins.

I will win this woman over.

I’ll prove to her that I can fit in her life.

And if I can’t, then I’ll know I gave it everything I had and I’m just supposed to be alone for the rest of my own life.

“Duncan,” she says.

Her hair is tied back in a ponytail that has me wondering how she managed it. Light makeup on her face—there’s something about her eyes and lips that pops. Not as much as at the auction, but she’s definitely wearing something. She’s in a black Fireballs polo, and I wonder if she had help getting that on too.

If she did, I’m jealous of whoever got to help. I want to be the one making sure she gets everything she needs.

I lift the insulated to-go coffee mug that I filled with a special order at what used to be her favorite coffee shop around the corner on my way over.

Since I threw out a couple disposable cups stamped with the shop’s logo while I was here the other morning, I figure there’s a good chance it’s still her favorite.

“Gratitude coffee. Thank you for not letting me die of heat exhaustion yesterday.”

The suspicion doesn’t fade while she drops her eyes to the mug.

It’s a Thrusters mug decorated with Thrusty, our rocket-powered bratwurst mascot. He has a bit of a cult following. There’ve been times when people have put stickers of him on all of the lampposts all around the city. Other times when plush versions of him have been found in weird places, like lined up around the fountain in Reynolds Park or overflowing every locker in the other local sports teams’ dressing rooms. Copper Valley’s mayor once found a three-foot-tall stuffed Thrusty sitting in the driver’s seat of his car. Someone even made a Thrusty Bratwurst filter on SnapChat.

I blame Zeus Berger for most of the Thrusty mischief, but I suspect his identical twin Ares is equally responsible, just quieter about it.

“If this was true gratitude coffee, Ash would be on that mug,” Addie says.

Can’t blame her for loyalty to the Fireballs’ baby dragon mascot, who’s technically growing up now, but everyone still loves the baby merch the best.

Also, I didn’t grab the Ash mug I have at home purely because I knew it would look like I was trying too hard.

I’m determined and patient, not stupid and reckless. “Superior mascot for superior coffee.”

“Did you make it?”

“Peppermint mocha from the place down the street.”

“It’s not peppermint mocha season.”

“Barista’s a Thrusters fans.”

“Which one? Jenny? Or Nikki?”

“The one with the pink hair.”

She gasps. “That’s Nikki, and she’s a Fireballs fan first.”

“Lucky you, she made your coffee. Unless you don’t want it?”

It’s not hard to see the conflict in her face. Take the coffee and shut the door in my face, reject both me and the coffee, or let us both in?

I know I’m in when her eyes narrow. “This is me saying thank you and you’re welcome and that’s it.”

“Of course.”

She opens the door wider, and I step inside her apartment.

The living room blinds are open, showing off her view of Reynolds Park. She’s just high enough to see the tops of the oak and maple and elm trees, but not high enough to get a full view of the expansive park and its sports fields, walking trails, and the fountain that’s basically the centerpiece of the city. Her walls are painted peach, and the soft gray furniture with the pastel throw pillows feel so very Addie to me in a way that I doubt most people in her life would recognize.

More tissues litter the end table next to her plush recliner, which is draped with a quilt featuring cartoon sloths that match one of her throw pillows. An open container of cantaloupe is sitting on her countertop next to her tablet, which I take to mean she’s having breakfast and catching up on sports news. The sink’s full of dishes again.

“I have twenty minutes before I have to leave,” she tells me as she heads toward the kitchen. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“My pleasure. How’s your shoulder?”

“Annoying as fuck.”

I shouldn’t grin, but it’s hard not to appreciate her blunt honesty. “How much longer in the sling?”

“Only until my doctor appointment in a few days. I hope. Still have to wait on the scans, but I’m reasonably certain I won’t need surgery. Just PT.”

“First thing you’ll do when you have full use of both arms. Go.”

“Cut a cantaloupe myself. This precut stuff isn’t always fresh. Or cut small enough.”

“Huh. I thought the first thing you’d do would be to give a double middle finger to the sling.”

“I can do that already.”

She demonstrates, and I grin again as I step into the kitchen with her.

“Do not do my dishes,” she says.

“Housekeeper coming to do them?” I ask.

“No. I’ll do them—Duncan.”

I sidestep her attempt at stealing the clean plate out of my hand as I start unloading her dishwasher. “Sorry. Can’t help myself. It’s an illness. I’m seeing a therapist, but we’re not making much progress yet on breaking my dishwasher obsession.”

The heat coming off her glare is a fraction of what it should be, and she doesn’t stop me when I grab the next clean plate out of the dishwasher.

Addie’s way of taking help.

I have a fuckton of admiration for her independence and strength until she lets it work against her.

Everyone needs help sometimes.

Look at me yesterday.

“You didn’t call your sister-in-law, did you?” I say as I put the full stack of plates away with the others.

“It’s just a few more days,” she grumbles.

“Paisley’s looking for a job. She has the same sickness as me. It’s genetic. We have to clean. Family theory is that one of our ancestors must’ve drowned in a mud pit and we’re carrying the trauma in our genes. It makes us clean obsessively.”

Addie stares at me over the rim of the to-go mug as she takes a sip of coffee, giving me the same badass stare that she’ll be using on her players when they get back to work after their break.

She knows I’m making shit up.

But after her first sip, her eyes drift shut, her expression relaxes, and her whole body sags against the counter. “Why do they only serve this a few months of the year?”

“They’d serve it to you year-round if you asked.”

She wrinkles her nose. “They’d serve it to you.”

“I told Nikki it was for you. Actually, I don’t get any more unless I have picture proof of you drinking it.”

I get another stare that says she doesn’t know if she believes me or not.

“They all saw the articles,” I tell her.

It’s the truth.

And it’s enough of the truth that I can feel my face turning pink, which doesn’t happen often.

But it’s also not often that I’m referred to as the boy-half of Daddie to my face.

Addie studies me another moment, her eyes darting across my features, her own cheeks going a shade of pink.

And then she goes back to eating her cantaloupe quietly while I finish unloading and reloading her dishwasher. Anytime I glance at her, she’s watching me.

Just watching.

And occasionally sipping her coffee and drifting off into bliss-land, her complexion back under control.

“Do you have plans today?” she asks as I’m rearranging the top rack to get the last bowl in.

“Nope.”

“Would you like to make some young athletes’ days?”

“With you, or in your place?”

Her cheeks do that pink thing again. “With me.”

Yes. “I could think of worse things to do.”

“This isn’t a date.”

“Didn’t think it was.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I know where we stand.” For now.

And for now has me driving Addie to a softball diamond in the Mulvaney Hill district of the city with a bagful of stuffed Baby Ash mascots in the rear of the Sin Bin, which is what I call my SUV.

I’m the muscle. Not her date.

Her partner in community outreach.

But it’s clear when we arrive at the practice diamond that Addie’s the real show.

“Coach Addie!” the first baseperson yells, and that’s it.

Practice pauses as the teenage girls in softball-practice gear dash to the sidelines.

“Sorry for the disruption, Coach,” she says to an older woman who’s wearing a sun visor and a whistle and standing at the edge of the field.

“For being late or for interrupting practice?”

“Yes.”

The older woman smiles at her as the team crowds around. “Practice was supposed to be over fifteen minutes ago, and they know it.”

“We hit traffic.”

The older woman’s gaze slides to me, but her silent questions are swept away by the tight crowd of players.

“Morning, Stingrays,” Addie says to the team. The difference in her at this exact moment is remarkable.

When I catch sight of her on TV during games, she’s always straight-faced. Holds herself rigid. Doesn’t let a single muscle or joint out of place. All business.

But this morning, she’s smiling at the team as they chorus back an enthusiastic, “Hi, Coach Addie.”

“I can’t throw well today, so I brought you a target instead,” she says to the team.

Two dozen young women roughly my niece’s age, maybe a little younger, turn to stare at me.

“He looks familiar,” says the one holding a catcher’s glove with her mask pushed back on her head.

“Were you in a constipation commercial?” someone in the middle of the group wants to know.

“Guys, he plays baseball,” a shorter woman holding a bat tells them.

“No, I know all of the Fireballs. He’s not one of them.”

“In the minors.”

“He’s too old to be in the minors.”

Addie’s grin keeps growing. “Ladies, this is Duncan Lavoie. He plays hockey for the Thrusters.”

A chorus of Oooohs erupts around us.

“Oh, shit, that’s the dude who tried to buy you,” someone in the middle of the group says.

Half the girls shush her and one tells her not to say shit. One or two squeal, but no more than that.

“Duncan and I are old friends,” she tells the group. “And you shouldn’t believe anything you read in the sports pages when they’re trying to be gossip pages.”

“If you need us to take him out, we’re here for you,” a girl in pink-rimmed sunglasses says as she pumps a fist into her glove.

Addie’s visibly fighting a bigger smile. I swear she’s biting the inside of her cheek. “Thank you, but I don’t need any of you provoking the Thrusters fans.”

“We can be subtle.”

“They’ll never know it was us.”

“Besties, I think Coach Addie can handle him. I mean, look at him. She can definitely take him out if she needs to.”

“Okay, okay. I know I said we can use him as a target, but I was joking. We’re going to be kind to Duncan today,” Addie says.

Mumbles of fine and if we have to go up amongst the group.

I glance at their coach.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

She’s also smirking. “Not your usual welcome, is it?”

“Did hockey players hurt them all?” I deadpan.

“Enough of them.”

Well, fuck. Aren’t they too young for that? “Here?”

“We handled it,” Addie says to me. She turns back to the team. “Who’s ready for breakfast?”

We didn’t bring breakfast.

We brought plush mascots. Unless the mascots are hiding food.

But the team whoops and heads to the bleachers like the question is code.

When I turn to watch, I spot a rideshare delivery car in the parking lot next to the Sin Bin.

“You ordered breakfast?” I ask Addie.

She doesn’t look at me as she follows the women, their coach on her other side. “I bring some kind of meal every few weeks to different teams in the summer league, listen to the gossip, answer questions, hang out…it’s good.”

“For you or them?”

“Yes.”

“Fireballs sponsor this?”

“No.”

“Huh.”

She slides a look at me. “This is the sort of thing you can do in retirement too.”

I don’t hold back a smile. “You’ve been thinking about me.”

“You make it very hard not to. Don’t let the plushies fall out of that bag. The team has plans for those.”

“Addie Bloom, are you encouraging pranks with stuffed mascots?”

“I’m a role model, not an instigator.”

She’s absolutely an enabler though.

The team is passing around bags of what looks like breakfast burritos and containers of fruits and muffins, plus juice boxes.

I stay off to the side while the team pulls Addie in, not hesitating to pepper her with questions and fill her in on things in their personal lives. I wonder how many other teams she hits regularly enough for them to know her this way.

“She’s been a great asset to the city,” the coach says to me as she, too, lingers on the side. “But I think she’s been an even greater asset to us. A lot of our players want to play ball in college and then follow her lead into professional sports.”

“Best role model to have.”

The coach studies me. “And what are your intentions?”

“Make sure she knows she’s awesome.”

“You and your teammates play pranks.”

“Harmless fun.”

“Don’t test what these players will do to support Addie if those pranks are ever aimed at her.”

“Zeus Berger once told me he would never prank a locker room of women because he’s good, but they’re better,” I tell her. “He’s not wrong.”

“I hope that’s not lip service.”

“Too much to lose for that to be lip service.”

She’s not smiling while she keeps watching me.

But I smile to myself.

Not lying.

I want Addie in my life. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn her and deserve her.