Chapter Two
Avery
W hen the lunch rush finally dies down, I grab a fresh stack of polished silverware and start rolling as Summer plops down onto the bar stool beside me—over-exaggerated sigh and all.
“So,” she drawls, ripping through the plastic wrap surrounding a fresh bundle of linen napkins, “want to tell me about that moment between you and Nash Fontaine by the bathrooms earlier?”
I roll my eyes, not bothering to look up. “What moment?”
“Oh… OH! Don’t even try playing dumb.“ Summer snaps a napkin in my direction before folding it and adding it to my pile. “I saw the way he was looking at you. Girl, he was flirting with you.”
I roll another set of silverware and add it to the stack. “Giving me the ick is more like it.”
“Oh, whatever,” she scoffs. “Listen, there’s no way a guy as hot as Nash could ever give a girl the ick.
Like… she’d have to have some kind of genetic abnormality to be immune to that man’s charm.
“ She lays a napkin down in front of her with a knowing smile. “And you know I’m right. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be blushing. ”
“I am not blushing.”
She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes.
“Okay, fine. But so what if he’s attractive? The man thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
“And you think he’s not?” Summer deadpans.
I roll my eyes. “He’s exactly the type I want nothing to do with. Rich, entitled, and used to women falling at his feet everywhere he goes.”
“Girl, those feet could fall at my feet any day,“ she coos, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Spoken like someone who’s never had to schedule her love life around double shifts and the early morning drop-off line. Geez, I swear… I don’t know how those other moms do it.”
Summer stops rolling and frowns. “Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. Raising Benji all by yourself...? How’s he doing, anyway? School treating him okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, you saw him earlier. He’s growing up so fast that I can barely afford to keep his clothes fitting.
And he’s so smart. Always got his nose in a book.
.. even if it’s just some dumb sports biography.
But you know how middle school kids are.
They all suck. I’m sure the other kids pick on him, but he’s got thick skin.
Even if he let it get to him, I doubt he’d let it show. ”
“Sounds like someone I know,” she teases.
When there’s no more silverware left to roll and our last two tables clear out, Summer grabs a tray and refills the sugar caddies while I go around topping off salt and pepper shakers.
“Speaking of thick skin,” Summer says, stuffing packets of Splenda and Sweet n’ Low into an empty ceramic holder, “did Salvatore mention anything about that management position opening up next month? Because if anyone deserves it—“
I grimace. “He cornered me yesterday after my shift. Said I had ‘all the right qualifications for the job’ but that my ‘interpersonal skills with high-value clientele’ could use some work.”
Summer drops her caddy on the table and mocks a feigned expression. “Whaaaaat? You… not having interpersonal skills with clientele? Inconceivable!”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “Apparently… not pandering to pigs like Nash Fontaine and the likes of him constitutes poor customer service.” I sprinkle some salt into my palm and toss it over my left shoulder—an old habit picked up from my grandmother before she passed almost a decade ago. “I can’t imagine why.”
“So, what did you say?”
“What could I say? I need that position.“ I move to the next table, mechanically unscrewing the next pepper top. “The hourly bump plus benefits might actually cover what I’m still short for Benji’s tuition... assuming he gets in.”
Summer’s eyes soften. “He will . That kid’s got more natural talent than half the pros who eat here, and you know it.”
“Yeah, well, natural talent doesn’t pay for schools like St. Sebastian’s.
” I let out a sigh that feels like it’s been building all day.
“Most days, it’s all I can do to leave my stress at the door.
So when I can’t even manage that, having a boss who chalks it up to me having an attitude problem doesn’t exactly help my cause. ”
She smiles. “Okay. First of all, you do not have an attitude problem. You just—have a problem with attitudes. Big difference.”
“Thanks, but try telling that to Salvatore.”
“I’m serious, Ave.” Summer lowers her voice.
“You’ve been saving to get Benji a spot at that preparatory academy for over a year now.
And we both know what a school like that would mean for his future if he got in.
Don’t let the Nash Fontaines of the world rob you of everything you worked so hard for. ”
Summer is right. I do know what it means.
Students accepted into one of St. Sebatsian’s elite athletic programs are statistically shown to have a favorable advantage when it comes to college recruiters.
And let’s face it—earning a baseball scholarship right out of high school might be Benji’s only shot at the kind of education we couldn’t afford otherwise.
The weight of the last three days of double shifts settles into the balls of my feet as I slump beside her.
“I just wish I had more in the bank. The application deadline was last month, so if Benji gets in, I’ll have until August to come up with the rest of the tuition I need.
But that still only covers his first semester, assuming I don’t have any other surprise expenses—which there certainly doesn’t seem to be a shortage of now that my car is on the fritz.
Honestly, I haven’t even told Benji that I applied yet. ”
“Wait, what? Why wouldn’t you want him to know?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to get his hopes up.
” I say, using a dry towel to dust away spilled pepper from the table and chairs.
“He’s been talking about becoming a Shooting Star since he was ten.
You’ve seen the way his eyes light up anytime we pass one of those billboards with their alumni. ”
Summer retrieves a broom and dustpan from one of the server stations and begins sweeping under the booths against the back wall. “When do you find out if he’s been accepted?”
“They said it could take several months to process all the applications. There are only seven of these programs in the entire nation, and everyone and their dog is trying to get their kid in.” My stomach knots just thinking about it.
“I wanted it to be a surprise for his thirteenth birthday, but none of that happens if I can’t learn to smile at entitled jerks and resist the urge to dump tea over their perfectly coiffed hair. ”
“Seriously!” Summer chuckles in agreement, then pulls her phone from her apron to check the time. “Almost quitting time. And time for Benji’s mentor matching thing, too, right?”
I glance at my watch and groan. “Yeah, I think you’re right. And he left his glove in one of the booths after breakfast. He’ll go ballistic if I don’t run it down to him. Catch up with you later?”
She nods as I grab Benji’s glove from behind the hostess stand before booking it out the door and into the concourse.
Because the closest elevator is two full sections over, I take a nearby set of stairs down to the bleachers instead.
My feet cry in protest with every step, but at least the burn now creeping into my calves gives me something to focus on other than some painfully good-looking playboy with a sugar packet.
Nash Fontaine. The current bane of my existence and the only player in the league who Benji openly admits to fangirling out over.
Talk about dumb luck. It’s bad enough that Benji keeps a life-sized Fat Head sticker of him plastered on his bedroom wall, but now that Nash has been traded to the Street Sweepers, something tells me I’m about to get way more of him than I bargained for.
At least with this Play It Forward Big Brother program, Benji stands a fair chance of being paired with a real role model.
I push through the door to the upper level of stands, squinting as the sun blinds me. Awkwardly sidestepping my way down the rows while several parents scattered throughout the bleachers turn to stare, I try to locate Benji in a large group gathered near the home dugout.
Suddenly, an eager voice booms through the stadium’s loudspeaker, causing me to almost trip over my own two feet.
I pause to glance at the pitcher’s mound, where a lanky man in a Play It Forward windbreaker and a lime green fanny pack wildly gestures as he makes his address.
Even from a distance, I can see his socks are mismatched, and the way he bounces on his toes when he talks reminds me of a dog trying to dance on its hind legs.
When I reach the railing at the bottom of the stands, Coach Donnovan is just outside the dugout entrance.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for Benji Morrow?”
Coach Donnovan looks up with a nod of recognition, then turns toward the dugout opening. “Benji! Someone here for you, Son.”
Benji exits the dugout in a practice jersey, and his face lights up when he sees me. He sprints toward the fence.
“My glove! Where did you find it?” He reaches up as I dangle it over the railing. “I was freaking out! I looked for it everywhere.”
“Found it on the floor under a booth. You should keep a better eye on it. Can’t have Chicago’s future MVP fielding balls without his lucky glove, can we?
” I smile as he snatches it and immediately slips it onto his left hand, pounding his fist into the pocket.
“So, how’s it going so far? Did you get matched with a mentor yet? ”
He nods, and his grin somehow widens impossibly farther. “Oh, man! You’re never gonna believe who my new Big Brother is!”
Before I can respond, a tall figure appears from the shadows, and my stomach plummets as Nash Fontaine strides toward us, casually twirling a baseball between his fingers. When his gaze meets mine, that same irritating smirk from earlier slides across his face.
“Well, look who it is,” he says, crossing his arms. “Hey there… Sugar.” He winks, and I fight the urge to throw up in my mouth.
Benji glances between us, his confused expression mixed with awe. “Wait—you guys know each other?”
Thinking this has to be some kind of sick and twisted joke, I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
Surely, the universe wouldn’t allow the most important person in my life to be assigned to the one man who makes my blood boil faster than Taylor writing her next breakup album.
Would it?