Page 3 of Coach Me (Boston Blues #2)

Dex

“Dad, what city are we going to again?” Miles asks from his car seat in the back.

“Atlanta,” I huff out. I swear I’ve been nothing but a broken record this morning.

Repeating where we’re going and the time it’ll take for us to get there.

I had to tell Miles at least five times to brush his teeth.

Three times to find his blanket that he wants to take on the plane.

And then answered where we are going at least ten more times.

“Riiight, but not Atlantis because that city is underwater, right?”

“Right.”

“Dad, how did Atlantis go underwater?” Miles asks, completely oblivious to the stress radiating off of me.

“I don’t know, bud.” Normally, I would do my best to come up with some sort of educated or fun answer, but today it’s just not in me to do something for a made-up city.

I got shit sleep last night. After dinner Miles wanted to call his mom, and like usual it took three tries before we got her to answer, and then she only talked to Miles for five minutes before she was ready to hang up.

That alone had my frustration high, but then the texts I got following the call made me bubble over into rage.

Kate

If you want to call me every night then we need to work out a scheduled time and put it in our agreement. I can’t just talk whenever you want.

It’s one thing that she threw in the “you”—like I’m using our son to talk to her when that couldn’t be further from the truth—but then to expect her son to only call her during scheduled hours pisses me the fuck off.

Maybe one day Miles won’t want to talk to her every day, but he’s only five.

He didn’t ask for any of this bullshit—he just wants to talk to his mother.

What Miles also didn’t ask for was this sour mood of mine that’s carried throughout the morning. Like I tell Miles when he wakes up grumpy, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and then it’s gone downhill.

With each passing minute, I feel like I am the most unprepared father ever.

Clothes I needed clean for this week were still wet in the wash because I forgot to move them over to the dryer.

Miles’s shoes all disappeared. Well, that’s not technically true.

I found several shoes but it took me a solid fifteen minutes to find a single pair that matched.

After that, I realized every fucking to-go cup we have was loaded into the dishwasher…

but guess who forgot to start it last night?

We barely made it out the door on time and when we got down to the lobby, I nearly ran right into the delivery guy and spilled every drop of my coffee…because my usual to-go cup was in the dishwasher.

“Dad, do you think that Atlanta picked its name because of Atlantis?”

Sighing, I try to roll my bad mood off. “I don’t think so, but maybe we can look it up on the plane.”

“Yeah, let’s do it!” I glance back at Miles in the rearview mirror and a smile comes to his face. “I bet I’m right.”

Well, that smile definitely helps.

I glance back at the time on the dash. I’m going to be pushing it, but I really fucking need a cup of coffee and the shit they have on the team plane is not going to cover it with the morning I’m having.

When I make it to the coffee shop on the next block, I see an open parking spot and consider it a damn sign. Hopping out immediately, I round my truck.

“What are we doing here? I thought we were getting on the airplane,” Miles says as I get him out.

“We are, but unless we want to see Daddy bite some baseball players’ heads off today, we’re going to run in and I’m going to grab a cup of coffee.”

Miles giggles. “That’s silly. You can’t bite someone's head off. You’re not a dinosaur, Daddy.”

I let out an amused hmph . “Some of the players might disagree with you on that.”

I carry Miles inside because I know damn well that he’ll walk as if there’s not a care in the world.

When we walk in the door, Miles wiggles incessantly. “Put me downnnnn. I don’t want to be carried right now.”

Oh, to be five.

I let out a sigh of relief when I see that there’s only one other person in line. Maybe my morning’s turning around.

“Okay, but stay close.” I set Miles down next to me. “Do you want anything? A juice? Fruit cup? ”

Miles hums while he places his finger on his chin.

Oh, dear Lord, help me.

Miles is still humming when the girl in front of me steps over to the side.

When the barista smiles, signaling it’s our turn, I step up and immediately place our order. “I’ll have a large cup of whatever house drip you have and a small orange juice.”

“But I want a fruit cup!” Miles whines at a very unnecessary volume.

Oh, I love my child. I love my child.

“And a fruit cup,” I add as I exhale a deep breath.

“Can do!” The barista eyes me closer, then raises her eyebrows. “You’re Dex Larsen, right? With the Boston Blues?”

Hell, I can hear every bit of her true intentions in her tone. After several years in the major leagues I can spot the cleat chasers pretty quickly.

I pull out a twenty and set it on the counter. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m sorry, but we’re in a bit of a hurry, so you can keep the change.”

“Oh, of course.” She giggles in an overly high-pitched tone as she scribbles what I know has to be her number on my coffee cup. “Our house coffee is over to the side. I can bring the orange juice and fruit cup over for the little man.”

I simply nod back at her as I take my cup, but really, I’m debating how big of a meltdown Miles will have if we leave before she gets that opportunity. I don’t want to come off like an ass, even in these situations, but I hate when they use Miles as a way to get to me.

“Come on,” I say to Miles as I head over to the side so I can make my drink. I just want to get our stuff and get out of here.

“Dad, why can’t I have coffee?”

“Because you don’t need it. Trust me, you have more than enough energy.”

The woman who was in front of us earlier steps to the side where the creamers are, and I step right up. Perfect, I just need this and Miles’s stuff and we can be on our way.

“But how does coffee not make you a dinosaur?” Miles asks with the genuine curiosity of any child.

The blonde next to me tries to stifle her laugh. Her laugh is much lighter than the barista’s, and I’m tempted to look her way, but I don’t have the time.

“It just does. Trust me, one day you’ll understand, son.”

I place my cup under the tap and turn the handle up. The coffee pours into my cup for exactly three seconds before it stops.

“Hell no, seriously?” I snap under my breath. I try the nozzle again but nothing. “Great, this is just great.”

“Here,” a feminine voice says as a full cup of coffee is set in front of me. “I’m not in a hurry. I can wait for them to refill.”

“I don’t think—” I start to argue but when I look at the woman in front of me, I stop. She’s beautiful. Long blonde hair, with bright blue eyes—hell, everything about her screams bright. She’s got on a light yellow sundress that fits her too damn well.

The minor drawback is that she has to be several years younger than me, but, damn, she’s stunning.

“Really, I don’t mind. I haven’t put any sugar or cream in it yet. I know you’re in a hurry, so please, take it.”

I check my watch for the time. Fuck, would it make me a huge dick for actually taking this girl’s coffee?

“Here you are, sweets.” The cleat chaser of a barista comes up with a smirk that isn’t nearly as bright as the blonde’s next to me.

She hands over Miles’s stuff and takes one look at the girl next to me.

Her smile falters for a moment before snapping back.

“Be sure to use that number on the cup.” She turns to Miles next—because they all think he’s their in. “Bye, cutie.”

“I’m not cutie,” Miles grumbles. “My name is Miles.”

Blondie and I both snort small laughs, and when I meet her eyes she pulls her lips into a thin smile. I really like that smile. I also really like her laugh. Fuck, and this yellow dress she’s wearing?—

“I think I’m going to take your cup, actually.”

She quirks up an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You can pour it into your cup if you want.”

Ah, so she’s got jokes too.

“You know, I’m good on that.” I hand Miles his fruit cup, then reach for a lid to put on her cup.

“Need any cream or sugar?” she asks, turning away from me to look at the variety in front of her. “There’s regular cream, hazelnut?—”

“Two sugars would be great, please.”

“Got ya,” she says plainly. There’s no flirty tone with this girl, no sideways or up and down looks. In a way, it’s refreshing. I almost want to say she doesn’t even know who I am. Which is so fucking nice.

But, then again, I think I want this girl to flirt. I want to hear her laugh again. I want to change my fucking favorite color to whatever yellow she’s wearing right now.

When she turns back, I’m so damn tempted to ask for her name, but she doesn’t spare me a glance. She holds out the sugars to Miles. “Think you can handle these, Miles? ”

He nods eagerly as he takes them from her hand. “I can handle it.”

Her bright smile comes back, but she doesn’t look at me. She simply takes my cup with the phone number that’s going 100 percent unused. “I’m going to let someone know they need more coffee. You guys have a good day, don’t want to be late.”

She finally sends me one quick smile. I should stop her, I want to stop her—but she’s right, we’re about to be so fucking late.

We pull into our parking spot at the terminal for the Blues chartered plane just minutes before we’re supposed to take off. I know I have zero time to spare, but I twist my coffee cup around and around in search of Blondie’s name but it’s nowhere to be found. Fuck.

“Okay, bud, you can unbuckle and I’ll be back there in a second.”

“Okie!” Miles cheers.

Rounding the back of my truck, I start to pull out our bags when our team’s first baseman, Beck, comes up.

“Cutting it close, Larsen,” he says with a chuckle.

“Way to state the obvious, asshole.”