Page 17

17

ARON

The smell of scorched bread hit me as my eyes fluttered open.

Was I having a stroke?

I rolled over to see my husband, Drew, was still fast asleep. I immediately started to panic and shook him. “Wake up. I’m having a stroke.”

He groaned and flipped over to face me. “What?”

“I can smell burnt toast. I’m having a stroke.”

His eyes opened immediately, and I expected him to jump out of bed and call 911. Instead, he sighed. “You’re not having a stroke. I can smell it too. It’s probably just the girls making breakfast.”

“Or trying to burn down the house.” I climbed out of bed so I could make sure our eleven-year-old twin daughters weren’t about to make us homeless.

After putting on a pair of basketball shorts, I grabbed my cell and walked into the kitchen to see Reese and Jolene at the island, both of them on their phones, and both with orange juice in front of them. I beelined for the espresso machine .

“Morning,” I greeted them as I grabbed a mug to make myself a latte.

“Morning,” they both grumbled.

“Which one of you tried to catch the kitchen on fire?”

“Jolene,” Reese answered without skipping a beat.

“I did not try to catch anything on fire! It was just toast!” Jolene snapped.

I turned around and leaned against the counter, arms crossed as the fancy coffee machine made my drink.

Reese snorted. “You set the toaster to ‘cremation’.”

“It said dark!” Jolene waved her arms. “I thought that meant golden brown. Like restaurant toast. Why would anyone want it black? That’s a toaster flaw.”

“What made you even want toast? You two usually have cereal,” I wondered.

“We saw this thing on TikTok where you put peanut butter and marshmallows on it, then stick it back in the toaster,” Reese replied.

I blinked. “Please tell me you didn’t do that.”

“We … ah … did,” Jolene admitted. “It was supposed to get all melty and gooey. Like gourmet s’mores. But the marshmallows kind of ... bubbled over and exploded.”

Reese held up her phone. “I got a video. It’s actually pretty awesome.”

I took a long sip of my coffee, needing to maintain my cool, and eyed the half-charred, half-sticky mess still sitting on the counter. “You’re both grounded from the toaster.”

“You can’t ground someone from a toaster,” Jolene protested. “That’s not even a real sentence.”

“I just did.”

Reese glanced at her sister, then back at me. “Can we still use the air fryer?”

“No.”

“Microwave?”

“Only under supervision. ”

They groaned in unison like I’d just told them the rest of summer was canceled.

Drew walked into the kitchen, rubbing a hand down his face, still half asleep. He didn’t even look at the toaster, just went straight for the espresso machine like I had.

“I assume no one died.” He started his coffee.

“They’re alive,” I responded, “but the toaster might not be.”

“It smells like a campfire in here.” He finally looked at the toaster. “Is that marshmallow?”

“It was supposed to melt,” Jolene explained, arms crossed. “It just melted too much.”

“It melted dramatically,” Reese added.

My husband dropped onto a stool next to them. “So? What’s for breakfast now that you broke the toaster?”

“We think you should make us waffles.” Reese batted her eyelashes.

Drew raised a brow. “Did I walk into the part where I’m being punished for your mistake?”

Jolene rested her chin on her hand. “We’re basically starving.”

“You had toast.” He slid from his stool and headed for the fridge.

“We had charcoal,” Reese corrected. “We threw it in the garbage.”

I set my mug down and reached for the waffle mix in the pantry. “You’re lucky we have practice later, or I’d let you suffer.”

“Practice?” Jolene groaned again like it was the worst news of the day.

“You knew we had it,” I reminded her. “Double-header this weekend.”

“But it’s summer,” Reese groaned. “Normal people are sleeping in and going to the pool. Not running bases in ninety-degree heat. Can’t we just have a day off?” It wasn’t ninety degrees out. If anything, it would be mid-seventies with a breeze from the San Francisco Bay.

“You play travel ball.” Drew took strawberries out of the fridge. “This is the life you chose.”

Jolene pointed accusingly at my husband. “ You signed us up when we were six. We were innocent. ”

“You begged to play,” I reminded her.

“And now we’re the only team with actual former MLB players as coaches. We’re basically A League of Their Own , but our dad is the cranky coach.” Reese rolled her eyes in Drew’s direction.

Drew gave her a flat look. “I’m not cranky.”

I lifted a shoulder. “You can be.”

He glared at me but before he could say anything, Jolene asked, “Are we running infield drills today?”

“Of course,” I replied, grabbing my coffee cup. “Then batting practice.”

“Ugh, I just want to get a tan,” she muttered. “And not one with jersey lines.”

“You said you wanted to play college ball one day,” I reminded both of them. “That starts with putting in the work.”

Reese leaned back in her stool as she looked at something on her phone. “Are you gonna make us do those dumb bucket drills again?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“You know”—Drew poured batter into the waffle iron—“when I was your age, we did bucket drills until our arms went numb and no one complained.”

Reese didn’t look up from her cell. “Yeah, well, when you were our age, dinosaurs still roamed the earth.”

I choked on my coffee and turned away so they wouldn’t see me laugh. I was five years younger than my husband, and back when we started out as enemies, I probably would have said something similar. Hell, I might have called him an old man once. Drew just shook his head like he regretted every decision that led to this moment.

“Go change for practice while we finish making breakfast,” I ordered.

“This is child labor,” Reese muttered as she slid off the stool.

“Tell it to the NCAA scouts,” Drew called after her.

The girls shuffled down the hall like they were off to their doom, and I leaned against the counter again, smirking into my coffee.

“I don’t care if they whine,” Drew said. “They’re getting good.”

I nodded. “Yeah. They are.”

My phone lit up on the counter in front of me. The number wasn’t saved, but the call indicated it was coming from the Portland area.

“Portland?” I muttered, swiping it up.

Drew glanced over. “Telemarketer?”

“Probably.” I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. I didn’t know anyone who lived there. Curiosity got the better of me and I answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Aron Parker?”

“Yeah, speaking.”

“This is Anthony Lanning, general manager of the Portland Seawolves.”

I blinked. “Yes, Mr. Lanning. What can I do for you?”

“I know this is unexpected, but I wanted to talk to you about something if you have time.”

Drew must’ve noticed my face shift, because he gave me a questioning look. I held up a finger and turned slightly away.

“Sure, what’s up?” I replied to Lanning.

“Well, as you probably know, we’re officially launching the expansion roster next season. Right now, we’re looking at managerial candidates. Your playing history speaks for itself and we’d love to make it happen.”

I stood there for a second, heart thudding. He wanted me to coach a major league team? “I didn’t know I was even on your radar.”

“We keep a long list.” He chuckled lightly. “But your name’s at the top. We’re interested in meeting. Nothing formal yet. Just a conversation to talk things over in person.”

I looked across the kitchen, past the half-cleaned-up mess, at my husband, who was slicing strawberries like it was just another morning.

“Wow. Okay. Yeah, I’d need to discuss it with my husband first, but I’m open to hearing more.”

“Of course. I’ll follow up with an email, and if you’re willing, we’ll get something on the calendar.”

“Sounds good.”

We hung up, and I just stood there for a second trying to process what had just happened .

“Who was that?” Drew asked, taking a waffle off the iron.

I looked at him. “That was the GM of the Portland Seawolves.”

His head tilted. “Why’s he calling you?”

“They want me to interview. For the manager position.”

His brows shot up. “He wants you to be the skipper of the new expansion team?”

I nodded, still trying to process it. “Yeah.”

He stared at me, stunned. “Holy crap.”

“I know.”

The girls came back into the kitchen completely unaware their dad had just been offered a shot at running a major league team.

I looked back at Drew. “We need to talk.”