“Don’t worry, Tomlinson — reproduction requires you find a woman willing to tolerate you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Ass.” He shoves me playfully. “Speaking of women… how’s Valentine?”
“Don’t go there.”
“What? I’m curious. Sue me.”
Curiosity aside, I have no intention of telling Chris a damn thing about me and Jo. Not our heated kiss three days ago, not the radio silence she’s been broadcasting since. I don’t need his opinions on how badly I butchered that conversation — I’ve been beating myself up enough all on my own. Nor do I need any reminders that, even as we speak, she may be accepting that stodgy asshole Beaufort’s marriage proposal.
“I…” I adjust my baseball cap, pulling the brim lower to shield my eyes. “I’m giving her a little space.”
“You’ve given her a year of space! Try a new tactic.”
“Hilarious.”
“I wasn’t joking. When has giving Josephine Valentine space ever gotten you anywhere?”
“Who’s Josephine?” A kid named Uriah asks, jogging up to us. His shoelace has come untied — I bend to help him. His small hands hold my shoulders for balance. “Is that your giiiirllfriend?”
“See, everyone wants to know,” Chris taunts from above. “Come on, Coach Reyes. Is she your giiiiiirlfriend?” He stretches out the word into two elongated syllables, just like the six-year-old. I tighten the final loop and point back toward the dugout.
“Off you go, Uriah.”
He runs off without so much as a thank you. I rise back to full height, glowering over at Chris. “Was that necessary? The whole team will be giggling about my so-called girlfriend in about thirty seconds flat.”
He holds up his hands defensively. “I stand with the first-graders on this one.”
“That’s not a shock. You do share the same maturity level.”
“You still haven’t answered the question.”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“I’m your best friend!”
“And?”
“And, that means we tell each other shit.”
“What is this, a slumber party?” I roll my eyes. “Do you want me to french-braid your hair, too?”
“No. It’s not long enough for a braid.”
I snort. “Pity.”
A few seconds later, every boy waiting in line for his turn to bat cups his hands over his mouth and, like a dismally off-key choir, chants in unison, “Coach Reyes and Josephine, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
My head swings around toward Chris, who looks like he’s desperately trying to swallow down a laugh. My glower is lethal. “Are you happy now?”
“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!” They dissolve into a flurry of giggles.
Chris loses the battle against his amusement, bending at the waist with his hands braced on his knees and laughing himself breathless. The sight ignites a fresh round of hilarity from the batter-line.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Now you’re encouraging them…”
It takes five full minutes to get the boys back under control, calm enough to stand in a line and start practicing their swings once more. When Chris and I finally return to our spot by the pitcher’s mound and slide our gloves back on, ready to resume practice, he has the good grace to look somewhat chagrined.
“I’m sorry, Reyes.” Chris chuckles. “But you have to admit, that was pretty funny.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’ll buy you a beer at the Salty Dog after practice wraps up. A peace offering, to wash away some of your child-induced trauma.” He pauses. “Demons, the lot of them.”
“You’re the one who signed us up to coach,” I point out.
“That was before I knew how wild these kids were going to be!”
“You thought six-year-old boys would be easy to handle?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m not the brightest bulb in the box. Whatever.” He pauses. “Hence the need for post-practice beers.”
“You’re up first, Joey!” I call, pointing toward home plate, where a fresh baseball is sitting atop the tee, awaiting the next batter. “Take your time. Find your stance. Then give it your best swing.”
The kid misses completely.
“Try again, Joey!”
“I’m buying,” Chris offers from beside me. “ I’ll even throw in a plate of fries, to sweeten the pot.”
“Can’t,” I say absently. Most of my attention is fixed on the kid at bat. His next swing makes contact with the ball; I bend to snatch it from the grass as it rolls toward me. “That was great, Joey!”
“Why not?” Chris asks. “Look, I promise not to ask about Josephine. I just want to hear more about the meeting with the DEA. That’s all.”
“There’s not much to tell. I spent two afternoons sitting in a conference room with some federal drug enforcement agents, telling them everything I know about Jaxon’s operation — which isn’t much — and listening to them go over every possible contingency plan once I’m onboard the Reina.”
“So the mission is a go? This is actually happening?”
“Why are you so surprised? You’re the one who set this in motion. You’re the one who got me in contact with the DEA.”
“I know, I know. But I didn’t think it would happen so quickly.”
“Generally speaking, the United States government isn’t a big fan of letting drug-lords continue their operations unchecked.”
“Evidently.”
“They want this handled before another shipment of heroin hits the streets.” I pat my pocket, where my cellphone sits at the ready. “Just waiting on their call. The second Jaxon returns to port, they’re wiring me up and sending me in.”
“Archer…” He sounds surprisingly serious. “Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?”
I shrug. “Not much choice in the matter. I’m the only one who can get onboard that ship and get the evidence the DEA needs to make any credible arrests. They can’t search the holds without just cause. I’m going to get it for them.”
He absorbs this information in silence. Shoulder to shoulder, we watch as another young boy steps up at bat. His stance is all wrong, but he hits the ball on his first swing. It sails past us on the right, rolling toward third base.
“Good job, Keith! You’ll be hitting homers in no time,” I call, nodding my approval. “Next up! Come on, Jared. Reset the ball on the tee. Yep, just like that. You’ve got it, buddy.”
“You’re good at this,” Chris remarks.
“Wrangling first graders into compliance?”
“Coaching.”
I shrug without comment.
“I mean it! You’re a natural.”
“It’s tee-ball. Anyone can coach tee-ball.”
He looks at me appraisingly. “Ever thought about applying your skills on a higher level?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should. You know, Coach Hamm was always talking about bringing on an assistant coach at Exeter… someone to handle the JV team…” He grins. “You could call him. He’d be thrilled to hear from his favorite former player.”