What does help?
When the reporter tilts the microphone his way. “Yes, Ms. Valentine, the Fireballs’ new owner, and I were out the other night getting a feel for the field here when we ran across the ducks. Interrupted them, actually. Not on purpose. We didn’t realize we were invading their new home.”
“Do you think the ducks have any significance?” the reporter asks.
“You believe in luck?” There’s that smile. That easy, confident, teeth-flashing smile.
“I don’t believe it’s been with the Fireballs the last few seasons.”
Gah, and that chuckle. I want to throttle him, because I know what he’s doing, and images of duck penis keep flashing in my head, but that chuckle. It gets to me.
It gets to me all the way to my bones.
“I don’t believe we’ve had lucky love ducks with us the last few seasons either,” he says. “I have a baseball consultant who tells me animals can bring all kinds of luck. If these two want to make a happy family here at Duggan Field, we’re going to welcome them with all our hearts.”
“You think they’ll still be here when the season starts?”
“That’s up to them. But as long as they want to stay, we’re going to let them.”
“And there you have it. Tripp Wilson, former hometown boy band member and new president of the Fireballs, promising us a family of ducks for luck for our lovable losers.”
The screen goes blank as the segment ends, and I sit there, torn between wanting to throw my phone and wanting to text Tripp a big ol’ middle finger.
“That’s really cute,” Knox says.
“Ducks for luck. I like it,” Parker agrees.
“This isn’t cute. It’s war. That duck attacked me with its rabid penis. And he’s throwing it in my face.”
They both blink at me.
I sigh. “Go ahead,” I grumble. “It can be funny to you.”
“Aw, Lila…if it’s not funny to you, it’s not funny to us. I didn’t know ducks had penises—”
“They do,” Knox interjects. “Freaky corkscrew things. And did you know duck vaginas—”
Parker gets him in a headlock and covers his mouth.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“Nine times out of ten, it’s awesome to be married to a librarian. That tenth time, though, I muzzle him for the good of all of humanity. So. Tacos. And maybe more of the actual duck story without mention of the penises?”
“That’ll take a lot of tequila.”
“Done.”
12
Lila
Hangovers make everything better.
At least, that’s my line as I push into Fireballs headquarters Wednesday morning, sunglasses on, fast food biscuit in one hand, a massive cup of coffee from that shop Cooper Rock recommended in the other. Parker and Knox are still sleeping off our grief-duck-baseball party. They got a room at the same hotel where I’m staying, and they’ve offered to keep going through the house while I’m working on the Fireballs reorganization today.
I’m still wearing my sunglasses when I hit the top floor, but it’s not enough to block the view of what’s going on in the lobby outside the owner’s office.
Tripp Wilson.
Holding his daughter.
And directing the hanging of a six-foot-tall square photo of two ducks that have Fireballs jerseys photoshopped onto their bodies.
I almost drop my coffee.
And that’s before the little girl exclaims, “Fiya-fucks!”
“Fire-ducks, Emma,” Tripp replies patiently. “Duh-duh-ducks.”
She grins at him while she chews on the nozzle of her sippy cup, and my heart melts a little more at the mischief and adoration in that smile that’s dimpling her chubby cheeks.
I’m not immune to the curls either. All those wild curls on her head are adorable.
“Daddy, I get a duck?” another voice asks from behind Denise’s desk.
“A stuffed duck,” Tripp replies. “Stuffed ducks for—Lila. Good morning.”
His smile looks genuine, but he’s also having a six-foot portrait of fucking ducks hung on my wall. I point to it. “No.”
He lifts a newspaper. The Copper Valley Post.
Which features the damn ducks from Duggan Field all over the front page, complete with a headline that I’d also like to stab someone for.
Fireballs Putting All Their Hopes into Lucky Love Ducks.
“The community’s invested now. Ticketing says they’ve gotten fifty percent more calls already this morning than they usually get all day about private tours and renting boxes near the ducks for next year’s games. Not that we have private boxes by the dugout, but still. There’s interest. We could make duck-themed boxes and suites.”
He’s playing innocent, but I know exactly what this is.
“You’re fired,” I tell him.
“No, you fi-yad,” his son replies. “Fi-ya! Fi-ya twuck!”
“Fiya-fuck!” his daughter yells.
And despite my splitting headache and my sour stomach, my heart finishes its decomposition into a puddly pile of awww.
Again.
I don’t hang around children. It’s not that I dislike them, it’s that there’s never a reason. My social circles have mostly been business, other than Knox and Parker, and they don’t have kids.
Yet.
But I’ve read plenty of books with kids in them.
And I’ve walked past enough playgrounds and been in enough stores to know that feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It’s the knowledge that I’ve consciously chosen a career over family to be safe, when there’s so much more of life that I could be living.
Lucky for me, I work too many hours for me to contemplate the lack of family for long.
“James, the phone isn’t a toy,” Tripp says. “Here. Uncle Beck got you a new airplane.”
“This not a phone, Daddy. It a hat.”
James places the phone receiver over his brown hair, and despite needing to retreat to my office to stuff my face with this biscuit before I toss what’s left of last night’s pity-fest, I find myself smiling at him while he hits all the numbers. “Now it’s a police hat! Now it’s a fiya-fighta hat! Now it’s a duck hat!”
“Fiya-fuck!” Emma pumps her legs. She’s in pink leggings, a yellow tutu, and a unicorn shirt, and I can’t stand here watching Tripp’s kids being adorable for one more minute.
The duck picture can wait.
Everything can wait.
I know I’m being rude in turning around and walking to my office, where I shut the door too hard behind me, but if I don’t, I’m going to hug those kids until they squeak.
Every kid should have a mother.
Even kids with a dad who seems as patient and gentle and kind as Tripp.
Who also has a devious streak.
Fucking ducks.
I’d fire the whole coaching staff all over again this morning if I could.
But I can’t log onto the computer, so I can’t. And my phone isn’t working, so I can’t call tech support, or even Denise, who’s now giving Tripp’s kids donuts when I poke my head out the door.
Donuts.