Aaron’s right. This pair will be hard to beat. But then, on the last throw, a breeze suddenly picks up, lifting the disc erratically at the end of the flight arc. The Aussie was running at a pace well-timed to catch the disc until it jumps, but she misses it, and the frisbee falls to the ground.
A groan of disappointment rises from the watching crowd, followed by applause for the pair. The woman waves in acknowledgement and rubs her dog affectionately when it returns with the disc.
A minute later, Stevie and Bean step to the line. I can tell right away Stevie’s anxious. She’s not terribly tall to begin with, but she seems to shrivel a little when she’s nervous. She pushes her wavy hair behind her ears and licks her lips. Then she leans down and whispers to Bean.
Bean looks nervy, too. Instead of standing steady, like the Aussie had, she’s hopping around Stevie. High energy isn’t necessarily a bad thing, I guess, since she’s about to take off running, but she also looks distracted. Not as bad as the pit bull, but still.
“C’mon, Beanie Weenie, you’ve got this,” I mutter.
Nisha snorts and leans around Aaron to grin at me. “Beanie Weenie?”
I shrug. “That’s Stevie’s nickname for her.”
Nisha chants. “Bean-ie Ween-ie, Bean-ie Ween-ie!”
The others pick up the chant, and Stevie looks over, flustered but smiling. The timer must start because she jerks, turns, and throws the disc.
It’s a shortish throw to start, something Emmy told Stevie to do so that Bean has a successful initial catch. Which she does. We all cheer, and confidence seems to infuse Stevie. She stands straighter and puts her shoulders back. Bean brings the disc back and miraculously drops it at Stevie’s feet. Stevie throws a second disc about twenty-five yards. Bean catches it easily.
She returns it, and Stevie throws a third time, the longest one yet, thirty-five yards. Bean leaves a little late, but she’s totally focused on the bright yellow disc.
It looks like second place is imminent until Bean stretches out long and snatches the disc before it hits the ground. The crowd cheers loudly, which distracts her a bit, and her return to Stevie is slow. They might have time for one more throw.
In a rush, Stevie botches the fourth throw. It’s unbalanced, and the wind catches it, making it not as long as her previous try. Bean sets out at a sprint, then has to adjust her pace. In the last second, she twists, and with all four paws off the ground, snatches it out of the air. The club goes wild, cheering and clapping for them.
“That has to be first place,” Jude says.
He jumps up and jogs over to Stevie to wrap her in his arms. I stiffen and grit my teeth. It’s like knives under my fingernails to watch Stevie turn to Jude, her face lit up with pride and joy. Almost as bad is watching Bean jumping up on Stevie, then on Jude. When my friend comes over, I congratulate her quietly.
Stevie sits on the far side of Jude, her legs tucked up in front of her and nibbling a thumb nail, as we all watch the next few novice teams go. Each pair comes close to Stevie and Bean’s score, but they don’t quite beat it. The dogs lose focus, the wind takes the disc off course, or the teams are too slow.
I slump in my chair, thoroughly defeated. Why am I even here? I’m happy for Stevie and Bean, but Stevie obviously doesn’t care about my support. As each team goes, I get increasingly ticked off. She seems to be actively ignoring me, talking to Emmy and Jude. If this is how she’s going to play things, then this will be my last club event. It’s her and Bean’s thing, anyway. I came with them to spend time with Stevie.
When the novice group finally finishes up, and the runner ups are announced, I find myself spitefully hoping Stevie gets second.
But she doesn’t. She and Bean take first. She jumps up, hopping up and down like a denim and Converse clad frog, and hugs Bean, then Jude, then Emmy.
I smile, glad for her despite myself. And then, completely unexpectedly, she runs to me and leaps in my arms.
“We did it, Logan! We won!”
Shocked, I catch her and hold her tight. I don’t know if I’ll get this chance again, so I’m going to savor every last second.
Chapter Eighteen
Logan
I’d had high hopes after Stevie jumped on me like that after she and Bean won. But they’d been crushed like a beetle under a car tire. Another week had gone by, a week of Stevie spending all her free time with Jude and encouraging me to see Emmy.
I’m stymied. It’s time to bring in the voice of experience. I need advice—family style.
Friday after work, while Stevie is out with Jude, I take Bean and her disc over to Tamara and Dean’s house for a clandestine visit. Jazzy meets me at the door.
“Uncle Logan!” She’s called me Uncle Logan ever since Dean jokingly referred to me like that a year or so ago. I give her a hug before releasing her so she can smother Bean with kisses and hugs.
“Want to throw Bean’s frisbee for her?” I ask. “She needs to practice.”
Jazzy’s eyes light up. “Yeah!”
I hand her the disc and she and Bean tear out the back door to the yard. Stevie told me that the Escape Artist had gotten out of their yard before by pushing a weak fence lock open with her nose. Dean fixed the lock, but I’ll keep an eye on them just in case.
Tamara beckons me into the kitchen. Soft music plays through a portable speaker, and something that smells delicious bubbles on the stove.
“Grab a beer or glass of wine or whatever you’d like from the fridge. Your text sounded like you need one.”
I extract a beer from behind leftover containers and perch on a barstool at the two-person island. Dean wanders in from the hallway that leads to their bedrooms, his hair wet. He shakes my hand and gets his own beer.
“Need help, hon?” he asks Tamara.
“No, we’re almost ready here. It’s pasta, grilled chicken, and a salad, Logan.”
“Sounds perfect; I’m starving,” I answer. “When are you two headed back to school?”
“In two weeks for our teacher workdays. The kids come back a week after that.” Tamara sighs. “I love my kiddos and my coworkers, but the end of summer is always bittersweet.”
“We’re trying to decide on one more blowout Adventure Thursday for next week,” Dean says. “Any ideas?”
I shake my head. “You’ve already done everything I could possibly think of. You may have to repeat. What was last week’s?”
“We hiked Pyramid Peak near Aspen,” Dean answers. “It’s a class three fourteener, so it was a challenge.”
“A challenge?” Tamara snorts from the sink, where she’s draining the pasta. “It almost killed us.”
“A challenge, like I said.” Dean winks at me.
Fourteeners are fourteen-thousand-foot mountains that are categorized into five classes. Class one peaks aren’t easy, but they’re at least hike-able. Class threes involve areas of scrambling over rocks or unroped technical climbing. Class five requires full technical climbing.
“Have you done a class four or five yet?” I ask.
“Not yet. Maybe next summer,” Dean answers.
“Not ever,” Tamara plops a dish of pasta down in front of us and narrows her eyes at her husband. “We have a child, remember?”