Page 8 of Coach Me
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 amusedhmph. “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?”
