Page 16 of Home Field Advantage
In the same way that she is right now.
Poppy made me feel like the old Dallas Westbrook for just a moment.
After my marriage ended, I turned into the guy who shamelessly flirted with any woman because that’s who I am. Was. That’s who Iwas. Because now, I’m a divorced father in a new town, just trying to get my life together. I can’t allow any kind of relationship to happen again.
But the past couple of nights, whenever my head hit the pillow, I couldn’t stop the wandering thoughts. Mostly, they were of the same hair I’m staring at now, flowing down her back when she faced the counter of the coffee shop. So long that I imagined how it would feel wrapped around my hand, even though she had this look of innocence about her.
She definitely looks young, and I hate myself for thinking these thoughts. She seems younger than anyone I’ve dated before. Which already means she’s off-limits to an old, washed-up thirty-five-year-old like me.
Do you know what the worst part of the whole interaction was? I don’t think she knew who I was at all. And I consider that the worst part because it makes me more attracted to her. I can be myself. I would know she’s not after me for the exposure of being with a sports celebrity. I don’t have to let my past or jobweigh on me. At first, I thought her eyes went wide because she knew me as the previous starting pitcher of the San Francisco Staghorns, who turned into a head coach and was plastered all over the media.
Her eyes told another story.
The most stunning ones I’d ever seen—a perfect mix of blue and green—are now staring at me from the opposite end of the aisle. Her lips parted in shock as if she’s just as taken aback to see me as I am her. Why? No clue. This is a small town. She said it herself, insinuating that we’re bound to run into one another.
“Daddy, can we get these?” Sage asks up ahead toward the next aisle, forcing my gaze to pull away from Poppy.
Looking back at Poppy once more, she’s no longer standing there.
“Yeah,” I answer, not even knowing what I agreed to.
Now I’m moving along the grocery store on autopilot because Poppy has successfully distracted me again.
We overstock the refrigerator and pantry before taking the first trip to meet April so that Sage can spend the weekend with her. I can only imagine how difficult it will be for April to only see our daughter on the weekends now. I know first-hand that being a parent while chasing your goals and dreams in a career is challenging.
The thought tugs at my chest, making me feel guilty in a way. I never put in the effort I should have, and Sage deserves better.
The drive isn’t bad at all, which also proves that this arrangement will work for us. It’s about an hour-long trip back and forth since we found a meeting spot that’s conveniently halfway for both of us. By the time I make it back into town, the sun has set behind the mountains, and the light blue skies have given way to a deeper ocean blue. When I turn onto Main Street, a neonbarstool over the corner bar flashes ahead, tempting me to slow down.
I could really use a drink.
I park my Tahoe in front of Seven Stools, and inwardly laugh. This whole town has an interesting flair to it, that’s for sure.
Looking down, I realize I’m wearing a pair of jeans and a solid black T-shirt, deciding it should be enough to fit in with the crowd here. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself so I blindly reach behind me to see if I left a baseball hat on the floor.
Bingo.
I place it over my tousled, messy hair, and thank the universe above that it’s not my dark green one that saysStaghornson it.
Entering the bar, the sound from inside quickly thrums in my body. The music is loud and energizing, a mix of classic rock and country, as I make my way to an open bar stool, taking note of the fact that this place only has seven stools. I smile to myself at the clever marketing. The smell of grilled meat and beer fills the air, and I can feel the energy of the place pulsating around me.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
I scan the area and try to understand what’s happening and why they have a mini stage set up in the corner.
“What’s all this about tonight?”
“This is karaoke night,” he tells me, pointing to the corner. “See that woman over there? She organized this whole thing a few months ago, so we made it a weekly thing here.”
Turning toward where he points, I spot her.
“Nan,” I say before turning back to face the bartender.
He raises an eyebrow. “You know her?”
“She’s the one who gave me the keys to my new place,” I say.
“Ahh.” The man grins.
