Page 51 of The Long Game

“Look like they’re on their way to an eighties theme party?”

“Yes.” A huff left her, and I couldn’t say I didn’t relate to that defeated puff of air. “When did—”

“Josie was here early. She came bearing gifts.”

“But how—”

“Remember the story about her mother and the team back in the day?” Adalyn’s eyes widened and I gave her a nod. “Yeah. Those are the uniforms they used. God knows why they kept them this long.”

“Were they even—”

“Washed? Yes,” I said. “It was the first thing Josie said.”

Adalyn’s eyes narrowed. “Do you read minds now?”

“No.” But I was beginning to understand how hers worked. I turned toward the girls, who were scattering across the field. “Nothing we can do now.”

“This is my fault,” Adalyn said from my side. “I should havechecked them beforehand. Just like I said I would. But Josie is so convincing when she wants to be.” She huffed. “I’ll need to see how fast I can order the new ones. But for that we need to get everything sorted. Jerseys, shorts, socks, shin guards, cleat boots, not sneakers. We need a color scheme and a style for the numbers. Everything. Maybe I—” A pause. “Oh my God. What is Chelsea doing with that tutu? What if they disqualify them? What if—”

“Darling—”

“Adalyn.”

“Adalyn,” I relented, just so she wouldn’t get any more worked up. I really had no energy to deal with any extra sassiness right now. The crowd the Grovesville Bears had brought to town was larger than I’d expected, and it was starting to get to me. “This is just a game, yeah?” Her face scrunched up in disagreement, but I lifted a finger. “Chelsea refused to take the goddamn thing off, she’s the bloody Black Swan or some age-inappropriate shit María convinced her of. But the ref said it’s fine when I asked, and she’s also just a kid. They all are. Forget about the tutu and the uniforms and try to get through the game without giving me a headache. This is just little league. It’s child’s play. Literally.”

Adalyn frowned, and I thought for a foolish second that she’d leave it alone. I was obviously wrong. “But the team looks ridiculous.”

I sighed.

She went on, “They’re warriors, they should look fierce. Imposing. Serious. It’s not even the fact that they’re all in pink. We changed the Flames’ third kit to a similar shade that was very popular among fans. But this?” Her hand stuck out. “They’re ugly and dated and the team looks… unserious.”

I didn’t disagree. “Try to ignore it. Close your eyes. Look away. Maybe go away.” She narrowed her eyes at me, and I faced the grass again. “There’s nothing you can do now, so you either stop nagging or go home.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I also know I’m getting a headache.”

“Just look at the other team,” she pressed, but I didn’t really need to. Adalyn continued, “They look like a miniature MLS team. Even their coach has a matching tracksuit.” A pause. “I wonder if anyone is sponsoring them.”

“I thought that binder of yours had all the answers of the universe,” I said dryly, but I turned to the right and looked in the direction of the Bears’ coach.

The lady in the tracksuit in question locked eyes with me across the field. I gave her a nod, even opened my mouth to extend a good luck, but then her eyes were narrowing and her arms were crossing over her chest. I frowned at her. And in response, she mouthed,You’re going down, bitch.

“What the fuck,” I muttered.

“Language,” Adalyn whispered loudly. “You really need to stop swearing around the kids. It’s unprofessional.”

I glanced back at her, finding her engrossed in her phone. “But she just called me a bitch.”

Adalyn’s gaze lifted off the screen for an instant, looking in the direction of the woman, and then returned her attention to it with a sigh. Her fingers started flying across the device. Typing neurotically. She paused, lifted the phone, and started snapping pictures. Unconvinced, she took a few steps back, pointed her phone forward, and snapped a hundred more.

I blinked at her. “What in the world are you doing now? The game is about to start.”

She returned to my side with a shrug and resumed the lightning typing. “What kind of question is that? I’m obviously working.”

“You’re going to burst a metacarpal at that speed.”

“Is that a bone in my fingers? If so, I’m not. I’m used to typing fast when I’m brainstorming.”

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