“Hey, buddy.” He finally stopped flailing his head around long enough for me to rub between his ears a little. “You being a good boy and watching out for our girl?”
“You bet he is,” she said. “We also discovered he loves hot dogs, especially when they’re snatched out of Wade Zirkel’s hand.”
“You are a good boy.”
She laughed, and cliché as it was, the sound was music to my ears. I stood and held onto the fence, leaning forward to kiss her through one of the gaps.
Someone behind me whistled, but I didn’t care. Callie’s lips were soft and she treated me to a little swipe of her tongue.
“Get a room,” Jameson called out.
I twisted my arm around to flip him the bird, but I was smiling against Callie’s mouth while I did it.
Reluctantly, I pulled away. From the corner of my eye, I saw Misty Lynn glaring daggers at Callie while Darren seemed to be trying to draw her attention back to him. Whatever. She wasn’t my problem.
“I brought this for you,” Callie said, pushing the hot dog through the fence. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Funny how such a little thing could punch me in the feelings like that. But the thoughtfulness of my girl bringing me a hot dog before the game made me really fucking happy.
“Thanks, honey.”
She tilted her chin up and I leaned in to kiss her again. “I’m going to go sit with Shelby. Good luck, Coach.”
“Have fun.”
I leaned against the fence with the hot dog in my hand, watching her go. Admiring the sway of her hips. The roundness of her backside. I was gonna nibble on that ass later.
“Gibs, quit ogling,” Bowie said. “You look like a lovesick puppy over there.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong.
I walked back to the dugout and ate half the hot dog in one bite.
Bowie smirked at me.
“What?” I asked, my mouth full of food.
“You got rust in your beard.”
I just shrugged and kept chewing. “Worth it.”
The game got going, the moonshine flowed, and like usual, we were ahead by the fifth inning stretch. The Miners were stumbling over their shoes and dropping catches. One particularly drunk player chased a guy around the field with the ball in her hand, trying to get her own teammate out.
Truth was, a bunch of Bootleggers had founded the West Virginia Moonshine Softball League. They’d been the ones to add the moonshine drinking rule, knowing it usually gave our town the advantage. No one could handle their liquor like a Bootlegger could.
Jameson caught a pop fly from flat on his back in the bottom of the fifth, earning him a chorus of cheers from the hometown crowd. Scarlett was her usual badass self, scoring a run in the sixth and sending Opal home on her next at-bat. George had been responsible for our first two scores. And now, even though he could barely stand up straight after all the moonshine, he kept earning his keep, using his long reach to tag a Miner out at third base in the eighth. Then he doubled over, laughing hysterically, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever done.
But like a drunk Scarlett after a big meal at Moonshine, the Miners rallied in the top of the ninth. I shouted instructions to the team and squinted, looking across at the Miners’ dugout for a covert coffee maker or stash of energy drinks.
Two runs later, we were all tied up. Bernie O’Dell’s voice on the loudspeaker announcing the score sent a hush through the otherwise rowdy crowd.
“Shit,” I muttered. I cast a glance into the stands, finding Callie. She sat next to Shelby with Cash in her lap. Someone had given her a Cock Spurs cap and her colorful hair hung around her shoulders. Damn, she was adorable.
Blowing out a breath, I turned my attention back to the game. Bowie was still on the pitcher’s mound, but he was swaying like he might not make it through the inning.
“Come on, Bow,” I shouted. “Bodine up.”
Like I’d just yelled a sobriety-inducing battle cry, Bowie straightened, getting his legs under him. He wound up for the pitch, looking steady and focused. Opal signaled behind the batter. We just needed one more out, then we’d have a chance to win.
If any of my players were still capable of hitting.
Bowie’s pitch flew straight, smacking into Opal’s mitt with a puff of dust.
“Strike,” June yelled.
The crowd cheered but quickly quieted again. Bowie dug his toe in the