Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
I falter momentarily as I glimpse Ripley moving to the sidelines, arms folded, watching me. My heart stutters. Why am I acting like a middle-schooler trying to impress her crush? I’m a grown adult, for crying out loud. Clearing my throat, I refocus on the kids and run through the demonstration. Juniper, for her part, is all smiles, eyes bright with excitement as she copies my motions, elbow in, knees bent.
Throughout the lesson, I do my best to stay calm and keep everything running smoothly. But I’m hyperaware of Ripley’s presence. Every time I look up, he’s there, leaning against the wall with casual confidence, giving Juniper a thumb-up when she does something right, or nodding approvingly when I praise one of the other kids. My chest tightens in a weird combination of nerves and delight. I can’t decide if I want him to keep watching me or if I want him to look away so I can breathe.
The session goes by in a flash—probably because my brain is so overloaded with Ripley, Ripley, Ripley that I barely register time passing. By the end, the kids are grinning and sweaty, and they gather around me for the usual round of high-fives.
“You all did awesome today!” I say, beaming as I slap their little hands. “Same time next week, okay?”
They scatter, parents stepping up to collect them, but Juniper lingers behind, fiddling with the Velcro on her glove. She shoots a quick glance at her dad, then looks up at me with hopeful eyes. “Coach Kali,” she says, tugging on my shirt, “Daddy and me are gonna get pizza at Starlight Pi’s. We always do that after baseball. You should come!”
My heart flutters. Before I can form a coherent response, Ripley approaches, his expression a mixture of amusement and something else—something maybe a bit shy. “Only if you want to,” he adds quickly. “Juniper’s big on post-practice carbs.”
I laugh, warmth blooming in my chest. “Carbs are a vital part of any athlete’s diet.” My voice trembles just a hair. “I’d love to join you. Starlight Pi’s is the place on Maple, right?”
Juniper squeals, dancing in place. “Yes! The one with the fun math riddles and the best crust! I get cheese with pepperoni and pineapple, but Dad hates pineapple. We argue about it every time.”
“I do not hate pineapple,” Ripley objects, rolling his eyes. “I just prefer my fruit off my pizza.”
I grin at their banter, feeling a sudden swell of affection for them both. This could be a terrible idea, I know. I’m walking a thin line between professional interest and something that feels dangerously close to romance. But I can’t resist the chance to spend more time with them, especially Juniper, who’s grown on me so quickly.
So I grab my bag, lock up the equipment room, and follow them out of the rec center. The whole drive to Starlight Pi’s, my fingers are drumming nervously on the steering wheel. Calm down, Kali, I tell myself. It’s just pizza.
We arrive at Starlight Pi around noon, and even from the parking lot, I can catch the mouthwatering aroma of marinara sauce and melted mozzarella. The interior is classic small-town pizzeria—red-checkered tablecloths, neon signs advertising root beer floats, a jukebox in the corner. There’s also this whole math theme going on. It’s kitschy and fun. My stomach rumbles.
We’ve barely crossed the threshold when a group of three women at a nearby table perks up. One of them gasps, eyes widening like she’s just seen a celebrity. “Oh my God, it’s Riptide Johnson!” she exclaims. Instantly, they’re on their feet, phones in hand, heading our way like a small swarm of giggling fans.
Juniper moves closer to Ripley, half-hiding behind him. I step aside, not quite sure where to position myself as the women surround him, squealing about how much they love watching him pitch. “Can we get a selfie?” one pleads, holding her phone at arm’s length. “Please, please, please!”
“Sure,” Ripley says, smiling politely. He bends down a bit for the photo, one hand resting lightly on Juniper’s shoulder as if to reassure her it’s all okay. The phone clicks multiple times, capturing angles from every direction.
One of the women then brazenly tries to slip a piece of paper into Ripley’s hand. Another is tapping away on her phone, presumably trying to add him to her contacts, and she reaches out like she wants him to take her number. Their glances at me are anything but friendly—more like Who’s she? with an undercurrent of annoyance. I try not to let it get under my skin, but it’s hard when they’re all but dismissing Juniper and me from the conversation.
Ripley’s kindness doesn’t waver, though. He continues being polite, not rude, but not exactly encouraging them, either. He steps back a little, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for the support, guys,” he says, nodding at their phones. “I appreciate it. But, uh, I’m here with my daughter, and we’re just trying to grab some lunch. I’m not looking for anything special right now.” He emphasizes that part softly when one boldly asks for a date. “I’ve already got my hands full—Juniper here takes up all my attention.”