My ears perk up. “Why?”

Bud sighs. “I don’t like to talk about anyone in this town—or in other towns, to be clear. But that guy makes it really hard to have much good to say about him. He’s put that poor girl through hell. Pardon my language, Mrs. Beck.”

“Bud, I’m married to Lawrence, for goodness’ sake.” She laughs. “I’ve heard a curse word a time or a dozen.”

I lean against the counter and get comfortable. “He signed his kid up for baseball. How bad could he be?”

I’m prying, and I think Bud knows it. Mom is oblivious as she sorts through a stack of old postcards by the cash register.

Bud grins. “Sure. He signed him up. But we’ll never see him.”

I raise a brow.

“Jared Doughtry isn’t gonna show up. Are you kidding me?” Bud scoffs. “I’ll bet ya a dime to a doughnut he never sees a practice or a game. Mark my words.”

Marking them as we speak.

“When will Lawrence’s clubs be done, Bud?” Mom asks.

They get into a conversation about Dad’s golf set. I tune them out. Instead, I angle my body in a way that lets me keep an eye on Palmer and Ethan.

My body aches to walk across the store and help them—to make sure Palmer has Ethan try on the cleats before she buys them.

She takes the pair that Ethan obviously has his heart set on, a pair that’s not worth the price. Her face falls. The smile she gives him is strained.

My heart dips in my chest.

It’s not my business. Stay out of it, Cole.

“Are you ready, Cole?” Mom taps me on the shoulder. “We’re finished here.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” I run a hand through my hair. “It was good seeing you, Bud.”

“Same here. We’d love to see you at the fields this year for the teams we’re able to have.”

I open my mouth but close it just as quickly.

My breathing picks up as I sneak another look at Palmer and Ethan.

“How many teams did you say you’re canceling?” I ask.

Say a bunch of them. Make this easy to walk away.

“One. It’s such a shame.”

Fuck.

I take a slow breath to give myself a second to opt out, but as I exhale, I still feel the same way.

“Can I see the roster of the kids whose team doesn’t have a coach?” I ask.

Bud fights a smile. “Absolutely. Sure can.” He reaches under the counter and pulls out a giant binder. He sorts through the pages until he lands on a purple tab. “Here you go.”

I feel the weight of his gaze as my eyes move down the list. I’m also fairly certain that Mom is holding her breath.

My finger trails down the short list of names until it lands on the one I was searching for—Ethan Doughtry.

Shit.

“Yeah, that’s Palmer’s boy,” Bud says quietly. “I don’t know whether to tell Palmer before she buys the cleats that he might not be playing or just let them buy them and hope for a miracle.”