I look up and see the hope in his eyes. I don’t even attempt to look at Mom.

My stomach twists into a tight knot, and I’m hit with a shot of adrenaline.

I’m not sure if this is a ridiculous idea or if I’ll hate myself either way I go. But as I think about what I’m going to do for the next month or two . . . I don’t know. Nothing productive, I’m sure. Just sitting around and worrying about what’s to come.

“How long is the season?” I ask.

“It’s a spring league, mostly to gear the kids up for the big summer league. The kids that excel usually don’t participate. So we just have a bunch of kids that are looking to learn the game or sharpen their skills.”

I nod. “So, four or six weeks?”

“Exactly.” He nods enthusiastically. He knows he’s got me. “It’s four weeks of games and then a tournament in Forest Falls. Nothing big or fancy.”

Four to six weeks? I can do that. With no other commitments and nothing but time on my hands, I could spare a couple of months, and it might do me some good.

If I go back to California with nothing to do, there’s a chance that I’ll turn into the one thing I loathe most—a burden.

The thought makes me sick.

One thing I love most about baseball is the teamwork spirit. Each person pulling their own weight. Everyone contributing to the common goal. No one being a drain on the system, and if a mishap occurs, someone is there to pick up the slack. It’s the key to success.

The idea of heading home and being a load on Fish’s time because I’m bored disgusts me. Making my parents worry because they think, not incorrectly, that I’m having some sort of crisis? Irresponsible. And I know that my agent thinks I’m just sucking his energy while piddling around aimlessly, and I hate that he thinks that of me.

If I stay here and coach this team, none of that would happen, and I’d be helping out the community. I could even spend more time with my parents and pay them back for all they’ve sacrificed for me over the years.

“Let her buy the cleats,” I say.

“Who?”

“Palmer.”

Bud forces a swallow. “Why?”

I force a swallow too. “You just found yourself a coach.”

“Oh, Cole,” Mom says, her voice on the brink of tears.

Bud grabs the back of his chair. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I pick the binder up to hand it back to Bud. It slips from my hands and hits the counter with a soft thud. “I’ll come by this afternoon, after I finish carting Mom around, and you can fill me in on logistics.”

I push the binder across the counter and into Bud’s hands.

“I’ll have a packet ready for ya. This is . . . wow. This is really something. A real pro teaching the Bloomfield kids,” he says.