“Hey, just because I can play doesn’t mean I can coach.”

“Are you kidding? You’re going to be a fantastic coach, Cole.” Mom grabs my arm. “It was good seeing you, Bud.”

“You too, Mrs. Beck.”

Palmer’s laugh catches my attention and pulls it across the store. I look up just in time to see her pull Ethan into a one-armed hug.

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

I dig into my wallet and pull out two one-hundred-dollar bills. Discreetly, I slide them across the counter.

“Tell Palmer that the cleats are on the house,” I say, my voice low so only Bud can hear.

His eyes go wide. “Really?”

I nod.

“This is too much,” he says. “The most expensive pair I have aren’t even this much.”

“I’ll get the change when I come back.” I glance at Palmer quickly again. “But don’t tell her that I paid for them. Got it?”

Bud smiles from ear to ear. “Got it.”

Mom and I make our way to the exit.

A frog croaks when I pull the door open. Mom jumps, then laughs, before walking through the doorway. I pause and take a chance and look back at Palmer.

She’s watching me, and I love seeing her blush when I catch her. My insides still as our gazes lock together, and then, before I press my luck, I give her a nod and walk out.

Palmer is gorgeous and funny. There’s no doubt about that. But why am I so drawn to her?

I have no idea. But maybe, hopefully, I will have the opportunity to figure it out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

PALMER

I don’t know why I love this weather so much, but I do.” I pull the drawstrings of my sweatshirt, tugging the hood tighter against my head. “There’s just something so rejuvenating about the gray sky and bright sun—”

“And the way the cold and wet flares up your arthritis?” Kirk grins. “Getting old is for the birds.”

“Who are you kidding? You’re not old. You get around this bus yard better than anyone.”

He groans as he hops from the bottom bus step to the ground.

“Do you have the list?” I ask.

Kirk holds up the clipboard with the inventory list we’ve been building. It’s something we’ve done together every spring for the last ten years.

“Got it,” he says.

“Good. Do you remember the one time we left it wedged between a bus seat and the wall?”

He makes a pained face. “Good grief, yes, I do. How we ever found it without flashlights, I’ll never know.”

We start the long trek from the back of the bus yard to the offices at the front. Our boots slosh in the mud with every step.

“I’ve always had an affinity for this time of year, even if it hurts me,” he says, hunkering his shoulders against the wind. “My mother and I used to sit in front of the fire and plan her gardens in March. She’d get so excited, almost giddy. I found her so entertaining when she’d pull out her sketchbook and make her seed list. She was like a little kid when it came to growing things.”