Jill Shalvis - Kiss Me, I'm Irish

Deuce Monroe? Rockingham High’s most famous graduate? Well, get on the field, Deuce!

He heard a burst of laughter and turned to see half a dozen lanky high-schoolers dressed in mismatched practice clothes, dragging bat bags. One balanced three helmets on his head, another circled his arm over his shoulder to warm it up.

Somebody swore and more laughter ensued; one boy spat as they started unloading their gear.

After a few minutes of stretching out, some of the players took off for windsprints and laps. A guy who looked to be about forty, wearing sweats and a whistle, jogged onto the field. He eyed Deuce for a minute, then started calling out to the players.

Rick Delacorte, the only coach who’d ever known how to handle him, had retired last year after twenty years at Rock High. Deuce had stayed in touch with Rick, knew he and his wife had headed out to Arizona to spend their golden years in a condo strategically located within driving distance of the Diamondbacks’ stadium.

He couldn’t remember the name of this new guy, somebody Rick said had moved up from Maryland or D.C. to take the job. Deuce watched him needle a few players, sending some more for laps. A couple of catchers started blocking drills, and the infielders lined up for hit-downs and cut-offs.

An easy sense of familiarity settled over Deuce as he watched a few pitchers warm up for a long toss. In less than three throws, Deuce could see one of the kids limiting his range of motion. The new coach didn’t notice, and Deuce bit back the urge to call out a correction. Instead, he sat down on the aluminum stands. Just for a minute. Just to see how they played.

He only realized what time it was when batting practice ended, and the coach called for the last run. He was seriously late for the bar, but hell, this had been too relaxing. As he stood, the groundskeeper emerged from the afternoon shadows behind the visitor’s dugout.

“Excuse me?” the man called out.

Deuce acknowledged him with a nod.

“You lookin’ for someone in particular, son?”

“Just watching the practice,” he said, squinting into the sun that now sat just above the horizon.

The older man approached slowly, an odd smile tugging at his lips. “What do you think of the new coach, Deuce?”

Deuce started in surprise. “Do we know each other?”

The man laughed. “I know you, but you probably don’t remember me. The name’s Martin Hatcher and I used to be—”

“The Hatchet Man,” Deuce finished for him, taking the hand that was offered to shake. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, sir.”

The former principal of Rockingham High laughed easily. “Well, I’m not as imposing with a rake in my hand as I was waving your pink slips.”

Deuce shook his head and chuckled. “What are you doing out here?” The juxtaposition of the feared and revered principal now in the position of field caretaker seemed preposterous.

“I’m retired, Deuce,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants. “But I volunteer here just like a lot of ex-Rock High teachers and staff. I still love the school, so I do what needs to be done. Last week, I worked in the cafeteria for a few days. That’s always a bit of an education in human behavior.”

Deuce took in the network of wrinkles over the familiar face, and the shock of gray hair. He’d done his share to add to the whitening of that head, he was sure.

“Don’t feel bad that you didn’t recognize me, Deuce. I’m not sure I would have known you, either. But I heard rumors that your own retirement brought you back to town.”

“Wasn’t exactly retirement,” he said with a grin. “More like lifelong detention.”

That earned him another hearty laugh and a pat on the shoulder. “You always could charm your way out of anything, Mr. Monroe.”

“I couldn’t charm the contract lawyer for the Nevada Snake Eyes.”

“Their loss, our gain. It’s just too bad it didn’t happen a season earlier.”

“Why? I had my best year last year.”

“Indeed you did. I thought you could have been a Cy Young contender.”

Deuce snorted. “Not that good.”

“But if you’d have pulled your little race-car exploit before Rock High hired him…” He jutted his chin toward the dugout where the new coach stood, surrounded by ballplayers, some of whom listened to his lectures, while others looked anxious to leave.

“What’s his name?” Deuce asked.

“George Ellis. He’s teaching science, too, which I think he’s much better at than coaching.”

Deuce’s gaze moved to the field, then back to Martin. “He’s not bad. Lots of energy. Seems to know how to get them to hit.”

“You’d have been better.”

“Me?” Deuce coughed back a laugh. “No, thanks. I have no interest in going out there and motivating guys who think they know everything.” Guys like him.

They fell into pace together toward the parking lot. “So you’d rather run a bar.”

Deuce heard the skepticism in his tone. “It’s called Monroe’s, Mr. Hatcher. And, since I am called that, too, it feels like the right thing to do.”

“I’m not your principal anymore, Deuce. You don’t have to call me Mr. Hatcher, and you don’t have to give me your load of BS.”

Deuce slowed his step and peered at the man who once had spent hours threatening, cajoling and teasing Deuce. “That was no load of BS.”

“Monroe’s isn’t even a bar anymore.”

“We’re working on that.”

Martin chewed his lip for a moment, then lowered his voice. “Seems to me Kendra Locke has some pretty big plans for the place.”

The Hatchet Man, Deuce remembered from numerous trips to his office, always had a subtle way of making his point.

“I have plans, too.” But then, subtle had never worked that well on Deuce.

Martin paused at the edge of the parking lot, crossing his arms and nodding. “Kendra was a favorite student of mine. Of course, she was a few years behind you.”

“Her brother Jack was my best friend.”

“Oh, yes. I remember Jackson Locke. A rebel, but very artistic. And he liked those basketball bombs over in the teacher’s lot.” He chuckled again. “Let you take the heat for the big one that dented Rose Cavendish’s old Dodge Dart, as I recall.”

Deuce just smiled. “Ancient history.”

“We got a lot of that around here,” Martin mused, his gaze traveling toward the red brick two-story building of the Rockingham High that sat up on an impressive hill. “Kendra has quite a history, too.”

Kendra? Where was he going with this? Deuce waited for him to continue, as he would have if he’d been sitting across Principal Hatcher’s imposing desk, discussing his latest infraction.

“She went to Harvard, did you know that?” Martin asked.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t finish, though.”

“That seems a shame,” Deuce said. “She was real smart.” And kissed like a goddess, too.

“I only had a few Harvard-bound seniors in my twenty-five years at Rock High. So I remember every one.”

“Why didn’t she finish?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” he said, unlocking the door of an older model SUV. “And by the way, she’s still real smart.”

“I know.”

“And you still love baseball.”

Deuce grinned. “I’m not going to coach.”

The other man just laughed and climbed into the driver’s seat. “You spent a lot of time watching practice.”

That Hatchet Man. He was always an observant dude. “Nice to see you again, Mr…Martin.”

“I’ll stop in the bar sometime, Deuce. I heard you packed them in last night.”

“News travels fast around Rockingham.”

Martin nodded. “It sure does.”

Deuce closed the driver’s-side door and said goodbye, watching his old friend and nemesis drive away. Then he turned to the field and took one more deep breath of baseball.