“And?”
“And, that means we tell each other shit.”
“What is this, a slumber party?” I roll my eyes. “Do you want me to french-braid your hair, too?”
“No. It’s not long enough for a braid.”
I snort. “Pity.”
A few seconds later, every boy waiting in line for his turn to bat cups his hands over his mouth and, like a dismally off-key choir, chants in unison, “Coach Reyes and Josephine, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
My head swings around toward Chris, who looks like he’s desperately trying to swallow down a laugh. My glower is lethal. “Are you happy now?”
“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!”They dissolve into a flurry of giggles.
Chris loses the battle against his amusement, bending at the waist with his hands braced on his knees and laughing himself breathless. The sight ignites a fresh round of hilarity from the batter-line.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Now you’re encouraging them…”
It takes five full minutes to get the boys back under control, calm enough to stand in a line and start practicing their swings once more. When Chris and I finally return to our spot by the pitcher’s mound and slide our gloves back on, ready to resume practice, he has the good grace to look somewhat chagrined.
“I’m sorry, Reyes.” Chris chuckles. “But you have to admit, that was pretty funny.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’ll buy you a beer at the Salty Dog after practice wraps up. A peace offering, to wash away some of your child-induced trauma.” He pauses. “Demons, the lot of them.”
“You’re the one who signed us up to coach,” I point out.
“That was before I knew how wild these kids were going to be!”
“You thought six-year-old boys would be easy to handle?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m not the brightest bulb in the box. Whatever.” He pauses. “Hence the need for post-practice beers.”
“You’re up first, Joey!” I call, pointing toward home plate, where a fresh baseball is sitting atop the tee, awaiting the next batter. “Take your time. Find your stance. Then give it your best swing.”
The kid misses completely.
“Try again, Joey!”
“I’m buying,” Chris offers from beside me. “ I’ll even throw in a plate of fries, to sweeten the pot.”
“Can’t,” I say absently. Most of my attention is fixed on the kid at bat. His next swing makes contact with the ball; I bend to snatch it from the grass as it rolls toward me. “That was great, Joey!”
“Why not?” Chris asks. “Look, I promise not to ask about Josephine. I just want to hear more about the meeting with the DEA. That’s all.”
“There’s not much to tell. I spent two afternoons sitting in a conference room with some federal drug enforcement agents, telling them everything I know about Jaxon’s operation — which isn’t much — and listening to them go over every possible contingency plan once I’m onboard the Reina.”
“So the mission is a go? This is actually happening?”
“Why are you so surprised? You’re the one who set this in motion. You’re the one who got me in contact with the DEA.”
“I know, I know. But I didn’t think it would happen so quickly.”
“Generally speaking, the United States government isn’t a big fan of letting drug-lords continue their operations unchecked.”
“Evidently.”