"Easy, open your eye slowly," Belle directed, cupping the small chin and examining the darkening bruise. She loved coaching, and she always felt horrible when any of her players was injured. Worse when it was a child. Worst of all when it was so early in a season that they hadn't even played a game, yet. "How's it feel?"
The little boy gave a small smile. "It doesn't hurt too much."
Her finger ghosted over the purpling skin, just far enough aside to catch the cheekbone, low enough he might have escaped a black eye. "How does a juice box sound?" She was trying to keep him occupied and wondered if she should try calling a parent again. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, and the only other child from the team still around was a little girl named Moraine, who was at the concession stand with her mother.
"Bae?" the male voice behind them startled Belle, and she twisted with a small frown. "This is—"
"Papa!" the boy exclaimed, jumping up and immediately throwing his arms around the man in an impeccable Armani suit, with no regard whatsoever for the dust coating his practice clothes.
Belle rose, frown fixed in place as the boy she knew as Neal was clearly right at home with this man. His father? Possibly grandfather? She could never tell these days. Four practices and the tragically clumsy boy was nearly always dropped off and collected by either his mother (who Belle privately cared little to spend much time around), or more often by a dark haired woman always toting a little dirty-blonde haired girl barely under the peewee team's age minimum.
The man was patting the boy's back gently while giving Belle a piercing glare. "Where is Coach Bell?" he asked sharply.
She stood to her full five foot two, bristling. "Wh—"
"Coach Bell," came the clipped reply. "It's not a difficult question, dearie." He stepped back, hand cupping the small chin in much the same manner as she had when the accident first happened a several times since. "Bae, where is your coach? I'd like an account of this."
The boy nodded toward her. "Right there, papa. I missed the ground ball."
"I should say so," he agreed dryly, before turning his glare back on the woman before him.
"I'm Belle, the coach for the Aces. Unfortunately, the ball got the best of Neal about forty minutes ago in practice. The grounder he mentioned, caught the tip of his glove and caught him on the cheek. I'm terribly sorry, but he should be fine in a few days once the bruise fades." She shifted slightly, irritated that this man left her rushing to explain herself like she had somehow done something wrong.
He dusted a hand over the bench and took a seat, one hand on his son's shoulder to gently steer the boy toward him. It was strange to see such a man, so brisk and cool toward her, taking such care and such gentleness in each gesture. He peered into the boy's eyes, then looked carefully around the eye.
"He hasn't displayed any signs of concussion," Belle supplied. "No head ache, bruising shouldn't even lead to a black eye…" That piercing look again left her silenced. She bit her bottom lip and zipped up the bag containing the practice balls, glancing around for debris in their dug out, even though she'd had the team clean it immediately after practice now a full half hour ago. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cassidy, we called the number left on the permission slips, but we only reached voicemail." She had, in fact, left two voicemails. A quick glance to her phone confirmed no missed calls.
"Rumfield," he replied, the words sounding automatic and making her blink in surprise. "Cassidy is my ex-wife's surname. Bae, please wait in the car."
The boy side stepped his father and wrapped his arms around Belle, taking her by surprise when he gave her a quick hug. "Bye, Coach Belle, see you next week."
"Bye," she murmured, careful not to squeeze too tightly. "Ice that bruise again when you get home."
His grin was priceless as he scooped up his small bag and his little glove that was horribly stiff with newness and mostly responsible for the boy missing the ball in the first place. It was brand-name and hard to handle until it was properly broken in. The rest of the team was using donated gloves, all well-used.
"Coach Belle?" the man asked quietly, standing easily and giving her a shrewd once-over.
"Yes," came her confident reply, squaring her shoulders and bracing much in the same way she'd braced herself every time she played catcher and was facing a runner determined to plow her way through to home base.
He pulled a card from his pocket and a pen, quickly scratching out a number. "This is my number, please use it should there be a need in the future," came the business-like reply. "Milah, Bae's mother, isn't known for her efficiency. I can assure you I will always answer."
Relief flooded her, he wasn't blaming her. And she could appreciate parents who actually took initiative. Much of this awkward conversation could've been avoided had she been given his number on the waiver of liability and registration forms. "I-I'm sorry, I thought his name was Neal?" she asked cautiously.
"His middle name, yes. As I said, my card. Please add me as a contact. And may I have the contact for the director of the program?"
She blinked in surprise, having barely accepted the card and pausing mid-motion of tucking it into her bag. "Well, my contact numb—"
"The director, please," he repeated shortly, last word dragged out in a way that was far from pleasing. "I have a call to make to his pediatrician concerning that bruise."
Belle took several moments to scramble for a pen and paper before accepting the engraved pen and small notepad he offered, fumbling with the pen's unfamiliar weight to scrawl a number and a single name. She returned both as quickly as she could, schooling her features to calm professionalism. "I'm glad you plan to have his injury checked. Please let our director know when his doctor allows him to resume practice."
"Your director will be hearing from me," he answered succinctly, tucking the information into the breast pocket of his jacket. "Good day, Coach Belle."
"Goodbye," she replied, managing to save the sigh until he was in his car. With a grunt of irritation, Belle shouldered the ball bag and quickly carried it to the trunk of her car. Two more trips and she had the bats and her own bag accounted for, though her knee had begun to ache steadily in the last ten minutes. They were due for rain tonight for sure. And she would be due a call from one Mr. Rumfield. Hopefully, he would forgive her when he discovered the number was her own. Belle French, director and founder of the "Step Up to the Plate" program. She'd originally created the foundation to expose children in impoverished areas to the sport of baseball, in an attempt to escape the all too familiar world of demanding parents and indulged children. It was alright, though. She'd handled countless parents like Mr. Rumfield both in her years associated with baseball.
Climbing into her car, she caught sight of the time and cursed roundly. Five twenty seven. Twenty seven minutes after she was to meet her stylist to ready for tonight's charity event. As if on cue, her phone rang, and Belle turned over the engine, scooping up the phone and hitting the speaker button. "Carmine, I'm on my way!" she promised. "Ten minutes, tops!"