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“Just recently met him,” I confessed, using my index finger to trace over the uppercase J in his first name. “What’s his story?”

“He’s the son of a rotten bastard who slew-footed the greatest name in Harrisburg sports in several generations.”

A feminine shout from the kitchen rolled over the eatery, bringing Bruno to his feet as if he’d sat on a wasp.

“You read that article, then you’ll know. Railers are taking a big chance. You know how the fans in this town are. They don’t forget.”

His wife bellowed his name.

“Keep your damn shirt on, Bonnie! I’m talking to Cam Blackburn!”

I cannot repeat what his lady wife called out to him, but it made me blush. “Coming to the game tomorrow night? It’s pickleball paddle night for the first five thousand through the gates.”

“You’re starting, right?”

I nodded.

“Good, I don’t like the attitude of that young hothead from Alabama. I think he’s eying your spot as a starter.”

“Let him eye it all he wants. He’s fresh out of high school with less than a year in the minors. I doubt he could go longer than a few innings,” I bragged, wishing I believed the crap falling out of my mouth. I’d seen Jordon pitch. The kid was good. He was in line to replace me someday soon, but not this season, and hopefully not the next. “Now go before your wife lobs an apple muffin at your head like she did last week. I must read up about hockey.”

“Hell of a story that one. Poor kid got a shit deal for sure. I’m coming, woman! I’m having a positive interaction with a customer!” Bruno bellowed so loudly that the governor probably heard him in his office.

Smiling softly, I peeled the wrapper off my muffin and began reading about Jari Lankinen and what shit deal he had been dealt that had filled his eyes with such sadness.