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Early June saw Storybrooke trying to shake the last of spring’s stubborn chill. The trees were green and gardens in bloom, but anyone braving the early morning without an extra layer would need a cup of tea to take the edge off.
Such was the case for the Red Roadrunners softball team, who enjoyed said tea with breakfast inside Storybrooke’s Best Bakery before helping Kronk load Whisked Away’s van for the big game.
Others elbowed their way in for rent. And tea.
Belle wove through her teammates, carrying two cups to the corner table in her small, sunny lobby. Mr. Gold folded down his newspaper with a smile.
“Thank you.”
Belle sat across from him, clasping her hands under the table.
“We’re still short an outfielder, if you’re interested.”
Mr. Gold lowered his tea with an amused hum.
“A garden gnome would prove more effective,” he said, glancing at his cane. “But I’ve said I’ll come. The library needs new computers for Mr. Poole’s sophisticated check-out scanner, after all.”
Belle narrowed her eyes playfully—knowingly.
“He has a girlfriend now.”
“Bully for him.”
Belle smirked. Steam ghosted her lips as she raised her cup.
“You better not come out swinging for the Coyotes.”
“At ease, Miss French.” He shook his newspaper open again. “In no way do I intend to risk banishment from your fine establishment.”
Belle smiled into her tea.
“Good.”
Storybrooke’s Softball Showdown took place on the first Saturday of June. Each team played for a cause, with the winner earning an extra $500 from the Mayor’s Office.
This year, the Red Roadrunners played for the public library’s technology fund, while the Blue Coyotes raised money for new playground equipment at the park.
Gold sat in the bleachers near the concession stand, where popcorn, peanuts, pretzels, and sauerkraut overwhelmed the scent of fresh-cut grass. There was a hint of sugar, too; Belle and Kronk left pre-packaged treats to satisfy the sweet tooths in attendance.
David had the Coyotes warming up in the outfield while a short, round personal trainer named Phil took his captaincy far too seriously in the infield.
“I wanna see some hustle!”
“Do not hold that stretch!”
“Tie your damned shoe!”
Belle waved at Mr. Gold as the team headed for the dugout. Her red sleeves and high ponytail were already dusted with dirt, wet grass clinging to her legs and white sneakers. From behind his sunglasses, Gold smiled in return, raising his cane.
A perfectly innocent gesture—until the wattage of Belle’s smile made him remember the whole town could see them.
Phil shooed Belle into the dugout.
“Let’s go, cupcake! You can make goo-goo eyes later!”
At the top of the fifth, the Coyotes were up four runs on the Roadrunners. Phil ranted and raved that this defied the very cosmos.
“The roadrunner always wins! I don’t make the rules!”
“Easy, man,” Riley said. “It’s just a game.”
“Just a—! You’re the librarian! I’m out here lookin’ like a chump—!”
CRACK
Phil spun as the crowd cheered. The whole team pressed against the chain link fence around the dugout, following Belle’s impressive hit into the sun. She huffed in delighted disbelief before she dropped the bat and took off.
“Run, French!” Phil screamed.
Gold raised his eyebrows as the ball sailed over third base to left field. It clipped the tip of Graham’s mitt as Belle hit first, but he couldn’t haul it in. The stands erupted again, urging her onto second.
She dug deep, arms pumping, ponytail flying. She saw Graham throw and dropped into a slide, plumes of red dust curling around her as Katherine pivoted to catch the ball.
The cheers intensified.
Belle’s hand met the base—
—and her ankle turned, cutting the crowd’s cheering short.
Gold got to his feet when she didn’t. She tried to stand, but the pain had already flared beyond ignoring. He didn’t remember leaving the bleachers.
David was already at her side, shouting for Dr. Whale.
“There’s too much swelling not to get an x-ray.”
Then, to his and everyone else’s surprise, Mr. Gold stepped forward.
“I’ll take her.”
Gold cleared off the backseat and slapped away invisible dirt to make it extra presentable.
David and Whale supported Belle from grass to gravel. Dr. Whale gauged her grimaces against the weight she attempted to put on her ankle while David maintained a steady stream of encouragement.
Behind them, Snow, Ruby, Kronk, Riley, Ariel—all these people who cared about her.
It suddenly made no sense that he was the one doing this.
“You’re doing great, Belle.”
“Just a little further.”
Gold held the door as they eased her onto the seat.
“All right.” Whale tapped her good leg. “Push yourself back.”
Gold winced at Belle’s groan. Once she was in, he took out his keys, got behind the wheel—and paused when David ducked into the backseat.
“What are you doing?”
David rested Belle’s purple ankle in his lap, carefully cradling it with an ice pack.
“You’re going to need me to move her again. Just go.”
Gold sighed. Lips pressed together, he slid the key into the ignition, started the car—
“Oh, whoa, hey! Wait a second! Hey!”
Phil barreled into the passenger seat and slammed the door, ripe with sweat, dirt, and hot dogs.
Gold stared at him. At the parts of his car being touched.
“Step on it, slick! My girl’s in pain here!”
Belle’s whimpering withered the rebukes on Gold’s tongue. With a pit in his stomach, he yanked the gearshift into drive.
“You’re gonna wanna stay on Second—”
“I know where the hospital is.”
“Which one of you is the boyfriend?”
David and Phil tentatively looked at the man between them. Gold opened his mouth to object, realized how that would look, and, instead, exhaled patiently through his nose. He stacked his hands on his cane, eyes flicking to the nurse.
“I’m her landlord,” he volunteered stiffly.
“Well, I hope she don’t got a lot of stairs, Mr. Gold. This way.”
He followed the nurse through a set of sliding glass doors. Triage was crowded and chaotic. Fussy children with freeze pops oozing down their arms. Nurses and doctors dodging each other. Monitors beeping everywhere.
Belle’s room was blessedly quiet.
His shoulders fell at the sight of the bulky boot. She offered a strained smile.
“I’ll live.”
“But will you manage?” He sat in the chair beside the bed. “You have a lot of stairs, Miss French.”
“Then put an elevator in for me, Mr. Gold—”
Her stomach growled.
Gold chuckled. He reached into his jacket and pulled out one of her sheer pink bakery sleeves with two softball sugar cookies inside. Belle grinned.
“I hope you made a donation.”
“I made a sacrifice,” he muttered, breaking a cookie in half. “I’ll never get that stench out of my car.”
Belle laughed. Watched his fingers flit crumbs away.
“Then, I’ll just have to send you home with fresh streusel and apple cake until you do.”
Gold’s eyes warmed when they found hers.
“Apple cake might do it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
That evening, as the crickets and fireflies came out, they situated Belle in her apartment above the bakery—a quaint, eclectic space with secondhand furniture, handsewn curtains, and no color scheme. But it was always tidy. Always inviting.
Once she was on the couch with three pillows under her foot, David steered Phil toward the door. Gold inclined his head, in parting and in thanks.
“Come down to the gym, and we’ll talk rehab—”
“Let’s go, Phil.”
The door closed.
And the aloneness settled loudly.
Gold took a deep breath, hand flexing on his cane.
“Miss Lucas is on her way?”
“Yeah.” Belle retied her hair in a topknot. “They advised an extra set of hands while I sort out the logistics of showering and clothing.”
“Could I have something sent for your dinner, then?”
Belle tilted her head apologetically.
“Ruby’s bringing something from Granny’s.”
“Ah.” A nod. A long, awkward nod. “Good.”
God, his heart was pounding.
“Is there anything in the meantime?” His eyebrows rose: “Anything requiring a landlord’s attention?”
A little noise collapsed in the back of Belle’s throat.
“Uh, no?” She cleared the high note from her voice. “No. I am…good.”
“Good.”
She pushed a smile at him. He took the cue.
“Well, if that’s everything—”
“I’m glad you were there today.”
His cane squeaked to a stop.
“So am I,” he said softly.
“Will you check on me Monday? Make sure I haven’t died on the stairs?”
His brow furrowed. “I should have the elevator in by then”—she laughed— “but if not, I’ll walk you down myself.”
“I’d like that.”
She bit her lip when his hand hesitated on the handle. Loved that he lingered, even as the door downstairs creaked open.
Their eyes met.
It was time to go.
“Have a good night, Miss French.”
She swallowed as he slipped into the stairwell.
“You, too, Mr. Gold.”