“This isn’t about the softball game on Saturday. You know that, and I know that.” Amelia Brewer, wearing that ever-present Nuwaqchut Alaska Navigators ballcap with her ponied-up hair sticking out the back, regarded her shortstop and star player across one of the back tables at Guapo’s Pizza. It was the only pizzeria in town and the only eatery with a convoluted enough layout that a private conversation at the back tables tended to stay private.

“You planning on sticking me with the check?” Paige Nielsson said with that breezy self-confidence that Amelia found so irritating. “I thought that, after last week’s game, you might give me a break on that. But I’m good for it, coach. You can buy the pizza when we win the Cup.”

The way Paige was always so cocksure, so seemingly at ease…it had rattled Amelia a bit ever since high school. But this time was different. “I know,” she said. “I know about you and Gunnar.”

“Gunnar? Is that what’s got you all worked up?” Paige said. “You worry too much, Amelia. You think that will all the lumberjacks and gas workers in town, those big strapping guys with forearms just fit to squeeze, that anyone would want your shabby slab of a bush pilot?”

It wasn’t enough for Paige to be better than everyone else by the grace of her athletic skill and easy, breezy, blonde good looks. No, she had to tear people down to increase the distance, had to do it with that crooked smile on her face like it was all a big joke.

“I don’t doubt that you’ve got room between those legs for plenty of guys,” Amelia snapped. “I don’t care so long as none of them are my husband.”

“I knew you thought I was fast when you made me shortstop, Amelia. I didn’t know you thought I was that fast.” Paige laughed at her own joke, but her eyes were steely behind the hazel flecks.

“I found your…things…in Gunnar’s 170, Paige,” said Amelia darkly. “There’s no way they could have gotten there otherwise. Gunnar doesn’t charter that kind of flight.”

“I suppose they had my name on them did they?” Paige said with her lopsided grin unchanged. “Or did you just jump to conclusions? A Cessna 170’s an antique, Amelia, and there are oilmen in town with Learjets sometimes. Now unless you’d like to make some more accusations about who did what with who in the conservatory with the pipe…”

“This isn’t over,” said Amelia darkly. “Not by a long shot.” Ignoring the half-eaten pizza before her, and the unpaid bill on the table, she left through the back door.

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