Mickey found himself staring into the greenest eyes he had ever seen. And they were twinkling. The girl stood in front of a silver ice-shaving machine. On the shelves behind her were stacks of paper cups and row after row of multicolored syrup bottles that seemed to glow in the last rays of the setting sun.

“Is that really a sound business practice?” he asked. “Threatening customers with a beatdown if they don’t stop and buy something?”

She crossed her arms and seemed amused.

“You’d be surprised at how well it works,” she said. “Anyway, I only do it when sales are slow. Otherwise I turn on the charm. Like this.”

She batted her eyelashes and said in a high-pitched voice, “Thanks so much, y’all, for helping a poor, struggling, seventh-grade entrepreneur with the purchase of one of these delectable summertime treats!”

Mickey laughed and studied the sign on the wall that read:

ABBY ELLIOTT, SNOWBALL MAKER TO THE STARS

 

“You’re new around here, right?” he said. “Hate to tell you, you won’t find too many stars at this field.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Your name’s Mickey, right? They say you’re the best catcher in the league. So you’re a star. Then there’s that new kid on your team, Zoom? I watched him hammer those Blue Jays tonight. What an arm! That kid is definitely a star!”

Mickey groaned and fished a rumpled dollar bill from his uniform pants.

“Can we not discuss him right now?” he said.

“Oh, touchy subject, eh?” Abby said. “Okay, we’ll move on. What flavor do you want, star?”

“Grape, please.”

Abby rolled her eyes. She pretended to stifle a yawn.

“Gee, grape!” she said. “There’s a bold move! No one ever gets grape! Way to push the envelope! Way to think outside the box!”

She reached over the counter and grabbed his arm.

“Have you checked the calendar lately? It’s 2015, star. They have all sorts of new flavors now: banana cream pie, peach melba, York Peppermint Pattie. Try one! Go wild!”

Mickey pulled his arm back and grinned.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe I do have to broaden my horizons. Okay, make it grape—with marshmallow topping.”

Abby threw up her hands in surrender.

“Fine,” she said. She reached for a paper cup and filled it with shaved ice. “I run into your type all the time. A traditionalist. Old-school to the core. Have it your way. One grape with marshmallow coming up.”

She pivoted gracefully and grabbed a bottle of syrup from the second shelf. Carefully she layered the sticky purple liquid throughout the ice before stabbing it with a plastic spoon and sliding it across the counter.

“There’s an art form to making a snowball,” she said. “People think there’s nothing to it. But you need the perfect ratio of syrup to ice. Otherwise, know what you’ve got?”

Mickey shook his head.

“YOU’VE GOT A BIG MUSHY MESS THAT TASTES HORRIBLE!” Abby roared. She pointed at Mickey’s snowball. “Now look at that baby right there. I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but presentation-wise, that belongs on a magazine cover. Or behind glass in a museum. Go ahead, taste it.”

Mickey took a giant spoonful. He was surprised at how hot and thirsty he was. Then again, he couldn’t ever remember a time when he wasn’t hot and thirsty after catching six innings in all that gear.

“Mmmm, it’s really great,” he said, crunching the ice. “Very tasty and refreshing and—”

Abby held up a hand.

“Okay, fine, don’t strain yourself with the adjectives. But it’s delicious, right? Delicious to the nth power. The best snowball you ever had in your entire life. No, go ahead and say it. You wouldn’t be the first person.”

Mickey nodded. “You might as well call this place ‘World’s Greatest Snowballs.’” He watched her face light up and said, “You really love this job, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “I get to make people happy. Who doesn’t love snowballs? And who doesn’t smile when you hand them one?”

“Even when you threaten to pound them first?” Mickey asked.

“Even then,” Abby said with a smile. “A well-made snowball makes up for everything. Even bad first impressions.”

Suddenly she grew serious.

“On the other hand,” she said, “the job is not without its occupational hazards.”

Mickey snickered. “Like what? Tooth decay from all the sugar in these things?”

“No, it’s not that,” Abby said. She looked around nervously and whispered, “Bees.”

“Probably don’t have to whisper,” Mickey said. “I don’t think they can understand you.”

“The syrup drives bees crazy,” Abby continued. “They’re not around just yet. It’s a little early in the season. But when they get here, look out. The owner says she had three workers stung last summer. And a few customers, too.”

She sighed. “Kids crying and screaming at a snowball stand—not real great for business, as you can imagine.”

She wiped down the counter with a damp cloth and smiled again.

“But there are so many good things about the job,” she said. “Like, when I don’t have any customers, I get to watch baseball. I play softball, but baseball’s my favorite sport in the whole world. In fact, I got to watch most of your game tonight.”

Mickey shrugged. “Decent game, I guess. We won. End of story.”

“Oh, I can see you’re absolutely giddy with excitement,” Abby said drily. “Didn’t you hit a huge home run to put your team ahead? And didn’t Zoom kill the Jays with four innings of shutout ball? And didn’t your team get one step closer to the playoffs?” She frowned. “So what’s with the ‘eh’ reaction, star?”

“It’s a long story,” Mickey said, draining the last of his snowball.

She stared at him for a moment before nodding thoughtfully.

“Okay,” she said, “it did seem like something wasn’t quite right with you guys tonight. Look, I’m a snowball mixologist, not a sports psychologist. But the team chemistry definitely seemed to be…off. And I think I know the problem.”

“You do, huh?” Mickey said, leaning forward. “And what exactly is that?”

She looked at her watch. “Can’t go into it tonight,” she said. “Have to close up. And you have to go. Isn’t that your dad out there beeping the horn?”

It was dusk and the parking lot was mostly empty now. Mickey turned to see his dad waving and flashing the truck’s headlights.

“To be continued,” he said. He slung his gear bag over his shoulders and waved before jogging off.

“You know where to find me, star!” Abby called after him. “And next time, let’s try expanding that palate of yours. No more grape, okay? There’s a whole new world of flavor out there! Live a little!”