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It was the annual Transitional Kindergarten Field Day at Crestview Elementary which for the Conklin-Fisher's; is an event designed by psychological warfare experts to test the absolute limits of parental sanity under the guise of community spirit.
Isabel Susannah Conklin-Fisher stood on the edge of the blacktop, her squinting gaze locked onto a temporary net that was sagging tragically in the middle. Her neon-pink schedule of events was rolled into a tight, aggressive baton in her right hand, tapping a rhythmic, threatening beat against her thigh.
A few yards away, a man who couldn’t have been older than thirty-two; possessed the ruthless aura of an Eastern European gymnastics coach, was performing deep, aggressive lunges. He was wearing compression tights under neon shorts, a flashing Garmin watch that looked like it could coordinate a drone strike, and a personal silver whistle on a braided lanyard.
"Look at him," Belly muttered, "Look at the posture. The unnecessary equipment. He thinks this is the fucking Olympics."
Conrad stood beside her, looking entirely too relaxed. He was wearing a grey t-shirt, faded shorts, and a blue New York Knicks hat pulled low over his eyes to block out the glare. In his hands, he held two rapidly sweating Capri Suns, their plastic straws already warping under the oppressive June humidity.
"His name is Greg," Conrad said, squinting through the sun. "He’s the room-parent coordinator for Class B. He sent out a six-page spreadsheet last week outlining optimal carbohydrate loading strategies for the three-legged race. I deleted it, but respect."
"I don’t respect it. I want to destroy him," Belly said flatly. She finally stopped tapping the schedule and pointed it toward the blacktop. "Linda from the PTA told the room moms that the winning class of the Parent Volleyball Tournament gets an entire semester of name-brand fruit snacks. Name-brand, Conrad. Mott’s. Welch’s. Fruit by the Foot."
"And what do the losers get?"
"Kirkland ones. The ones that stay stuck to your kid’s molars until they’re in middle school." Belly turned to face him, her eyes wide with the manic, terrifying intensity.
"Jamie deserves name-brand snacks, babe. I am not letting our four-year-old go to school every day knowing his parents choked on the blacktop against a guy who wears a Garmin to a public park."
Conrad tilted the brim of his Knicks hat up with one finger, a slow, deeply unhelpful smirk spreading across his face. "Belly, you’re talking about a volleyball game where the boundary lines are literally drawn with sidewalk chalk. Half the parents on our team are currently drinking iced lattes and trying to remember if they signed the waiver."
"So? They are the weak links and we will carry them," she snapped. "Where is Jamie?" she asks, looking around for her 4-year-old son.
Conrad pointed a juice box toward the far end of the field. "He’s currently trying to eat a woodchip while three room moms ignore him to talk about their Peloton instructors."
He's thriving. Good kid.
"He’s entirely unbothered by the snack-pack hierarchy."
"He’s four. He doesn’t know the stakes yet. That’s our job." Belly unrolled the schedule, her eyes scanning the brackets. "The volleyball tournament is three rounds. Single elimination. We play Class C first. If we win, we likely face Greg’s class in the finals. I need you on the backline. You’ve got the reach."
"Actually," Conrad said, taking a slow sip from his warm juice box, "Linda just caught me by the concession stand. Apparently, the Parents' 4x100m Relay is running concurrently with the volleyball semi-finals. She saw my height and my lack of a visible knee brace and drafted me. I’m the anchor leg for Team Blue."
Belly froze, slowly turning her head toward him like a villain in a thriller movie. "You’re running? You’re abandoning the court?"
"I didn't abandon anything, Isabel. I was asset-allocated," Conrad defended, his eyes glinting a competitive spark. "And for the record, Greg is the anchor for Team Red. If I don't run, that guy is going to do a victory lap around the sandbox and we’ll never hear the end of it at the back-to-school night."
Belly stared at him and sighed, evaluating the situation, "Fine. You handle the track. I handle the asphalt. But if you let that Garmin-wearing motherfucker beat you in the final stretch, I’m locking you out of the master bedroom until the fourth of July."
"Yes ma'am," Conrad murmured, leaning down to plant a quick, breathless kiss on her cheek. "Go kill 'em, Killa B."
By 11:15 AM, the field day had devolved into a Lord of the Flies scenario.
Belly’s team had survived the first round of the volleyball tournament through sheer, unadulterated spite. Belly had spent the entire match patrolling the net like a hungry shark, spiking a poorly set Wilson ball directly into the chest of a dad who worked in venture capital, offering a very insincere "Oh, my bad, man!" while her team cheered.
But now, there was a twenty-minute lull before the finals, and the heat was becoming an active health hazard.
"I am going to pass out," Belly panted, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist as she found Conrad leaning against the chain-link fence near the track. He had already won his heat in the relay, his shirt slightly damp, his Knicks hat turned backward now.
"You look like you just survived a street fight," Conrad noted, handing her a lukewarm water bottle.
"I almost did. The Class C captain tried to call a net violation on my shoe. I told her the chalk line was crooked and she needed to check her privileges." Belly took a massive gulp of water.
"I need air. Real air."
Conrad glanced over his shoulder toward the far end of the gravel parking lot, where their Range Rover was parked under the solitary shade of a telephone pole. A slow, reckless grin broke across his face.
"Tactical retreat," he whispered, his voice dropping into that specific register that usually meant they were about to make a terrible decision.
She looked back at the field, where Jamie was currently staring blankly at a ladybug on a traffic cone.
"Yeah, fuck it," she said.
They slunked. They actively dodged the bake-sale table where three moms were judging the quality of store-bought Rice Krispies treats, rounded the perimeter of the jungle gym, and practically dove into the SUV.
The second the heavy doors shut, sealing out the high-pitched chaos of forty toddlers screaming over a ruptured watermelon, Belly let out a massive, ragged breath. Conrad fired up the engine, immediately cranking the air conditioning.
"See? Flawless execution," Conrad said, leaning his head back against the headrest.
"We are terrible parents," Belly said, though she was already slumping against the passenger seat in pure airconditioned bliss. "We’re supposed to be encouraging team spirit. We’re supposed to be high-fiving the principal."
"The principal is currently losing her goddamn mind because someone clogged the toilet in the kindergarten wing with a plastic dinosaur," he shifted his weight until he was hovering right over her. His backward Knicks hat bumped against the car's ceiling, so he yanked it off and tossed it onto the backseat.
"And right now, I have zero team spirit. But I do have a massive craving to do something incredibly stupid in a school zone." he said, pure mischief in his voice.
Belly tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer over the console, completely ignoring the fact that her hip was wedged against the cup holder at a deeply unnatural angle. Conrad groaned, his hand mapping the familiar curve of her waist under her shirt.
"Wait, wait," Belly panted against his lips, breaking out into a sudden fit of giggles. "The cup holder is literally stabbing my kidney. There is an expired protein bar digging into my lower back."
With one swift, blind movement, his hand shot down and slammed the lever on the side of her seat. The passenger side reclined backward with a violent thump, taking her with it. Before Belly could even yell, Conrad scrambled over the console, pinning her to the flattened seat with his knees flanking her hips.
"Better?" he grinned, looking entirely too proud of his automotive engineering skills.
"Thank goodness you put the car seat on your side or we would've smacked it. You’re ridiculous," she whisper-laughs, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down before he could argue the point.
Conrad’s mouth moved down her jaw, finding that exact sensitive spot beneath her ear that made her toes curl. His hands slid under the hem of her shirt, his palms warm against her skin.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
There was sharp, heavy rap of a plastic clipboard against the driver’s side glass.
Belly's eyes flew open. Conrad froze like a deer caught in high-beams, his muscles locking instantly.
"Isabel? Conrad? Are your child's emergency contacts up to date, or are you just hiding from the volunteer signup sheet?"
It was Linda. The head of the Crestview PTA, a woman who handled kindergarten logistics with the iron fist of a warlord and possessed an uncanny ability to sniff out slacking parents.
“Oh my god,” Belly mouthed, her heart leaping straight into her throat.
Conrad panicked. In his frantic, uncoordinated rush to scramble backward over the center console, his sneaker caught the exact center of the steering wheel.
BEEP!
The horn blared, echoing violently through the gravel parking lot.
"Conrad!" Belly shrieked in a harsh whisper, frantically slapping the side of her seat to find the recline lever.
"I'm adjusting! I'm adjusting! Oh, shit-" he hissed, tumbling ungracefully back into the driver’s seat. He hurriedly yanked his t-shirt down, snatched his Knicks hat off the back, and shoved it onto his head completely crooked and sideways.
Belly finally ripped the lever up. The seat shot forward with the force, slamming her directly into the dashboard. “Ow, mother-,” she muttered, checking the visor mirror in a frenzy. Her lips were bright red, her hair looked like a bird had nested in it, and her shirt was half-twisted around her torso.
Conrad took a ragged, stabilizing breath, rolled the window down exactly two inches, and forced a smile so wide it looked physically painful. "Hey, Linda! Great turnout today. Reaaally great energy."
Linda stood outside, adjusting her neon-green visor, looking through the narrow crack in the glass with absolute, unblinking skepticism. "Jamie is fine. He’s currently on his second blue popsicle. But the Parents’ Relay starts in ninety seconds. Conrad, you’re supposed to be on the track. Isabel, the gym teacher saw your background forms and you're playing volleyball on the blacktop. The finals are starting. I saw your brake lights from across the field. What exactly are you two doing in here?"
What a cockblock.
Belly leaned across the console, flashing a wild, hyperactive smile, "Work email, Linda! The reception on the field is just... zero bars. Total dead zone. Conrad had to upload a massive PDF. Very time-sensitive medical stuff. Lives are on the line, really."
Linda’s gaze slowly drifted from Belly's frantic face, to Conrad’s visibly sideways Knicks cap, to Belly's shirt, which was noticeably inside out at the collar.
"Right. PDFs," Linda said dryly. "Well, wrap up your 'clerical duties,' Fishers. Team Blue needs a win. Ninety seconds, or I’m giving Jamie’s class the generic brand fruit snacks. The ones that smell like vinyl, and you know what vinyl smells like, right?"
"We'll be right there, Linda. Godspeed," Conrad saluted.
The second her fanny pack cleared the back bumper, Belly dropped her head onto the dashboard and started laughing, "We are grown-ass adults. We just got threatened with generic fruit snacks by a woman named Linda."
Conrad slumped back against his seat, letting out a long, breathless laugh as he shook his head. He reached over, grabbing his hat, turning it backward, and then gently flipping her collar back to the right side. "Look, we didn't actually get a detention. That's a net win in suburban politics."
"Baby, you honked the horn. You literally signaled our location to the enemy. And now I have to play a championship volleyball game in sandals with no grip."
"You're a volleyball player, Belly. You've got this," he said, opening his door and stepping out into the brutal heat. He walked around to her side, throwing her door open and offering her a hand. As they started the walk of shame back toward the megaphone music, he leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. "But for the record? The PDF is still pending."
Belly bit her lip, trying and failing to hide her grin. "Only if you outrun the dad with the Garmin watch."
Conrad eyed Greg, who was currently doing aggressive high-knees on the starting line of the track. "Oh, he's fucking dead meat. Nobody ruins my son's snack privileges."
The blacktop court was surrounded by a wall of parents whose parental warmth had been entirely burnt away by the midday sun. They were feral now, fueled by cheap iced coffee and the primal urge to see their respective children’s classrooms dominant.
Belly took her position at the center of the net, her eyes locked on Greg’s wife, Vanessa, who was standing on the opposite side of the sagging net. Vanessa was wearing matching athletic gear with her husband and had her hair tied back in a braid so tight it looked like it was performing a temporary facelift.
"Alright, Team Blue," Belly called out over her shoulder to her squad which consisted of a tired-looking mother of twins named Sarah, a dad named Dave who was wearing loafers, and two other parents who looked like they were reconsidering every choice that had led them to this moment. "We set, we bump, we spike. Do not let the ball hit the asphalt. If Dave can’t get to it, I will. Clear?"
Dave blinked from his loafers. "I’m just trying not to tear my meniscus, Isabel."
"Your meniscus will heal, Dave! The fruit snacks are forever!" Belly yelled back, her competitive drive completely overriding her filter.
On the adjacent field, the megaphone crackled to life. “Parents’ 4x100 Meter Relay, final call! All anchor runners report to the track!”
Belly risked a glance over her shoulder. Conrad was walking toward the track, his backward Knicks hat firmly in place. He caught her eye and gave her a single, sharp nod and wink; the same nod and wink he used to give her before high-stakes beach volleyball games back when they were teenagers. It meant focus. It meant don't let up.
The whistle blew. Vanessa served.
The ball came screaming over the net, a low, nasty floater that caught Dave completely off guard. He flinched, the ball clipping his shoulder and ricocheting wildly toward the sideline.
"I got it!" Belly screamed. She lunged, her sandals skidding over the loose gravel on the blacktop. She threw her forearms out, executing a brutal, desperate bump that sent the ball flying straight up into the air, keeping it alive. "Sarah, set it!"
Sarah, startled by the sheer volume of Belly's voice, executed a shaky, panicked set that barely cleared the net. Vanessa was already waiting, her hands formed into a perfect block. But Belly was already in the air.
SMACK.
The ball blasted past Vanessa’s block, striking the chalk line with a definitive, dusty thud.
"In!" Belly roared, pumping her fist. "That’s down! Let's go!"
Vanessa glared at her across the net. "That looked out from here, Isabel."
"Check the chalk dust, Vanessa! It doesn’t lie!" Belly shouted back, her face flushed with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.
Across the field, the starter pistol fired. BANG.
The relay had begun.
The next ten minutes were a blur of absolute chaos. Belly was playing like a woman possessed, diving unto the hot asphalt, her knees taking a beating as she single-handedly kept Team Blue in the game. The score was tied 14-14 in a single-set match to fifteen. Next point won the tournament.
Next point decided the snacks.
At the same time, the roar from the track reached a fever pitch. The third-leg runners were sprinting down the backstretch, handing off the batons to the anchors.
Belly stood at the net, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She looked over at the track just in time to see the handoff. Greg caught the red baton with perfect, textbook form, his Garmin watch flashing in the sun as he exploded into his stride.
Conrad caught the blue baton half a second later. He didn't have compression tights. He didn't have a personal whistle. But he had long legs, and he had his favorite blue Knicks hat, meaning, he was gonna smoke Greg's ass.
"Isabel, focus!" Sarah yelled from the backline.
Vanessa was serving for the match point. She tossed the ball high, her eyes locked onto Belly with pure malice.
As the ball left Vanessa’s hand, Belly’s brain split into two distinct channels. In her peripheral vision, she could see Conrad tearing down the straightaway, his backward Knicks hat flying off his head from the sheer speed of his sprint. He was gaining on Greg, his long strides eating up the distance between them.
Vanessa’s serve came over the net; hard, fast, and aimed directly at Belly’s weak left side.
"Mine!" Belly shouted.
She dropped her shoulder, stepping into the path of the ball. She didn't just bump it; she absorbed the impact, sending a perfect, high arc right into Sarah's strike zone. "Sarah, put it up!"
Sarah actually delivered. The ball floated into the perfect position, hovering just inches above the white tape of the sagging net.
Belly took two explosive steps forward, her eyes locked on the ball, but her ears tuned to the track. She could hear the crowd screaming. She could hear Linda on the megaphone: “It’s Fisher and Greg neck-and-neck in the final stretch!”
Belly leaped. Vanessa rose to meet her, her hands extended to block.
In that split second of suspension, Belly saw Conrad throw his chest forward, crossing the finish line on the track in a dead-heat blur alongside Greg.
With a surge of absolute, competitive euphoria, Belly swung her right arm. She didn't just hit the ball; she destroyed it. She wiped out every single piece of suburban etiquette she had accumulated over the last four years. The ball blasted off her palm, tipped off the very edge of Vanessa’s fingers, and slammed violently into the blacktop, bouncing high over the chain-link fence.
The whistle blew.
This is for you, Jamie!
"Game!" Dave screamed, throwing his loafers into the air. "We won the fucking Mott's!"
Belly stood in the center of the court, her hands on her knees, her chest heaving as her team swarmed her in a sweaty, chaotic huddle. She broke through the crowd, her eyes searching the field until she found Conrad walking back toward the blacktop. He was holding his blue baton in one hand and his retrieved Knicks hat in the other, his face completely flushed, breathing hard but wearing a massive, victorious grin.
"Did you get him?" Belly shouted over the noise of the megaphone.
Conrad held up the blue baton, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "By a mile, Conklin. The Garmin dad is currently lying face down in the grass trying to re-calibrate his heart rate."
"That's my husband," Belly cheered, jogging over to him and throwing her arms around his neck, completely unbothered by the sheer amount of sweat between the two of them. Conrad caught her easily, lifting her off her feet for a brief, spinning second before setting her down.
"You look disgusting," he murmured affectionately, wiping a streak of blacktop dust from her cheek.
"I look like a champion," she corrected, leaning up to kiss him firmly on the lips right in front of the entire PTA committee. "Jamie gets the name-brand fruit snacks. We did our duty."
"Speaking of Jamie," Conrad said, nodding toward the refreshment table.
Their four-year-old was currently sitting on a bench, entirely covered in blue popsicle juice from his nose to his collar, holding a Welch’s fruit snack pouch that Linda had begrudgingly handed him. He looked up at his parents, completely oblivious to the high-stakes tactical maneuvers and athletic sacrifices that had occurred on his behalf over the last two hours.
"Mommy, Daddy, I found a beetle," Jamie announced proudly, pointing a blue-stained finger at a completely average bug on the ground.
Belly smiled, dropping down to her knees to ruffle his hair. "That’s great, baby. Eat your name-brand snacks. Your daddy and I earned them."
Linda walked past them, her clipboard tucked under her arm, her fanny pack bouncing with every step. She stopped, looking down at the two of them through her neon-green visor. Her eyes lingered on Conrad’s backward hat and Belly’s scraped knees.
"Good races and games, Fishers," Linda said, her tone carrying that same dry, deeply knowing edge from the parking lot. "I trust your time-sensitive 'work emails' didn't suffer from the physical exertion."
"The servers are fully operational, Linda," Conrad said smoothly, offering her a polite, professional doctor's smile.
"Glad to hear it. Don't forget to sign up for the cleanup committee next week," she said, before turning on her heel and marching off to discipline a parent who had brought unapproved juice boxes.
"What the fuck is a cleanup committee?"