A League of Her Own

Dean squinted up at him. “Are you one of those devout types?” He ran a hand through his short brush of red hair. “Didn’t mean to offend you.”

Garrett relaxed. The guy meant well. It wasn’t like the world conspired to make him relapse. Though sometimes it seemed like it.

“You didn’t. And I’m not.” He pulled a bronze coin from his back pocket and placed it on the table, leaving it out long enough for Dean to get a look before sliding it away again.

Without a word, Dean swept the glasses away and deposited them on another table. When he returned, his face had lost its jocular expression. “My dad was an alcoholic. It’s something to earn one of those chips, and I wish he’d done it. You should be proud.”

Garrett nodded. He was proud. It’d been a hard year spent getting sober and back in competitive shape to pitch again. If he hadn’t run into his old foster friend, a one-armed veteran who’d scolded him for wasting his God-given talents, he wouldn’t have quit his construction job and tried again.

“Today wasn’t the best debut,” he murmured. He kept his hands busy shelling peanuts, his eyes on Dean instead of the rowdy beer pong game by the pool table, or the group raising their glasses every time someone hit the dart board’s red center. The smell of fresh popcorn wafted from a machine by the bar while a rock song pulsed through the dark, wood-paneled room decorated with sports paraphernalia and TVs playing every MLB game in progress. It seemed as though the crowd moved to the same thrumming beat, everyone in sync, all but him.

Dean crinkled his stub of a nose and shrugged. “It wasn’t all you. Sure, you gave up those walks, but if it wasn’t for Jogging George, we would have tied in the eighth.”

“Jogging George?” Garrett smiled at the nickname that suited their third baseman. Dean was right. If George had hustled on that play, he could have beaten the throw to first, rather than letting the runner on third score.

Dean nodded and signaled to a passing waitress. “A couple of Cokes over here. And more peanuts.” He turned back and leaned in, his voice lower. “Defensively, our outfield didn’t show much effort on that fly ball in the gap either. They got three runs off of that.”

Garrett nodded, thinking the game through. Dean was right. He was putting all the pressure on himself. It was the same bad habit that’d led him to drink when he’d messed up in the Minors before. Although that wasn’t the whole story.

Not even close.

“So what’s the deal with this team?” After earning his AA chip and calling his former agent, he’d been invited to try out for the Falcons. A week later he was signed and on the field practicing with the team. And now, after another two weeks, he’d pitched his first game. A loss. One of only a few this season, he vowed.

His eyes flicked to the bottles lined along the mirror-backed shelves behind the bar. In the past, he would have drunk away his defeat until it didn’t matter. Until nothing mattered. Until he hadn’t mattered...eventually. Not that, as a foster child, he’d ever felt like he counted. But for a brief time, when he’d been a top draft pick known for his ninety-five-miles-an-hour fastball, he’d felt like somebody. He wanted that feeling again. Would make it happen.

“It’s a decent group,” Dean said cautiously.

Garrett followed Dean’s glance over to a group of men. They joked around with the new shortstop, who clutched his beer like it was his first. Maybe it was. The sight made Garrett want to rip it out of his hands before it was too late.

“You can’t cut it here,” brayed the second baseman as he jabbed the shortstop’s shoulder and laughed, making the kid flinch. “Not like Waitman over there. He got another moon shot tonight.”

He leaned across the table and shouted over to the dart board crowd. “How many dingers you think you’re getting this year, Waitman? Thirty?”

Their left fielder pointed his dart at the second baseman and pretended to throw it. “More than you, loser.”

Another player at the table turned back to the shortstop. “You’re playing real baseball now.” The guy clapped the young player on the back, making him stagger forward and spill his beer.

“You’ll face tough pitchers up here,” warned Jogging George. “Everyone throws ninety miles per hour, some faster, like Wolf, but more consistent. Man, we got shelled tonight.”

Garrett returned their stares when they looked over at him, his face impassive. He’d had a tough time controlling his arm when he’d been drinking, a problem that plagued him sober, too. But he’d keep working on it. Straighten out his pitch the way he’d straightened out his life.

“Don’t take it personally,” Dean muttered, nodding a thank-you when Garrett slid cash to the waitress delivering their sodas. “If these guys would put more effort into their game, we might have a winning season.”

“They don’t bother me.” Garrett turned sideways and leaned his arm on the table, facing Dean. “The Falcons haven’t gone to the playoffs in over fifteen years, right?” He lifted his soda and drank, telling himself it tasted better without rum.

“Yeah. And now that Pete left—our manager—we’ll be lucky to finish at five hundred for the season.” Dean tossed some nuts into his mouth and chewed, his expression distant. “His wife told my sister the contract we offered him was at a lower salary. The Gadways can’t pay more. Wonder if the stress caused Dave’s heart attack.”

“Could be,” Garrett mused, feeling bad for the man who’d given him this break. He hoped they’d find someone good to manage the team, to take the pressure off Mr. Gadway and help the Falcons. Plus, at twenty-seven, Garrett was getting old to be considered for a move up into the Major Leagues. Without a strong, stable team behind him, one that wouldn’t make errors that allowed hits or runs, his prospects of getting the stats he needed to impress their parent team were lower still.

A couple of giggling young women stopped beside their table, their voices shrill, as they eyed Garrett and Dean. Garrett avoided the blonde’s come-hither look, not impressed with the blatant flirting. He had better goals than scoring with a new girl every night.

“Heard he’s stable though...” Dean mopped up an overturned drink the girls spilled when they bumped into their table.

“Oops. Can we buy you another one?” purred the blonde, flipping her long hair out of her eyes. “Rum and Coke?”

“We’re fine,” Garrett muttered without giving her more than a brief glance. He hated to be rude, but baseball groupies, which these girls looked to be, were hard to get rid of.

“I insist.” The brunette leaned over far enough to give both men a healthy view of her cleavage.

“It’s not your call to make,” Garrett shot back. “Now. If you’ll excuse us?”

“I’m Melissa,” the blonde piped up, extending her hand to Dean as if she hadn’t heard Garrett’s dismissal. “And this is my friend, Dana.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dean said, clearly torn between two good-looking women and Garrett’s glare. “My friend and I—”

“Are having two rum and Cokes. Coming up!” Melissa called and sauntered away, her hips swinging in short shorts.

“So what do you two like to do for fun?” Dana trailed a fingernail up Garrett’s arm and leaned close so he could smell her sharp perfume. “Whatever it is, Melissa and I are up for it.”

Garrett jerked away and placed a twenty on the table. “Use this for the drinks. Have a nice night.”

He strode away and heard Dean’s mumbled apology before the catcher joined him at the door. Garrett pushed through the exit and plunged into the balmy night, his heart rate slowing as he gulped in the smoke-free air.

“What the heck, dude!” Dean called as Garrett hurried toward his sports car. All around them, crickets serenaded the half moon that hung low and bright in a dark sky.

Garrett wheeled around. “Go on back. Hanging out with those women, drinking...that’s not my scene. Not anymore.”

Dean jogged up to him. “Hey. I get it. You didn’t want to be bothered. With that ugly mug of yours, getting pestered by gorgeous women must happen a lot. Poor guy.”

A low laugh escaped Garrett. Dean was growing on him. Garrett had vowed to keep his distance from the other players. Avoid situations that’d tempt him to drink. But Dean seemed different from the rest. An ally when he could use one. According to his sponsor, in between AA meetings he’d need support like Dean’s.

Garrett leaned against his car, one boot resting on his rims. In the distance, a rushing stream gurgled, the frogs’ deep hum accompanying the violin whir of insects.

“It’s quiet in Holly Springs.” Strange as it sounded given his former, fast-paced life in Atlanta, he liked it.

Something about this small town settled the part of him that felt unmoored. Like he could belong here, though he knew that wasn’t possible. As a kid shuttled from one house to the next before landing in a group home, he’d learned not to put down roots. Get too comfortable or close to anyone. The one time he had, it’d ended in a tragedy he did his best to avoid thinking about.

“It’s a little too quiet.” Dean glanced up the road toward the center of town where a few lights twinkled. “Since they shut down the last of the fabric mills a year ago, the town lost its only major employer and draw, except us. If we fold—”

Anxiety stabbed Garrett, sharp and sudden. “Is there a chance the team’s going under?” Mr. Gadway was the first to give him a chance. Would there be others?

Dean looked around and stepped closer, lowering his voice. “There’s a rumor that it’s up for sale.”

“You think that’s true?”

“We’re not drawing as many fans as we used to, and with another Minor League team starting up just an hour farther from Raleigh than we are...” Dean jerked his chin west, then looked back to Garrett.

Garrett rubbed the back of his tense neck. “We need to turn it around—hope the next manager is going to do that...” He’d never have a strong record if the team kept losing game after game. He needed his time with the Falcons to count—to attract Major League attention, he had to make his mark.

“Who’s going to take over as manager? Not Reed.”

Dean slapped at a mosquito, leaving a smear of blood above his elbow. “Hope not. He doesn’t put more than three words together. These younger guys need a firm hand.”

“But if they couldn’t afford Pete, who are they going to get?” Garrett wondered.

When Dean shrugged, Garrett’s jaw flexed. New owners would mean uncertainty and flux while they set up infrastructure, time he couldn’t afford to waste. New management, if it was someone inexperienced or ineffective, could cause the same damage. He’d worked too hard to lose this second chance.

Not when it might be his last.

CHAPTER TWO

HEATHER SAT IN the Falcons’ former dugout and gazed at the sky. It was purple, almost watery-looking. The moon peered back at her over the tree line, and birds called their good-nights from the spreading branches. Scout, the family’s collie, bounded through the entrance and circled the bench before flopping down at her feet, exhausted from chasing who knew what...

She zipped her sweatshirt against the slight chill, thinking for the hundredth time that she should leave their old field and head home. Yet after two weeks of staying indoors, either in the hospital or by her father’s side, she needed this gulp of air.

And being here was peaceful. Even the rattling cicadas in the scrub brush sounded like a lullaby. She’d always escaped here during her mother’s addiction-fueled rampages. A place she could run to from home.

Heather wondered what would have happened if her mother hadn’t sustained the back injury that’d hooked her on painkillers. Although it’d happened when Heather was too young to remember, she’d always wished she could have done something to prevent the muscle sprain—or seen the signs of her mother’s medicine misuse, a habit that’d become a much bigger problem than her back. She glanced around at the peeling white paint on the warped walls, up at the sagging ceiling, and out at the shaggy field. Like all baseball fields, it was beautiful to her. Abandoned or not.

She stretched out on the gouged wooden bench, feeling completely alone. Scout nudged his wet nose into her palm, and she smoothed the russet crown of his head. Well, maybe not absolutely alone. But still...after enduring her father’s constant stream of remarks that the soup was too bland, that the air-conditioning was too high, that his pills weren’t crushed well enough in the jelly...the recriminations seemed endless...she needed this time to herself.

She brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. At least she’d heard that Alicia had won her second game today, the accomplishment bolstering her. It’d also felt good when her university’s operations director, Chris, had said he’d be glad when she came home. Yet California would never be a place she could settle down. She was appreciated there, but it wasn’t where she belonged.

This was home. She remembered the grouchy old third baseman who’d been a career Minor Leaguer. He’d bought her Pixy Stix at the snack counter after every home win. The team’s bus driver came to mind. He’d let her sneak on board for a handful of away games the summer she’d turned eleven. The year her mother was worse than ever.

Being a part of that year’s championship run had instilled her love for the game while helping her escape a hellish life. She and the players weren’t related, but they’d always been her family. North Carolina’s dense woods, distant mountains and numerous streams part of her DNA.

Like a migrating bird, flying home had settled the part of her that’d felt adrift since she’d left for college. Maybe she’d apply for a coaching position locally. Keep an eye on her father and help out with the Falcons...if he’d let her. She craved his approval, but there was as much of a chance of getting that as there was of her returning one of her mother’s recent calls.

A moth fluttered by her forehead and she shooed it away, staring up at the cobweb-covered ceiling. She’d heard her mother’s promises too many times to trust them again. That faith had nearly killed her when she’d climbed into her parents’ car and woken up, two days later, in intensive care. It’d been her thirteenth birthday, a day marked with a lit candle stuck in green Jell-o and the news that Mom had checked herself out of the hospital and left their family for good.

She pulled up the hem of her sweatshirt and traced the raised silver scar that ran along her stomach. It was a tangible reminder of how close that trust had come to ending her life. Her mother’s abandonment left wounds the surgeons couldn’t stitch closed...so she’d done it herself, shutting off the part of her that could ever believe in others again.

Whomp! The loud bang of a ball hitting the backstop echoed in the still twilight. She scrambled upright and peered into the purpling light, Scout already bounding for the field. A tall man stood on the pitcher’s mound, his chiseled profile outlined by the sun’s last rays. His strong jaw flexed and, in a blur of movement, he wound up and let loose another fastball, his biceps tense before he dropped his arms.

He was powerfully built with broad shoulders and a wide back that tapered to a lean waist and flat stomach. When he lifted the bottom of his shirt to mop his brow, she glimpsed a hard six-pack that sucked the air right out of her. The coach in her admired the physique that promised results on the field. The woman in her... Suddenly her sweatshirt was too warm over her tank top and she shrugged out of it, her eyes lingering on the strong play of his quadriceps shifting as he changed his stance.

Male, athletic beauty like his was undeniable. The symmetry of his features and body, and the animal grace of his movements, made it hard not to stare. She wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend. Needed to focus on her father and building her career. A romantic relationship would only distract her. Still, he was a pitcher, same as her. There was no harm in a little conversation about that... Besides, she needed to call off a barking Scout.

Oh, who was she kidding? It was hard to resist wanting a closer glimpse. And that’s all it could be, she told herself firmly as she sat up and left the dugout. How long had he played for the Falcons? She hadn’t seen him before. She would have remembered the tousled golden hair that grabbed the fading light and the intense eyes that suddenly swerved her way.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her hands rising to her ribs as if to contain her ferociously beating heart. “Sorry to disturb you. Scout, down.” She gave a silent thank-you to her unreliable tongue for not tripping up her words and watched, grateful, as her sometimes unruly pet lowered his belly and muzzle to the dirt.

A frown marred the man’s handsome face, a line appearing between his slanted brows. He looked down at her over a straight nose that stopped above a pair of full lips. “This is a closed practice.” His eyes stared directly into hers, causing an odd, plummeting sensation in her legs. So much so that she dipped a little at the knees.

She opened her mouth, but now her voice had run down her throat. Looking at him made it hard to think—or speak.

He gestured to the square he’d marked off with glow-in-the-dark tape on the backstop. “If you don’t mind, I need to continue pitching. Alone. And this is private property.”

Heather pulled words from her throat as if she was raising them from a well, determined to match his arrogant tone. Who did this guy think he was?

That was the problem with good-looking guys. They expected everyone in the world to be nice to them but didn’t bother to return the favor.

“I know. It’s mine. Or my dad’s. I’m Heather Gadway.” She strode forward and extended a hand. When he shook it, a rush of awareness exploded up her arm.

“Garrett Wolf,” he drawled, his voice dark, smooth and hypnotic. “Your father recently signed me.” He glanced at Scout. “Nice dog.”

Words collected in her mouth and lay there, irritation weighing them down. He was the reclamation project, the reformed alcoholic who’d caused his last Triple-A team lots of trouble with the media and on the field. And she’d almost let herself be attracted to him. Well, shoot. That was not going to happen.

She dropped his hand as if she’d touched acid and stepped back, a knot forming in her throat. At five-ten, she was a tall woman, but Garrett had to be more than half a foot taller. Six-four or -five, maybe.

“Welcome to the team,” Heather forced out, not meaning it at all. Why had her father signed such a high-risk player, anyway? Sure, he was easy on the eyes, but it wasn’t like they were putting up billboards. Her dad, of all people, should know they didn’t need former addicts on the Falcons. What if he relapsed? Always a real possibility. “I’m visiting while my father recovers from his heart attack.”

The stern lines of his face relaxed, and suddenly he was the all-American boy next door, the kind who broke every girl’s heart—every girl’s but hers. There wasn’t a chance she’d fall for his charm, no matter that his easy smile made her stomach jump and flutter. She’d seen what he’d been like before he’d found out she was the owner’s daughter.

Garrett tossed his ball in a gym bag and scooped up his sports drink in a sleek, fluid movement that mesmerized her. When he drew closer, she could smell his pine-scented aftershave and a fresh, masculine musk. “Your father’s a good man. I hope he’s doing better.”

Heather shifted her footing and cleared her throat. Garrett was getting under her skin in the worst way. His earlier arrogance needled her. Yet somehow, when the corners of his lips lifted and his deep dimples flashed, she had to catch herself before grinning back. Get a grip and be professional, she warned herself before saying, “He is. Chomping at the bit to get out more. I’ve practically had to tie him to the bed.”

A spark ignited in his blue eyes, and she flushed. What a strange thing to say. Provocative when she meant to be anything but.

“How long are you staying?” he asked, his deep voice lowering further, his unswerving, intent gaze on her.

She scuffed the dirt, her ears ringing with the staccato thrum thrum thrum of her rapid pulse. “Not sure. I’m a pitching coach for the Morro Bay Red Tails. They want me back. But Dad needs me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows rose. “So you’re a pitcher, too.”

“I was. Still miss that feeling of controlling the game.” She pressed her lips shut. Now why had she admitted that to a stranger? One she should be running from instead of hanging around like a groupie...

Understanding lit his eyes. “Me too. I like taking the lead. Being in charge.” He stepped closer and stared down at her before he tucked a strand that’d fallen from her ponytail behind her ear. She shivered, the caress turning her inside out as his hand lingered by her cheek.

Unable to look away, she returned his stare, wishing he was anyone else. Or she was anyone else. But whatever she might fantasize, the reality was that this magnetic pull had to be severed. After a moment, she forced herself to back away.

“I’d better be going. My father probably needs me.”

“Tell him I wish him well,” Garrett said. “Will he be at tomorrow’s game? Both of you?”

The way he said it sounded like a personal invitation. Like he wanted her there. But she had to be imagining this. Few guys dared make a move on the owner’s daughter. She doubted Garrett would jeopardize his comeback by screwing up like that. And besides, her dad would go ballistic if she even considered cozying up to this guy. Time to exit. Fast. Every time their eyes met, she felt light-headed.

“Maybe. I’ll be around. Let’s go, Scout,” she called and fled.

Just not around you, she added silently, looking over her shoulder and catching his stare.

Not if she could help it.

* * *

HEATHER SNUCK ANOTHER look at her father as they seated themselves at the boardroom table. He’d scolded her for fussing over him these past two weeks, but with the scare he’d given her, it was hard to leave him be. Sometimes it felt like if she looked away, he might just disappear. And despite her mother’s sporadic attempts to contact her these past ten years, she still felt as though her father was all she had in the world.

Though lately, ridiculous thoughts of a gorgeous pitcher had also kept her company. She needed a mental fly swatter to squash them. Was he the reason she’d already laid out her outfit—a sundress and wedge sandals—for tonight’s game? Usually she was content with shorts and a T-shirt that’d survived a mustard spill or two. When she got home, that dress was going right back in the closet. No way was she dressing up for Garrett Wolf.

“Mr. Gadway.” A man in a fitted, expensive-looking suit entered the room and extended his hand to her father, his thick gold ring flashing under the recessed lights. “It’s nice to meet you in person, though I hadn’t anticipated the pleasure of meeting your lovely daughter as well.”

Heather tried not to cringe visibly at the moist press of his palm against hers, still wondering what this meeting was all about.

If she hadn’t overheard her father confirming the time and location, she wouldn’t have known he had something important scheduled. Luckily, he’d grudgingly given in when she’d insisted on coming. Her reminder that he still needed someone to drive tipped the scales.

“I’m Sam Gowette, and this is my business partner and brother, Joe.” A slightly younger man joined them. He had the same wavy brown hair as his brother, his protruding eyes lingering on her a moment too long. Gowette? Realization sizzled through her. These were the media moguls who owned their Major League affiliate, the Buccaneers. Why were they here?

“Tomas Swarez, our attorney, is here as well.” Heather returned the distinguished-looking man’s nod, her nerves jumping higher and higher until they reached her throat and made her swallow hard. What was going on?