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A League of Her Own
Karen Rock


He was attractive, talented…and way off limits.Heather Gadway may have been a world-class college pitcher and a top university coach, but she's a rank amateur when it comes to managing the Falcons, her father’s struggling minor league team. And when it comes to managing her aggravating attraction to Garrett Wolf, their talented new pitcher. It's going to be difficult enough to make it as the first female manager in the league and prove to her overly critical father she's worthy. No distractions. No missteps. And certainly no romances with players. Everything stands between them—including their troubled pasts—even as Heather’s world falls apart and Garrett's the one who's there to catch her…







He was attractive, talented...and way off-limits.

Heather Gadway may have been a world-class college pitcher and a top university coach, but she’s a rank amateur when it comes to managing the Falcons, her father’s struggling minor-league team. And when it comes to managing her aggravating attraction to Garrett Wolf, their talented new pitcher. It’s going to be difficult enough to make it as the first female manager in the league and prove to her overly critical father she’s worthy. No distractions. No missteps. And certainly no romances with players. Everything stands between them—including their troubled pasts—even as Heather’s world falls apart and Garrett’s the one who’s there to catch her...


“What do you have in mind?”

Heather stepped closer, and Garrett breathed in her subtle citrus scent.

“A contest. If I get more strikes out of twenty pitches than you do, you stay. If you have more, then I’ll release you.”

He stared at her. Processing. She couldn’t be serious. Sure, he had control issues, but he was still better than a college-level player. She was making this easy. But if she was foolish enough to offer him this out, he’d take it.

They eyed each other for a long, tense moment before he jerked his chin at her.

“You’re on.”


Dear Reader (#ulink_54630a7d-a97c-58f3-bf31-5caf3ae5b5d6),

Growing up, I sported scraped knees instead of bows, spent my days prowling through the woods playing “war” rather than dressing up dolls, and learned to shoot BB guns before mastering the art of mascara application. Never a “girlie girl,” I still fell head over heels for Mills & Boon romance books in my preteen years and am thrilled to write for this wonderful company. I’ve never questioned those different sides of me, and accept that I’ll always be as excited to watch a ball game as I am to watch The Bachelor.

A League of Her Own is dear to me because Heather embraces her competitive, sports-loving side, as more and more women are doing today. When I watch or attend games, I hear women cheering as loudly as the men. I enjoyed writing a romance for female sports enthusiasts, like me, who have sentimental hearts—even if we yell for blood when our team loses a run/basket/touchdown/goal. I’m excited to showcase strong female characters like Heather, and give readers a different kind of romantic heroine that they can relate to and root for in the story.

I would love to hear from you about your favorite sports experiences and teams as well as your thoughts about the novel. To contact me, email karenrock@live.com (mailto:karenrock@live.com).

Thanks!

Karen


A League

of Her Own

Karen Rock






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


KAREN ROCK

is an award-winning YA and adult contemporary author. She holds a master’s degree in English and worked as an ELA instructor before becoming a full-time author. Her Mills & Boon Heartwarming novel Wish Me Tomorrow has won the 2014 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence and the 2014 Golden Quill Award. When she’s not writing, Karen loves scouring estate sales, cooking and hiking. She lives in the Adirondack Mountain region with her husband, daughter and Cavalier King cocker spaniels.

www.KarenRock.com (http://www.KarenRock.com)


This novel is for all “sports moms” and especially my wonderful mother-in-law, Bernice Rock, the greatest, most dedicated of them all. Your seven sons and daughter are blessed to have had your unfailing support as you cheered them on at games and worked hard behind the scenes to keep their hectic lives running smoothly. Most important of all, you gave them your unconditional love. They couldn’t have had their amazing childhoods without you.


Contents

Cover (#u97d83864-cf10-514e-bc7b-b60147792335)

Back Cover Text (#ub7ec84e9-9ba2-56fb-b0d7-6a40ddf111cd)

Introduction (#uc7574806-00ee-59a1-a914-c74dcccfa895)

Dear Reader (#ub53e339a-bc03-5169-a7d6-c16c6198449b)

Title Page (#u5b21cf40-b7e7-5d7e-bc04-8ddda7dbce0a)

About the Author (#ud75eb059-4ebe-5d37-8dac-09e5c7ca6bf7)

Dedication (#u2d13be15-1fc0-500c-8a27-d3024f12d99f)

CHAPTER ONE (#ubf061b0e-9b14-5a74-8cd4-4330ba451702)

CHAPTER TWO (#u20bbc402-29bd-52f6-a7d9-e279ad55a746)

CHAPTER THREE (#u62eaeac5-f54c-5c27-9ad4-58a4a84f7c03)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ua1be2801-60bf-5b1f-9dff-057f8c01f723)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_97f7e3be-a66c-57d2-99ac-ef957f1ad5a6)

IF HEATHER GADWAY’S cell phone hadn’t already been dead, she would have killed it.

She peered at the blank screen, then squinted at the sun overhead, picturing her frowning father getting sent straight to her voice mail...again. Ever since she’d moved to California, he’d insisted they speak every morning. He’d probably left his version of a warm-and-fuzzy message, one she imagined sounded like this:

“Heather. For Pete’s sake. Charge your phone. Next time put the cord next to your makeup. Then you’ll actually remember the darn thing needs juice.”

After a silence punctuated with grumpy noises, he’d end with, “Call me back so I know you’re alive.”

She grabbed another softball from a nearby bucket and tossed it to her rookie Morro Bay University pitcher. If she asked to borrow her player’s phone, she could probably shoot off a text to her father, but a part of her rebelled at the thought. She hadn’t remembered to charge the phone again, but it wasn’t the end of the world. In fact, it was possible that she’d been ducking her cell lately, and half-forgetting to charge the battery, because she wanted a little breathing room from her dad’s too-frequent check-ins. She was twenty-seven, not seven. She’d earned the right to go twenty-four hours without a call.

“You’re spraying the ball,” she pointed out to Alicia as other girls in bright blue uniforms stretched or ran plays around the wide green field outside the chain link bullpen. A few lined up near the plate, taking hitting practice with their batting coach. “Watch that release point.”

Heather took off her visor and swiped a hand across her wet brow. It seemed as if they’d been at this for hours, and she was melting right along with the ice in the cooler. But she wouldn’t give up on Alicia, even though her father needed reassuring. As the pitching coach, Heather realized the team’s newest recruit depended on her. She’d been in those cleats nine years ago and knew how nervous the first-year student felt.

Alicia pulled off her sunglasses and squinted at Heather from the mound. “Too early or too late?”

“Depends on the pitch. Stay consistent.” Heather smiled encouragingly despite her unease. Ideally this phone lapse would earn her only a lecture for missing their daily check-in, an important routine her father had stuck to since nearly losing her fourteen years ago.

She twisted her wrist sweatband. With twenty minutes left in this session, Dad would have to wait. Not exactly his strong suit. As the owner of a Triple-A Minor League baseball team, he almost always got what he wanted. Few said no to Dave Gadway. Definitely not Heather.

“We need to replicate that point of release every single time,” she added, forcing her attention back on Alicia. “Feel where the ball is coming off your fingertips.” She pantomimed a pitch, arcing her arm back and then sweeping it forward, her fingers unfurling at her waist.

The girl’s blond brows came together. “Am I going to be ready for tomorrow’s game?” She tossed the softball to Heather.

After snatching it from the air, Heather twirled the familiar sphere of white, seamed leather in her palm, loving the feel and the good memories that came with it. For much of her life, playing sports had been her escape. The one place in her chaotic childhood she’d had some control. But as a former Red Tails pitcher herself, she knew that pitching was a high-pressure position.

Heather pasted a confident look on her face. Instilling self-assurance in her players was important, especially with the young ones like Alicia.

“Of course. We’ll keep pitching until we get it. Let’s slow it down a little. Put you back in the strike zone. We need to get the feel back for the release point.” She flipped the ball to her player.

“Got it.” Alicia’s shoulders lowered, and the first smile of the day ghosted across her lightly freckled face.

Their bullpen catcher, Bucky, stood and waved from the opposite end of the fenced-in area. He might be over forty feet away and wearing a mask, but Heather could picture the older man’s scowl. “We playing catch or pitching? Haven’t got all day here.”

Heather cupped her hands around her mouth. Despite years on the field, she’d always been soft-spoken, her words clinging to the back of her throat before she forced them out. It was a holdover from time spent tiptoeing around her volatile mother. “Sorry, Bucky. All set now.”

Bucky swatted the air with his mitt and crouched again, pounding his fist into the leather’s center. “Let’s go, girlies!”

Alicia’s brow furrowed and her fingers gripped the ball as she peered down the line. Good, thought Heather. She wasn’t letting well-meaning but crotchety Bucky get to her. Sports were as much a mental game as they were a physical one. Alicia had to focus, or no amount of speed—and the first-year student was fast at nearly seventy miles an hour—would help her win games.

With a breathy grunt, Alicia wound up and released the ball off her fingertips. Slower this time, waist-high, perfect form, Heather observed before she heard the satisfying crack in the catcher’s mitt.

“St-eee-rike!” hollered Bucky, jabbing the air with his fist before hurling the ball back toward the mound. “Keep it there, sweetie pie!”

Heather bit back a smile. Bucky worked with nationally ranked athletes, but it didn’t stop him from using endearments that made some of the girls blush. If there was a “sweetie pie” in the bullpen, it was crusty Bucky. The Red Tails were lucky to have this veteran assisting and warming up pitchers during practices and games.

“Way to go, ace!” Heather exclaimed as she scratched her eternally peeling nose. No matter how much sunscreen she slathered on it, she resembled Rudolph year round.

Alicia nodded without turning her head, her eyes on Bucky. The low buzzing of a lawn tractor grew louder as it neared, mowing diagonal green lines in the outfield, where it wouldn’t interfere with the infield practice. The smells of freshly cut grass and the honeysuckle growing up the fence mingled in the soft spring air. Heather hoped Alicia noticed none of this and was, instead, zoned in on getting another strike...not preoccupied with issues off the field like Heather was. Argh. Even thousands of miles away in North Carolina, her father still stirred the pot of her life.

She gnawed the inside of her cheek. His letting go was about as likely to happen as her actually wearing makeup, something he’d know if he paid attention to more than her mistakes.

Alicia wound up and released the ball, snapping Heather out of her thoughts. She grinned before she heard the catcher’s mitt pop. Nice! Right down the middle.

“St-eee-rike!” roared Bucky, and he winged the ball back at the mound. “You split the plate in half with that one, doll face!”

Alicia’s mitt folded around the ball, and she brought it back to her chest before turning to Heather. “Same speed?”

Heather gave her a fist bump, then raised her radar gun. “No. Let’s put a little something more on it.”

Alicia’s teeth caught her lower lip. Then she nodded and faced forward, her back straight.

A blur of white exploded from Alicia’s side and smacked straight into Bucky’s mitt.

“Sixty-eight.” Heather glanced up from the digital display and gave a thumbs-up. “Excellent control and speed. Let’s get a few more over the dish, and then we’ll go for the corners.”

“Sounds good.” Alicia grabbed the ball Bucky winged at her and began again, her determination exactly what Heather had hoped to see when she’d brought her out for this one-on-one session.

The young woman had the makings of a standout athlete: a strong work ethic, a positive attitude and talent. It was why she’d lobbied for Chris, Morro Bay’s director of softball operations, to recruit Alicia, despite her small size and inconsistent arm. Growing up around her father’s team had taught Heather a lot about spotting potential, and Alicia had it in spades.

Twenty minutes later, Heather lowered her radar gun and waved at Bucky. “All set, thanks!” she called.

The older man pulled off his mask, his red face wet with sweat, his helter-skelter gray hair defying the laws of gravity. He headed up the line with a rolling gait and grabbed a sports drink from the cooler. After a long swig, he lowered it and pointed the bottle at Heather.

“Alicia reminds me of you. Mark my words. She’s small, but she’s got a big future. Might even beat that record of yours.”

A gasp sounded beside Heather, and she glanced at a round-eyed Alicia.

“No one is ever going to win more than one hundred and fifty games,” Alicia said reverently. “Coach Gadway’s a legend.”

Heather popped the top off a drink and handed it to her flushed, tired-looking player. Sometimes young athletes forgot the simplest things, like staying hydrated. “Oh. I wouldn’t be sure about that. Records are made to be broken.”

After Heather’s sharp glance prompted her to throw back a long gulp, Alicia blurted, “Not yours. You were my idol growing up. I cut out all of your articles when you played here.”

“Thanks, Alicia. That means a lot. And you—” Her throat closed around the rest of her sentence, something that happened whenever her heart spoke instead of her brain. “You inspire me, too.” She returned Alicia’s hug, then busied herself packing up their gear, never comfortable with praise. It touched her that she’d been a role model for Alicia. Sports were character building, especially in young women. They’d certainly saved her.

But if there was one thing she’d learned as a baseball team owner’s daughter, fame was fleeting. Her real legacy, she hoped, would be helping other players, like Alicia, reach their potential.

“You’re awesome, Coach,” Alicia exclaimed as she grabbed the bucket of balls Heather passed her.

For a moment, Heather imagined how great it would have been if her father had heard that compliment, then shook the thought aside. If he had, he would have grumped that she should have pushed Alicia harder or some other criticism. It was his nature to point out faults, and he often found them in her. According to her childhood counselor, it was his way of showing he cared. If only it hadn’t hurt more than it’d helped.

Behind them, Bucky hefted the cooler, and they headed for the exit. Sparrows took flight as they swung open the squealing gate and entered the large field, which was nearly ready for tomorrow’s game. Heather paused for a moment and drank in the neatly raked and marked baselines, imagining the seats packed, the crowd cheering for Alicia and her first win. It’d be a great moment, and she hoped it came true.

Bucky snapped the padlock shut, breaking her out of her reverie. With a wave, he strode off toward the office area.

After Heather reassured the girl she’d do just fine in the upcoming game, Alicia went to the changing room, and Heather headed toward her office. She’d done solid work with Alicia today. In her gut, she knew she’d been right to recommend her, but ultimately, it all came down to the athlete’s psyche. As much as she wished she could be in control, when it came to people, you couldn’t count on anything. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

Inside her small office, she sank into her flex-back chair and glanced up at the shelf holding her two USA Softball National Collegiate Player of the Year trophies. It’d been a long time since she’d felt the high of an achievement like that. As the youngest member of the coaching staff, she had a lot to prove.

She glanced at a picture of her father wearing his Triple-A Falcons team jacket and dropped her head into her hands. She wanted to show her dad she could succeed, too. It still stung that he’d vetoed her offer to come home to Holly Springs after college and work for the team, an institution that’d been in their family for three generations.

“You’re not experienced enough, Heather,” he’d said. “There’s more to running a team than just being a great player.”

And so far, without a recent division title, she hadn’t proven him wrong. Although she worked with Morro Bay’s head coach, helping him with roster moves and recruiting, they still hadn’t put together a winning team.

With a sigh, she grabbed the landline. It was noon here, three o’clock in Holly Springs. He’d be out of the office, watching practice, no doubt.

An hour after leaving voice mail and text messages on her dad’s cell, worry twisted her gut. Why wasn’t he returning her call? Watching practice wouldn’t stop him from getting back to her. She’d expected a lecture, not silence.

She punched in the number for Pete, the Falcons team manager. Fear fluttered inside her when the outgoing message stated that his number had been disconnected or changed. What was going on?

Scrolling through her contacts, she found Reed’s cell number. Surely the Falcons hitting coach could give her some answers.

“Reed,” he answered, curtly.

She relaxed at the sound of his familiar, scratchy voice. “Hi, Reed. It’s Heather. I’m trying to get a hold of my—”

“Heather. We’ve been calling you.” His voice grew louder, and in the background an overhead PA system crackled, announcing a code blue.

Her heartbeat sped as she checked her missed calls and saw his number. Was Reed in a hospital? Was her father? “What’s going on? Is Dad okay? Where’s Pete?”

“Pete didn’t renew his contract, so he left a week ago. As for your dad, I’m waiting for the doctor, so I’m not sure. Wait. Here’s somebody in a white coat.”

Heather’s fingers tightened around the handset. Oh. God. No. At sixty, her bull of a father had never been sick a day in his life. It had to be serious if he’d agreed to go to the hospital. Or—she squeezed her eyes shut—worse yet, there’d been no choice.

“I’m putting the doctor on, Heather. Hold on.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a woman’s voice came across the line.

“Heather Gadway?”

Heather’s answer seemed sucked into the cleft between her collarbones. After a long moment, she gasped out, “Yes?”

“This is Dr. Freeman. I’m afraid your father suffered a heart attack today that’s damaged his left ventricle.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Her voice cracked. Suddenly she was eighteen again, leaving home for California, looking at a world that, for the first time, would not include her father. Back then she’d feared the distance separating them. But this...this could be permanent.

“He has stenosis—narrowing—in two of his coronary arteries that we’ll treat with angioplasty and stents. However, another, smaller artery is blocked. We’ll hold off on a bypass to see if he’s improved after the first procedure. If so, we’ll simply manage the occluded artery medically.”

The doctor’s words raced through her mind too fast to make sense. “An angioplasty?” A halting gap appeared between her questions, endless seconds when the words cowered against her lips. “A stent?”

On the other end of the line, the physician cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to rush through all of this, but surgery is in thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes?” Heather repeated, peering at her watch. Her father’s operation would be underway before she boarded a flight. She needed to be there. Now.

She tapped her keyboard and brought up screens with flights.

“Yes. Given the degree of atherosclerosis and his symptoms, it’s best to act quickly. I have every confidence in this procedure. His prognosis looks good if he makes some changes in what I understand is a stressful life, including healthier eating, exercising and more relaxation.”

Heather blinked in surprise. Her wired father never took a day off. And if Pete was no longer managing the Falcons, Dad was under more pressure than ever.

“That being said, I can’t make any promises,” the doctor continued. “Do you have any questions?”

Heather pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew that life didn’t come with guarantees. Yet somehow, naïvely, she hadn’t believed that rule applied to her father. He was her rock. Tough. Unyielding. Immune to weaknesses. Here was a chink in his armor, and it shook her to her core.

She scribbled a question on a note card, then read the question aloud: “When will he be out of surgery?” It was a speech therapy trick she hadn’t used in years. She’d outgrown most of her speech issues except in the most extreme situations.

“If all goes well, two hours, then another hour or so before he’s released to his room.”

“Will you tell him...” Heather’s words halted in her tight throat, the passage blocked. She clicked on an online ticket and noted the arrival time. “...tell him I’ll be there by five? Eight your time.”

“I’ll note it in the chart. Your father is in good hands.”

“Thank you.” Heather hung up and studied her palms. No matter what the doctor suggested, Heather knew the truth from a lifetime of lessons drilled into her by a demanding parent.

Talent was no guarantee.

* * *

“LET’S DRINK TO Mr. Gadway’s recovery. Two days post-op and he’s already up and bossing the nurses around.”

Garrett Wolf nodded in agreement then stared at the glass of Jameson his teammate plunked down on the pub table before him. His hands were clenched in his lap. He inhaled the familiar, woodsy smell of the whiskey, imagining its smooth taste on his suddenly parched tongue.

His sponsor’s phone number ran through his head. He’d call if he couldn’t resist those three fingers of whiskey. And he could use it tonight. Down the whole bottle until the sting of his miserable performance at the game earlier floated away. Luckily he’d attended an AA meeting this afternoon. It helped.

“Drink up, buddy. The night’s young and the season’s still early. Don’t let tonight get you down. You’ll win next time.” The Falcons’ starting catcher, Dean, pulled up a wooden stool and gulped an identical beverage.

Garrett’s dark thoughts grew blacker. As a starting pitcher, he’d screwed up this chance to prove himself. A win would have confirmed that his past, as a Minor League player who’d squandered his potential, wouldn’t repeat itself. He needed to show that the Falcons’ risky decision to sign him would pay off.

But playing competitively after a three-year hiatus had rattled him, catching him off guard. Self-doubt, not booze, had impaired him this time. Ironic. Tomorrow, he’d hit the field and work on the control he’d lacked. Get his act together. If he didn’t, he’d miss his last opportunity to move up to the Major Leagues. It was the childhood dream that’d gotten him through foster care, the adult goal that’d turned his life around.

“Aren’t you going to drink that?” Dean asked, eying the whiskey. “Toast to Mr. Gadway?”

Garrett shoved the glass away, his fingers lingering, before forcing himself to let go. “I’ll send a card.”

“More for me, then.” Dean studied him, then shrugged and threw back the drink.

Garrett looked away, not wanting to see the guy swallow the tempting brew. Yet all around him his new teammates were drinking beer so frothy he felt it on his upper lip, taking shots that made his own throat burn. He wanted a drink in the worst way. And with only twelve months of sobriety under his belt, he didn’t trust himself to resist.

Not in this place.

Not ever.

In a couple of minutes, he’d leave. He’d already congratulated the new shortstop who’d been called up from their Double-A team. It was the reason they’d gathered here tonight to celebrate.

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 (#ulink_81ee6340-2301-5ca1-8d17-60218131f8fe)

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?

The attorney passed a folder to her father and looked at her apologetically. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have prepared a purchase offer packet for you as well, Ms. Gadway.”

Heather set down her mug. “Purchase offer?” Her heart raced. Were they selling the team? A sharp glance at her father showed him looking straight ahead, a slight tick appearing beneath his left eye. A sure sign he was unsettled.

The Gowette brothers exchanged a long look before the older one—Sam—faced her with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, yes. It’s an offer we’ve been discussing with your father. Our purchase of the Falcons.”

A hot flush started in Heather’s gut and burned its way up to her cheeks. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.” She turned to her father and said in a low voice, “The Falcons are not for sale.”

The lawyer straightened his tie and cleared his throat after a nod from his employers. “With all due respect, Ms. Gadway, this deal has been negotiated with your father, the sole owner of this property. We’d appreciate the chance to proceed with our discussion without further interruptions.”

“What is going on?” she whispered to her father.

“Heather. This has nothing to do with you,” he growled beneath his breath. His brown eyes slid her way and narrowed at the edges in a way that used to make her duck under her covers.

But she wasn’t a kid anymore. And this had everything to do with her. The Falcons were her family’s legacy. Sure, she wasn’t the son she imagined her father would have wanted. But there wasn’t anything a man could do for this team that she couldn’t. Her father needed to give her a chance to turn it around rather than sell. Believe in her instead of ripping everything she did apart.

She opened her mouth but closed it when her father’s index finger tapped the table in front of her. Fine. She’d listen, but he wouldn’t possibly sell the team without talking it over with her first. Would he?

“Shall we begin?” the attorney intoned, and all the men flipped open their folders in unison.

Heather leaned to the right and read over her father’s shoulder. The Gowette Corporation was proposing to purchase the Falcons for eight million dollars, a ridiculously low price. Her heart beat so loudly she wondered if her father could hear it. But he refused to meet her eye as he scanned the document.

A knock on the door sounded when her father reached the last page. The one with the empty signature lines.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” said Frank Williams, the Minor League’s director. He was a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair clipped short around his square-shaped head. His eyes darted to Heather, and he smiled in recognition. His daughter was her high school best friend and former softball teammate. “I stopped by to check in on the Falcons and heard there was a sale meeting. Thought I might sit in if that’s okay.”

Heather breathed a bit easier. She knew Frank well and had always thought him a fair person. He’d never agree that eight million was a reasonable price. Not for a team that grossed half of that a year. Or at least, it used to before the fabric mills had all shut down. A lot had changed since she’d left home.

In fact, she’d hardly recognized Holly Springs when she’d driven through it the other day. Gone were the crowds bustling along the streets. Many of the coffee shops and local artisan spots were boarded up. Even the children’s bookstore had shut down. Worse yet, the people walked with their heads low, as though the pride they’d once had in their formerly thriving town had left along with most of its populace. It broke her heart.

The Gowettes and their lawyer nodded and grinned at Frank as if greeting royalty. His opinion held a lot of sway, and they obviously were courting it.

“The proposal is to purchase the Falcons for eight million dollars, a price previously negotiated between my clients and Mr. Gadway,” announced the Gowettes’ representative. When he raised his coffee mug for a sip, she noticed his hand trembled slightly. He had to know this was a terrible offer.

Frank cleared his throat and peered at her father. “And that price is agreeable to you, Dave?”

Her father paled and, for the first time since she’d seen him in the hospital, looked defeated. “I’m out of options. And the price is fair since they’re not going to use any of the Holly Springs facilities.”

Heather sucked in a harsh breath. “Why? We just built the new stadium ten years ago, and the old stadium is still a decent place for targeted practices.”

“Because we’re relocating the team closer to Pittsburgh,” the older Gowette brother cut in flatly, clearly losing patience with her.

“But the Falcons have always played in Holly Springs.” Heather struggled to raise her voice, yet the more upset she got, the more her brain muted her vocal cords. She turned to her expressionless father and put a hand on his arm, feeling the thin parchment of his skin. He seemed to have aged overnight.

“Your grandfather founded the team here in the ’30s. We have an obligation to this town. Its people.” Sure, the growing trend was Major League owners buying their Minor League affiliates, but she’d never imagined it happening to the Falcons. Her family couldn’t give up a tradition they’d started long ago.

“Joe, Sam, Tomas,” her father said, his voice filled with the gravel that came from shouting for most of his life. “I’d like a moment with my daughter. Alone.”

The men shot her disapproving looks and left. Frank remained, sitting quietly after her father nodded for him to stay.

The creases in her father’s broad face deepened when he turned toward her, his firm jaw showing the slightest droop. When had her dad ever looked his age? He gathered her hands in his, his familiar calluses chaffing her palm. “It’s time to be a grown-up, Heather, and that means making tough decisions.”

Disappointment stung her, but she wasn’t surprised. Criticism was his way of caring, right? She gritted her teeth and ignored the old hurts.

“I’m listening, Dad. And I can’t believe that we talk every day and something so important to you—and me—never came up. Please do bring me up to speed.”

Her father sighed. “Since the fabric mills shut down and the brand new Double-A stadium went up on the other side of Raleigh, we’ve lost money for five years straight. I’ve tried to keep it from you. Didn’t want you to worry, but the truth is, I can’t afford to keep going.”

“You should have told me. I would have come home to help instead of just visit.” She squeezed his hands, wishing he’d trusted her with the truth. But open communication had never been their strong suit. Living with an addict meant keeping secrets. It was a pattern they’d never broken free of, even after her mother had left and she and her dad had attended Al-Anon meetings together. Although the group was a way for friends and families of substance abusers to share their experiences, Heather and her dad had never talked about it outside of meetings.

Her father shook his head. “You’re doing just fine out there in California, and there’s nothing you could help with here. Pete left because I had to offer him a lower wage. Since I can’t pay the kind of salary that’d buy us a decent manager, we can’t turn the team’s record around and attract the fans. I’d do it myself, but with my health where it’s at, that’s not an option anymore.”

But she could help. Sure she loved coaching the Red Tails, but this team belonged to her ancestors, and Holly Springs was where her home and heart were. If the team left, there would be little to keep the town going.

“But you don’t have to do it yourself. I’m here. I’ll take a leave of absence from the university, manage the team for free and get the Falcons back on track while you recover.” Although she used her most confident “coach” voice, inside she shook at the idea. Could she pull it off? It’d been her dream, but she’d always imagined gradually easing into the position with time to learn from Pete. Now she’d have to figure things out on the fly. Sink or swim time.

Her father pressed his lips together and shook his head. “You don’t have the know-how for a job like this, Heather.”

“I grew up with the Falcons and know as much about them as anyone here. Even you.” She searched his eyes but saw only flat refusal reflected back at her. Her chin rose as she tried again. “I’ve worked my way up with the Red Tails and help out with their roster and recruitment. I can do this. Give me a chance.”

He swatted the air with his hand. “Out of the question. Besides, who ever heard of a woman managing a men’s Minor League baseball team?”

Frank put his elbow on the table and leaned in. “Actually, the MBA’s been trying to rectify that, Dave. Someone like Heather could help with that.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “We need to show that we’re equal opportunity employers.”

Heather’s heart warmed. Frank believed in her.

“But I can’t afford to lose more money, or spend time teaching her the ropes,” exclaimed her father. He pushed back his gray hair, his face turning red. “She’ll never learn fast enough.”

His cutting words threatened to shove Heather right back to her childhood and all the times she hadn’t been good enough. Not for him.

But he’d also said it was time to grow up, and she’d done that. He just didn’t see it. With this chance, she’d prove that she was capable and deserved his respect.

“I don’t need your help,” she said, forcing the dial up on her voice. “I watched a game the other day, and already have some changes in mind to improve the team.”

Her father snorted, but Frank steepled his fingers and regarded her carefully. “What would you do?”

She went through the mental notes she’d taken while watching yesterday’s game. “First, George Hopson’s a good hitter, but he’s slow. He clogs up the bases and could have scored a run from third if he’d hustled on that long fly ball. Defensively, your center fielder, Rob Vader, is plenty fast, but he’s wall-shy. He pulled up short yesterday and missed a catchable ball that hit the bottom of the wall. Two runs scored because of that. We need more effort on those kinds of plays. Finally, that new pitcher, the tall, blond-haired one...”

“Garrett Wolf?” her father asked, looking slightly stunned at her rush of words. It felt good finally to have the floor. To share her opinion. To be listened to. Taken seriously.

She nodded, trying to appear calm despite the leap in her pulse at Garrett’s name. “He’s a risk, and I’m not sure if he’s worth keeping. I didn’t see him pitch that game, but heard he’s got control issues. He’ll need help with that if he’s going to be an asset instead of a liability.”

She would definitely put the Falcons pitching coach on that task, not trusting herself to give the dangerously attractive new player the pointers he needed. That is, if she even got the opportunity to save the team.

Her father was already shaking his head. “Impossible.”

“Dave. This isn’t my call, but if you’d like my advice, I’ll give it,” Frank weighed in.

At her father’s stiff nod, the man continued. “The season’s already begun, and the team can’t be relocated at this point anyway. This sale can be made in September if you still want it. In the meantime, give Heather a chance. I’ve watched this kid of yours for years. She’s levelheaded, hardworking and no quitter. She’ll motivate these guys. Besides, as the first Minor League team with a female manager, you’ll draw attention and may sell more tickets. Female baseball fans are a growing demographic. We need to get with the times.”

He winked at Heather, and she glowed at the praise and support. Frank had been a good father to her friend, and now he was her champion when she’d least expected it.

Her father rubbed the white bristles on his chin, his eyes half-closed. “This is a bad idea,” he grumbled after a long, tense moment.

“But you’ll try it,” Frank urged him.

“Won’t change anything,” her father sighed, giving her a pitying look beneath the unclipped hedge of his brows. “Just putting off the inevitable.”

Heather ducked behind her emotional shield before her father’s lack of faith wounded her further. She had four months to turn the team around and prove him wrong. And she had a few ideas of her own about how to put the Falcons back in the limelight besides wins and the novelty of her gender. One plan had taken hold when she’d fielded a request from a local group home for troubled foster kids who couldn’t live with families. They were eager for tickets and she was happy to give them, along with other opportunities if her father would let her.

Ideally, with a focus on positive change, her gender would become a nonissue—for her and all women who wanted a career in baseball.

The Gowette brothers knocked and confidently strode to their seats, their lawyer in tow.

“Shall we start over?” Their attorney seated himself, then flipped to the pages where signature lines lay empty.

Her father crossed his arms over his chest. “No need. Sale’s off.”

The brothers sputtered, one of them protesting, “We’ve been putting this deal together for months.”

“Then you won’t mind waiting a few more. The Falcons are going to finish their season before I revisit this sale option.”

“This offer won’t be around forever,” warned the older brother, pointing his finger.

“No.” Her father stood with a sigh. He looked down at Heather and put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “And neither will I. But we’ll take our chances.”

After the Gowettes and their lawyer left, Heather flew into her father’s arms. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me. I was trying to save some inheritance for you instead of burning through it with another bad season, but if you and Frank think this is a good idea...well...we’ll give it a few months. After that, no more arguments. The team goes.”

“There won’t be any more arguments,” Heather whispered in her father’s ear before releasing him.

He harrumphed and walked out of the room with Frank as Heather lingered.

She looked out at the empty parking lot, imagining it full again. Holly Springs deserved another chance. And after a childhood full of hearing what she couldn’t do, she deserved this opportunity, too. Finally, her father would learn he could count on her, trust that she was capable. Believe in her.

She had one shot and wouldn’t mess it up.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_751a8f22-f61e-5433-b1d7-32482c9daed1)

“ANYONE KNOW WHAT the meeting’s about?”

Garrett looked up at George Hopson, who’d turned around in his foldout chair, the cherry smell of chewing tobacco accompanying his question.

Garrett shrugged when he caught Dean’s subtle headshake. It was one thing to speculate in private. But this was a formal meeting. No sense in getting everyone riled up about rumors until they knew the truth. From what he’d heard, it’d been a couple of days since the franchise owners had met with Mr. Gowette and speculation was rife.

On his own end, however, he was worried. After his conversation with Dean, he’d called his agent and already had a couple of teams lined up who might be interested in giving him a tryout if the Falcons released him. He was a risk as a reclamation project who now had a 0-1 record. If he let any more time go by and his record worsened, he’d be out of options completely. He was fortunate the teams even entertained the idea of looking him over. If his current team appeared to be in more jeopardy than he’d previously believed, he needed to move fast.

“Don’t know.” He lifted his foot and placed it on his jittering knee. “Change in schedule?”

“Is it true they’re selling the team?” jabbered the new shortstop beside him. His hair was slicked back and wet from a recent shower, his polo shirt pressed as neatly as the crease in his pants. Garrett looked at his own wrinkled button-down shirt and jeans. He’d put in some effort at least—he’d usually be in a T-shirt and shorts. Since practice started in an hour, there wasn’t much reason to get dressed up.

“Guess we’ll see.” He rubbed his jaw, wondering when the meeting would begin. He was as anxious as the rest, but his years of learning to keep his temper in check as a foster kid, then hiding his feelings during games altogether, made camouflaging his emotions second nature.

“They’re probably announcing our next manager,” put in Waitman, their left fielder. He shook a packet of raisins into his mouth and chewed as he watched the clock above the double doors at the front of the large team meeting room.

Murmurs of agreement erupted from the rows of seats around them. It was the most logical explanation. And a critical choice. The wrong manager would influence the entire season and, by extension, Garrett’s prospects of a strong record that could propel him to the Majors. If the team gave up trying, it wouldn’t help his stat line. He needed the Falcons to hustle, to execute plays well and get batters out. If they didn’t, it would mean more runs and more hits and fewer innings pitched, all stats chronicled on his record.

A pitcher usually only got around a hundred throws per game. If the guys backing him up couldn’t get the outs they were supposed to, it meant facing more batters per inning, burning through the number of throws allowed before he was pulled from the game.

With luck, the news would be good and he’d see the owner’s beautiful daughter at tonight’s game. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind since they’d met. In fact, he’d looked her up online and discovered that she was one of the top collegiate softball players of all time. Impressive.

Looks and talent. She had it all.

Including a father who’d bench him if he so much as treated her to a stadium hot dog.

Not that he’d do anything that stupid. She’d be off-limits even if her father wasn’t the owner. He had to stay focused on his career, not women. Even ones as attractive as Heather.

She was pretty in that natural way he liked best. She wore no makeup, but freckles and a sunburned nose brightened her heart-shape face. Her large eyes, a color that reminded him of jade stones, were set beneath golden brows that matched the strands running through her long, wavy light brown hair.

Yes, she was gorgeous, and the wary expression in her eyes made him feel strangely protective. What he wanted to shield her from, however, he hadn’t a clue. Yet something about her reminded him, strangely, of himself. She seemed guarded, as if ready for whatever life was about to dish out next. Weird. As Dave Gadway’s daughter, she was rich and privileged. What had she ever suffered?

He stopped his runaway thoughts. Whatever had happened to put that expression in Heather’s eyes, it was none of his business. Had to stay that way. He’d watch her from afar, and if she crossed his path again, he’d take a different road.

He checked the time. Three o’clock. The meeting should have started by now.

As if on cue, the doors swung open and in walked Dave Gadway, looking pale and thinner, but still the big presence he’d always been. The hitting coach, Reed, followed him along with their pitching coach, Smythe, and their strength trainer. But the person who caught his eye was Heather.

She was almost unrecognizable in a fitted black pantsuit that hugged her long legs. With her hair back in a tight updo, her unusual eyes looked bigger than ever. Her mouth, a soft pink, was small and tilted upward at both corners. It made him want to kiss her, though that was impossible. What was it about always wanting what you couldn’t have?

“What’s the daughter doing here?” Dean leaned over and muttered in his ear. “It’s serious if they called in the family.”

Garrett’s stomach twisted. Dean had a point. It was unusual for family to attend team meetings beyond the owner. Unheard of...unless...they were planning on selling. If that was the announcement, he’d ask for a release from his contract so he could play for another team that would ensure him a better record. After his dismal performance at the last game, there was a decent chance the Falcons would consider letting him go.

Mr. Gadway stood in front and held up a hand until the athletes quieted.

“There’s been a lot of rumors. First of all, we are not going to sell the team this year,” he began without preamble, his gritty voice carrying to the back of the silent room. He rocked up on his toes, then back down to his heels.

Dean blew out a long breath, but Garrett knew better than to relax. Life had thrown him too many curveballs. His eyes wandered to Heather, who faced her father, hands twisting behind her back. If they weren’t selling the team, what was she nervous about?

“We’ve appointed a new interim manager for the remainder of the season,” Mr. Gadway continued, and Dean nudged Garrett’s side, his mouth lifting in a sideways smile. It was encouraging...only...shouldn’t the new manager be here? Unless he was. Had Reed been promoted after all? If so, that was bad news. The guy was too soft, didn’t give much direction. And Smythe? He looked on the brink of retiring.

Mr. Gadway coughed, and Heather strode to his side with a glass of water, looking every inch the caring daughter.

“I’ve picked an experienced manager,” Mr. Gadway continued after handing Heather back the empty glass. “Someone I have extreme confidence in to be able to turn things around—Heather Gadway, formerly of the Morro Bay University Red Tails. I’ll give her the floor.”

Garrett watched, stunned, as Heather stepped forward, her expression serious and determined despite the men who lowered their heads, shook them and muttered at this shocking announcement. Heather. The woman who’d been occupying his mind ever since he’d met her, the woman whose lips tempted him even now, was his new boss?

What. The. Heck.

She stood patiently until the murmuring died down. When she spoke, her voice was low enough to make them all lean in.

“First of all, let’s state the obvious. I’m the first female manager in the Minor Leagues. Most of you know that I’m Dave’s daughter. I’ve spent the better part of my life around this game, and with the Falcons. As a pitcher, I’ve won four College World Series titles and two USA Softball National Collegiate Player of the Year awards. Up until now, I was a coach for the Division One Morro Bay Red Tails.”

“Unbelievable,” the young shortstop muttered under his breath, echoing Garrett’s own miserable thoughts.

Heather bit her lower lip, and her eyes wandered over the group, stopping for a moment on Garrett. “I’ve watched this team for the past few days, and I’m seeing a lack of effort in places. That will not happen on my watch.”

Several chairs squeaked as the players moved restlessly around him, the atmosphere tense. If he wasn’t so pissed, he’d feel sorry for her. Why hadn’t she said anything yesterday?

After another lengthy pause, Heather began again. “We have the talent to succeed if everyone gives one hundred percent. Playing hard makes a difference. You owe it to yourself, and the team, to do so.”

Garrett caught Dean’s slight nod out of the corner of his eye. She might be softening up his friend, but he’d be damned if he’d play on a team led by a manager with no actual baseball coaching experience. Sure, she knew softball, but up until now, when it came to baseball, she’d been only a spectator.

“I’m going to be meeting with each one of you over the next couple of days.” Heather gave her first smile to the group, her face softening attractively. Garrett steeled himself and glanced at his watch. With forty minutes left until practice, he’d make sure he was her first meeting, though she wouldn’t like his news. He’d demand his release and wouldn’t leave the room without it.

“As I watch more of the games and practices, you’ll receive a critique of your performances and a plan for how to reach your potential.” Heather’s smile broadened. He noticed a few of the guys returning her smile while others scowled and studied the floor. She’d have her work cut out for her winning over this group.

“I know some of you have your doubts. To be honest, if I were in your shoes, I would too.”

“Yeah!” someone burst out from the back of the room, earning a scowl from Mr. Gadway. Heather didn’t miss a beat.

“But I have confidence in my ability to teach and motivate. If you give me a fair shot, we can win, which is what we all want.”

A couple of guys murmured their agreement, and he shut his mouth before he joined them. He wanted to win. But Heather wasn’t the person to help him do that. He had nothing against a female manager. Just one with no real baseball management experience. Someone who’d probably gotten the job by playing her Daddy’s-little-girl card.

She wasn’t who he’d thought she was when they’d met at the old field. Like so many rich kids, she was the kind of privileged, indulged child he’d never liked. Was that wariness in her eyes an act to get people to take care of her? Well, it wouldn’t work on him.

Heather clasped her hands. “Practice starts in forty-five minutes. See you there. Thank you.”

His grumbling teammates filed out, followed by the coaches and Heather’s father. Garrett, however, remained in his seat, watching the lithe young woman as she stood by the door.

At last she turned to him.

“We meet again. Garrett, right?”

He stood and strode to the door. When he stopped, her eyes widened, caution swimming in their depths.

“You mentioned personal meetings,” he said, keeping his voice even, hiding the irritation shimmering through him. “I thought we’d have ours now.”

She blinked up at him, and her lips moved. Though he strained to hear, he couldn’t make out what she’d said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

A bright pink suffused her cheeks, and he forced himself not to notice how pretty the color made her.

“I said that I haven’t finished my notes for you yet. I’ll watch you pitch tomorrow. We’ll meet after that.”

He had to give it to her. Soft-spoken or not, she had a direct way about her. He didn’t doubt that she could lead...just not professional baseball players. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m requesting to be released from my contract. This isn’t the right place for me to advance in my career.”

Her mobile face stilled. “And why would that be?”

“Look, I’ll be blunt.” He tapped his fingers on the sides of his legs. “This team isn’t hustling, and it’ll be a long time before they come around to supporting you. Things will get worse instead of better. I have a limited window of opportunity to advance. Given these factors, my bottom-line pitching won’t look good with a losing team behind me. I’d like to help you, but selfishly, this is my last shot.”

A speculative gleam entered her eyes. “So you’re asking to be released because you think I can’t help you reach your goals.”

A long breath rushed out of him. She was going to be reasonable. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’re wrong, and I’ll be as frank with you as you were with me.”

His relief turned to irritation. So she wasn’t going to make this easy. He held his tongue and waited to hear her out.

“I think you’re overvaluing yourself.” She nodded when his mouth dropped open. Guys talked this way to each other. Not women...especially not pretty women...to him.

“Your control isn’t where it should be, and if that’s not addressed, you’ll also be another reason why this team isn’t doing well. But you have potential, and I can help you.”

“Right,” he scoffed. What could a softball pitcher do for him? “No offense, but I need someone with more experience.”

She tapped her chin and angled her head, her eyes flashing up at him. “If I can change your mind about that, will you drop your request and give me your support and a hundred percent effort?”

He held in a laugh. Was she for real? There wasn’t a chance she could change his decision. “What do you have in mind?”

She stepped closer, and her subtle citrus scent curled beneath his nose.

“A contest. If I get more strikes out of twenty pitches than you do, you stay. If you have more, then I’ll release you.”

He stared at her. Processing. She couldn’t be serious. Sure, he had control issues, but he was still better than a college-level player. She was making this easy. But if she was foolish enough to offer him this out, he’d take it.

They eyed each other for a long, tense moment before he jerked his chin at her.

“You’re on.”

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Garrett stretched his linked hands overhead, a familiar pull tugging his triceps. He dropped his arms and circled them, loosening his upper back and keeping his mind focused. All around him the pink-yellow sky had grown bluer, fat-bottomed clouds hanging low as if wanting a better look at his impending matchup with Heather. He adjusted his cap brim against the strengthening light, then executed a series of lunges across the field’s moist grass, shorn blades clinging to his cleats. The crisp air filled his lungs and for a moment, he imagined what it would be like to put down roots here in North Carolina.

He tossed out the thought and alternated raising his knees to his chest. Once he finished the pitch-off, he’d be trying out for other teams. Moving on. Losing today and playing for the Falcons wasn’t an option, no matter how beautiful their new manager. Her expressive green eyes had lingered in his mind when he’d woken, the memory of her soft, lilting voice running through him like a warm drink on a cold night.

But he needed to steer clear of those thoughts and stay centered. Winning his contract release should be easy as long as he didn’t get distracted.

Suddenly, a wolf whistle sounded to his left, piercing the still air. Hanging over the dugout fence were several of his teammates—former teammates soon—he reminded himself. He swore beneath his breath. He’d guessed they’d show up, if for nothing else than to heckle him. But he was sure they were also curious to see their new manager in action. He scowled and jogged over.

“Beat it. This is between Heather and me.”

George Hopson pursed his small mouth and raised eyebrows so light they disappeared into the deep furrows on his forehead. “Don’t recall it being an invite-only shindig, do you, fellas?”

Several of the guys shook their heads, and Waitman, the left fielder, smirked. “What’s the matter, Wolf? Thought you’d like our support. We got up early to cheer you on.”

A few players laughed, and Waitman and Hopson elbowed each other.

Garrett wiped the annoyance off his face. Fine. He could play this game too. “That’s good, since it’ll save me from finding you to say goodbye. As soon as I win this, I’m out of here. But I’ll miss you.” Yeah. Okay. He laid that one on extra thick, but it’d worked.

That shut them up, and Garrett kept his expression impassive as he stared them down.

“Where are you trying out?” piped up the new shortstop. Garrett did a mental search for his name and found it—Valdez.

He shrugged and took Valdez’s offered bag of sunflower seeds. “I have some options.”

Technically Garrett couldn’t have any meetings formalized while still under contract. But there were a few teams with a date and time ready when he won his release. In an hour or so, he’d grab his packed bags and head out. No sense lingering. He’d learned in foster care that when the time came to move on, you went. No looking back, even if an emerald-eyed beauty was in your rearview mirror.

Speaking of which, where was Heather? This whole contest was her idea.

A hushed exclamation sounded, and he turned to watch his opponent jog up the field. The strengthening sun gathered around her, setting her lithe, athletic body aglow as she drew closer. Her hair was swept off her face in a ponytail that bounced around her delicate jaw and long neck. Sunglasses obscured her eyes, but her full mouth looked relaxed and soft and incredibly kissable.

“You’re going to catch a few flies if you don’t shut your trap,” called Hopson, but Garrett barely heard him.

She was gorgeous. Tall and slender, her clinging tank top revealing soft curves, the pink color setting off a face that’d stop a man’s heart—if he let it. But his had been ripped out long ago. So why was she affecting him this way? He dragged his eyes from her long, toned legs, the tanned skin flashing beneath black spandex shorts.

Back in the day, if she wasn’t the owner’s daughter—heck, even if she was—he would have taken her to dinner, fixed her breakfast the next morning and moved on to the next conquest. He thought he’d had his fill of beautiful women. But looking at Heather, he sensed something unique. There was a purpose and strength about her that drew him. She posed a challenge, one he would have wanted to meet on and off the field if things were different. If she was someone else, not a spoiled rich girl whose latest whim would run his career into the ground. He was putting a stop to that. Now.

“Hey, Skipper!” called Valdez, his use of the classic manager nickname and fawning tone earning him a sharp glare from Garrett.

“Hey, guys. Nice of you to come out this morning,” she said after clearing her throat several times. Maybe it was the first time she’d spoken this morning? Her voice sounded rusty, though he detected no uncertainty. In fact, from the confident smile she flashed him, it looked as if she was sure she’d win.

Not that it rattled him. He’d met a lot of overconfident athletes. Being a collegiate champion might have inflated her ego. It was one thing to watch professional athletes, another to test your mettle against one. He’d have to be careful not to best her by too far a margin. No sense in demoralizing her, especially in front of her new team.

“Are you ready?” She dropped a bag by the backstop, pulled out a blue visor and adjusted it over her head. When she swept off her glasses and peered up at him, his stomach jittered and his breath hitched. He reined in his slipping control and forced an easy smile.

“Sure. Would you like to pitch first?” He wanted her to say yes. Going last meant he could guarantee his score only topped hers slightly, just enough to make Holly Springs dust in his tire treads and Heather a dream that’d never materialize.

She angled her head so that her long ponytail slid over her smooth, tanned shoulders, and gave him a perfunctory smile. “I’d like to observe you first, if you’d don’t mind.”

“Observe me?” The question leaped out of him in surprise.

She finished a gulp of her sports drink and lowered it, looking him dead in the eye. “So I can finish taking notes on you.”

He nearly swallowed the sunflower shell he’d just popped in his mouth. Her ego must be out of control if she thought he’d lose. He flexed his fingers and nodded curtly. “It’s your prerogative.”

Dean’s red hair appeared in the dugout, and he jogged around the fence, pulling on his catcher’s mask. “Sorry I’m late!” He dropped two bags of balls beside home plate and squatted behind it. “Who’s pitching first?”

“Looks like me.” Garrett sauntered toward the red clay mound, ignoring his jeering teammates.

“Whatever you do, don’t pretend you’re in a game or you’ll definitely lose,” heckled Hopson, whose comment earned a round of chuckles from the group.

“Go get ’em, wild thing,” put in Waitman, who did an impromptu dance Garrett caught out of the corner of his eye. The rest of the crowd joined in, laughing.

“Ignore them, Wolf.” Dean punched his mitt, his nearly colorless eyes squinting against the sun.

Garrett shrugged. “Who? I don’t hear anything but some whining gnats.” This was actually going to be fun. Pitching contests meant no batters. Nothing but mitt. And his throws would strike it every single time.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh! That hurt,” guffawed another player, and some made boo-hoo sounds.

“Knock it off, Falcons,” snapped Heather, and the rowdy bunch subsided. Even Garrett gaped at her, surprised. Her voice might be low, but it demanded attention.

“Sorry, Skipper,” murmured the new shortstop. A few kissy noises erupted, then stopped when she turned her head and stared hard into the dugout.

“Thank you, Valdez. As for the rest of you, stay and act like the professionals you are, or leave before I ask you to. All right?” She leaned her defined arms on the padded top of the dugout fence, her shapely ankles crossed. But her casual pose didn’t fool him. She was deliberately acting like this to make him believe her victory was a foregone conclusion. It was the oldest trick in the book. She’d need to do a lot better than that if she hoped to best him.

“Ready whenever you are,” she said, her voice flippant.

Garrett took a deep breath and dug his toe into the clay, setting his stance. She’d learn fast not to play games with him. This first pitch had to be a strike. A statement. And it was. He knew it the moment it rolled off his fingers, his lifted leg lowering as he watched the ball smack into Dean’s glove.

“Strike!” hollered Dean, a wide smile showing behind the black grille of his mask.

“Don’t worry, honey. You’ve got this in the bag. He couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn,” hollered the first baseman. “That was a lucky throw.”

Garrett caught the withering look Heather shot the dugout, and the crowd quieted, or at least Garrett imagined it did. When pitching, he usually heard only two things, his breathing and the sound of the ball hitting something—preferably the mitt.

He raised his arm overhead and let loose another scorcher, this one harder than the last.

“Strike two!”

He lifted his hat off his head, then pulled it on again, anything to keep him from feeling even a bit of excitement that he’d nailed two. That was nothing. Amateur hour. Time to show Heather what he could do.

His next three pitches were right down the middle, his speed on the safe side. He paced to the back of the mound and stepped onto the rubber-spiked cleat cleaner, drawing out the suspense. His teammates were quiet and still, his perfect pitching settling them. Only Heather paced in front of the linked barrier between the field and the players, her eyes on him. She wasn’t looking so carefree now. In fact, unlike most women, she didn’t seem to like what she saw... His next pitch hit the dirt, spraying Dean’s shin pads.

Dean grabbed a new ball and winged it back to the mound. Garrett turned it over in his hand as he harnessed his scattered thoughts. Heather got under his skin. That had to stop. His eyes drifted toward her again, but she was busy scribbling on a clipboard. Were those notes about him? Determination had him striding to the top of the mound, his jaw tight. He squared his hips, focused on Dean’s mitt and pushed off from his back foot, releasing the ball at the sweet point.

Pop!

He blew out a breath before Dean yelled “strike.” There. Back in form.

“Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn every once in a while,” a voice taunted him from the dugout, earning the speaker a raised eyebrow from Heather.

The words barely registered. Today, only his pitching did the talking. At least, the kind he paid attention to. Ten strikes and one ball later and he was on top of his game again. In control. Heather’s clipboard swung by her side. He couldn’t read her expression behind her wraparound sunglasses, but she had to be impressed. She was probably wishing she hadn’t offered him this chance to get off the team. But if she’d been impulsive enough to give him the out, he wouldn’t feel sorry for taking it.

When his next pitch veered low, skimming the dirt where it landed before home plate, it barely registered. He’d already gotten sixteen strikes. It was good enough to win, and he shook his arms out, getting the blood flowing in them as he breathed easier. He wound up, his eye steady on the mitt, and watched in surprise as it flew over Dean’s shoulder. How had it gone that far astray?

Dean dug in the bag and chucked another ball at Garrett when he walked to the base of the mound. He snatched it out of the air and stalked back to position. He was ending this with a strike. He’d begun with a statement and he’d finish with one, too. With a head full of steam, he rocketed the ball to the center of the plate.

He grinned before it smacked into Dean’s mitt. Done. Seventeen strikes, three balls. That said it all without stripping Heather of her dignity. He pegged her as high as fifteen strikes out of twenty. Max. She’d get close enough to prove she was capable, but not enough to keep him from leaving.

If only Heather didn’t make him question if he really wanted to go.

* * *

EIGHTEEN STRIKES. It was all Heather needed to keep the guy. Pitcher, she corrected herself. She wasn’t looking for a man. Especially not a reformed alcoholic bad boy. But after seeing his grit and ability to tune out his hecklers, she now saw the potential her father had spotted. After making the adjustments she’d suggest, Garrett Wolf would go far. She admired his wide shoulders as he strode to their catcher and shook his hand. He had lots of potential...

She gave herself a mental kick. Thinking with her hormones was not going to win the day. He might be the best-looking man she’d ever seen, but at the end of the day, he still worked for her. He was an asset, she told herself firmly. Nothing more.

After a few more stretches, she returned the shortstop’s enthusiastic smile and ambled to the mound, her heart beating furiously fast. Not only did she need to keep Garrett in her bullpen, but she also had to prove she’d made the right call in challenging him. The team had to see her as a capable manager, a leader to follow, a person whose decisions could be trusted. Given the skeptical looks she’d caught, she knew she had an uphill battle.

She slid her eyes his way, taking in his powerful form and razor-sharp jaw. A thrill sputtered in her veins when he tipped his hat to her, his eyes a brilliant blue beneath the brim.

“Get ’em, sweetheart!” roared Hopson, whose mouth, apparently, worked faster than his brain, or his legs. Unlike Bucky’s words, the endearment didn’t feel sweet. It felt insulting. Still, overreacting to it would make her seem too sensitive—the double-edged sword all women faced.

“If we’d known he could throw that well, we would have told him he was being released before every game. Maybe we would have won one by now,” added Waitman, slapping Garrett on the back as the tall man stepped behind the dugout fence.

Heather couldn’t resist a slight lip curl at that one. It was true. He’d pitched better than she’d expected—a good sign that he reacted well to pressure. When Dean hurled a softball her way, she stepped neatly to the front of the mound and folded her glove around it.

Eighteen, she thought as she brought the glove up to her chest. She leaned forward, then straightened, bringing her arm up and around behind her as she took a strong stride. The ball rolled off her fingertips a moment too soon. She didn’t have to look to know she’d thrown low, though she did anyway, watching the ball skip off the plate with a sinking heart. This wasn’t the start she needed. Out of the next nineteen pitches, she could miss only one.

“Don’t let him off the hook, hon!” bellowed the first baseman, but Heather shut him out. In fact, she didn’t hear anything at all except the slap of the ball in her mitt as she got her nerves under control.

She peered at the catcher’s mitt and went into her windup, delivering a pitch so precise, Dean’s mitt never moved. She’d found her release point. Sweet.

“That’s a winner,” Dean encouraged her before tossing her the ball. Her excitement rose, but she tamped it down. With only one more mistake allowed, she needed to stay loose and relaxed.

Six more strikes and the players had stopped talking to each other, their eyes glued on her.

“She might make this interesting,” she overheard one of them say.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Garrett yank off his cap and rub his brow, shielding his eyes against the intense sun splashing all around them.

He was starting to look concerned. Good. They should all take notice. She was a fierce competitor. They needed to see that in their manager. But after two more textbook pitches, the ball sailed high, making Dean reach overhead.

Darn. Only halfway through and she couldn’t miss one more pitch. She looked up at the sky, wondering how she’d put herself in this position. For the first time, she felt nervous. She might actually mess this up and lose a player, her first mistake as manager. How would she ever get the team’s respect back if she didn’t keep Garrett? Worse yet, she’d have to tell her father, who, since he’d been busy with follow-up medical appointments in Raleigh, didn’t know about her reckless challenge. She had to pull this off.

Battle back.

Strike after strike after strike and she slowly but surely built toward her goal. She’d nailed nine in a row and, but for the birds in the trees, the field was deadly silent. She felt the team’s eyes on her, their expectations, and the sharp criticism from her father if she screwed this up. She swallowed hard, despite her dry mouth, and brought up her glove, making her hand relax when it wanted to clutch at the ball.

This was it. One throw that meant so much. She mentally ran through the delivery that had earned her the last nine strikes and, in one swift move, duplicated it exactly.

The ball snapped the mitt closed.

“Strike!” Dean screamed, leaping to his feet, his glove high in the air and waving. Elation and deep relief flooded her, and she staggered slightly, having held herself in control for so long.

Yes! She’d won. Not that she’d expected to lose, but after giving up those early pitches, it had seemed perilously possible. She glanced over at the dugout and hesitated before joining the jabbering crew. Several glanced her way, their eyes speculative.

“Nice job, Skipper!” yelled Valdez. The rest of the men only nodded her way, then turned toward a grim-faced Garrett. Dean jogged over to join the group.

“I know you’re disappointed, but I’m not,” she overheard Dean say as she neared. “This team needs you.”

“Yes, we do,” she echoed, hoping she hadn’t damaged their working relationship with the contest.

“That was impressive.” Garrett turned to her, pulling the sunglasses off the back of his cap and sliding them on. Hiding his incredible eyes. “It looks like you have me for the rest of the year. Despite all of this, I’ll give you a hundred percent.”

Impressed at his professionalism, she nodded. “Thank you, Garrett. I’ll see you at practice later today. We’ll discuss a few tweaks in your delivery then.”

Garrett nodded, his mouth tight. “See you there.” He walked off with his teammates, leaving Heather feeling unsettled, despite her victory. It was her first step forward as team manager, and Garrett had promised her his best.

She pictured his handsome face.

So why, then, didn’t that seem like enough?


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_ee70c5dc-5453-57e1-88a9-082de4e3d191)

“YOU DID WHAT?” Heather’s father demanded from his seat at the kitchen table.

The knife stilled in her hand, mayonnaise dripping from it onto the turkey sandwich she’d been making. Fidgety thoughts darted through her mind like squirrels in trees. How to explain without making her father lose all faith in her? Go back on their agreement to let her manage the team?

“Garrett Wolf asked for a release, and I challenged him to a pitching contest to earn it.” She dropped Scout a piece of turkey.

Her father’s fist thumped the table, rattling the cutlery and making his glass of skim milk jump. Her heart leaped with it. She was in for a tongue-lashing. She knew it as surely as Reed’s trick knee predicted rain. Only this would be a tempest.

“I signed him, Heather,” he growled, the lines that ran from the corners of his mouth to his chin deepening, waves of disapproval rolling from him and crashing over Heather. “He wasn’t yours to risk losing.”

She forced her clenched hands to unfurl and smear the rest of fat-free mayo, add a piece of light cheese and close up the sandwich. While her reply ducked behind her heavy tongue, she silently cut the perfect diagonal line her father demanded, added carrot sticks to the plate and brought it to the table. When she pulled out the high-backed wooden chair opposite her father, it scraped against their tiled floor. Other than his grunt of a thank-you, it was the only noise in the open eating space.

When he bit into his sandwich, her tongue loosened. “There was no risk. I wasn’t going to lose.” Though for a moment, she had to admit, that had been a real possibility.

Her father forced down his bite and lifted his cup to point it at her. “You’re a college-level player, Heather. These are professional athletes. You got lucky. That’s it.”

“It was that or he was going to ask to be released from his contract. We could have lost him either way,” she insisted.




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