A League of Her Own (2 page)

“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.

* * *

“L
ET
’
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—”