A League of Her Own (6 page)

“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

“Y
OU
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.

“Because of your recklessness,” he blustered on, as if not even hearing her. “We almost lost a high-speed pitcher we signed cheap. You think we could have filled his spot at that price again?” He passed a bite of sandwich to Scout, who now huddled by his master’s chair, tail thumping.

She clasped her hands beneath the table and rested them on her jittering thigh. “No, sir.”

Her father’s small eyes relaxed at the corners as he nodded and lifted his sandwich again. “That’s right. Professional sports management requires a level head, calculated judgments, informed decisions...not acting on a whim. From now on, you run everything by me. Even if I am out of town. You should have called me after the team meeting when he asked for his release. I know I left right away for my appointment, but that’s no excuse.” He bit off a large chunk and chewed, his mouth working hard.

“So I can’t make decisions on my own? Do what I think is right for the team? That’s not being a manager. It’s being a puppet.”

Her father pointed a carrot stick at her. “You’re on trial here. Frank may have faith in you, but you’ve got to prove yourself to me first. Got it?”

She bit back the rest of her arguments. There was no reason to get him worked up. It was obvious he wasn’t budging.

“Yes. But I’ll change your mind soon. The more independent I am, the less you’ll need to worry about. It’ll keep your anxiety down.”

Her dad snorted and shook his head. “Forget what those doctors said. Until I say otherwise, everything goes through me. You are not steering this ship by yourself, Heather.” He eyed the orange vegetable with suspicion before stuffing it into his mouth.

She ducked her face and bit the inside of her cheek. Gadways did not cry. Ever.

He surprised her by reaching across the table and patting her arm. “Honey, I know you haven’t had the easiest life. With your mom in and out of rehab before the car crash, and me on the road with the team, you grew up doing things on your own.”

And lonely
, she added silently, but she swallowed the thought and looked up. Her father might be hard on her, but he loved her. She wouldn’t make him feel bad for doing what he thought he had to do to provide for them.

“I’m still with you.” The edges of his lips curled in one of his rare smiles. “This old guy’s got some years left in him.” His eyes grew distant. “But I won’t be here forever. I need to know you’re taken care of—”

Heather chaffed against his old-school paternal thinking. She could make it on her own. Didn’t need to be “taken care of.” Would he have said that to a son?

Still. She rushed around the table to hug her protesting father, stepping lightly over Scout. He meant well. “Dad, we’re going to have a good season, and we’re not losing anything. I’ve got some ideas.” She thought of her recent exciting conversation with the group home’s director. Her plan to help their troubled kids and give back to the community was taking shape.

Her father’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Plans you’re sharing with me.”

“When I’ve got the details figured out.”

Her father opened his mouth, and she held up a finger before continuing. “But not before I put anything in place. Deal?”

Her father stood and wrapped her in a familiar, musk-scented bear hug. “I only want the best for you.” Scout barked and stood on his hind legs, pressing his front paws on their thighs, nudging his way between them.

She scratched Scout’s ears, then pulled back and examined her father’s wide face, the features that always seemed one size too small for it. “Then trust me, Dad. Believe that I can do this. It’s all I want.”

Her father harrumphed and sat back down. “I’m not filling your head with fake promises. I won’t tell you it will all work out. You’ve got this shot because you want it so bad. Be happy with that.”

Heather squared her shoulders and grabbed her keys. She waved goodbye before heading out to the afternoon practice, Scout scooting out beside her.

She’d never be satisfied with that. In fact, his lack of faith only made her more determined. She’d prove him wrong with the best season the Falcons had seen in years. That’s all there was to it. She was no longer just striving to succeed; she was going to become a legend. Someone who made her father proud.

When she reached her car, she slid inside and turned on a thumping rock anthem from one of her favorite sports movies. It lifted her chin and mirrored her spirits.

Her father’s mind might seem made up, but she’d change it, one win at a time.

* * *

S
HE
STUFFED
THE
keys into her tote and flung open her car door, nearly hitting the classic red sports car that swerved into the spot beside her.

Her protest died in her mouth when she spotted Garrett behind the wheel, his head banging back and forth to what must have been some metal tune, his thick blond hair sliding around his face. A muffled, whining guitar solo sounded from behind his closed window.

At her sharp rap, he started and whipped his head around, his oceanic eyes wide when he spotted her. The glass lowered and a wailing instrument was silenced when he punched off his CD player.

“Didn’t take you for a Guns N’ Roses fan,” she said, unable to resist leaning in a bit, enjoying his discomfiture. “Do you prefer Slash or Axl?”

His eyes slid from hers and he shrugged. “Neither. Just getting my energy up for practice.”

Her eyebrow rose as she looked from the CDs scattered on his passenger seat back to him. “
Appetite for Destruction
,
G N’ R Lies
,
Use Your Illusion I
and
II
...that’s an impressive collection for someone who’s not a fan.” She glanced at his floorboards and backseat, wondering if he had empty bottles of booze rolling around. She breathed a bit easier when she saw he didn’t. He was clean. For now. But she knew all too well how quickly that could change. The thought had her backing away from his car.

She had no business getting friendly with the players. As their superior, they needed to show her respect and seek her advice. Joking around about music preferences? Uh-uh. What was it about Garrett that made her lose her good sense? As her father had said, she’d acted impulsively by issuing the challenge instead of scheduling a sit-down meeting. And here she was again, hanging around him like a groupie.

Ugh.

“Heather, wait!” Garrett’s deep voice called, but she didn’t slow her pace. It carried her toward the rear entrance to the stadium.

Before she got to the door, he jogged up beside her. When she reached for the handle, he put a hand on the frame.

“There’s something I wanted to say before we go in.” Without his cap, he looked younger, his hair mussed around his perfect face. He had the looks of a sports advertiser’s dream. Too bad he also had a history of squandering opportunities.

She wiped away the frown forming on her face and stepped back. His proximity did funny things to her, short-circuiting her brain.

“A lot of the guys aren’t on board with you as manager.” At her steady stare, he ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight to his right foot. “It’s no secret that I’m one of them.”

Her mouth tightened as she reined in her irritation. First her father, now this? Would anyone believe in her? With so many doubts, it was getting harder and harder not to question herself.

But she couldn’t. Second guessing yourself stopped progress, and she intended a lot of growth for this team and, ideally, for Holly Springs.

She stepped forward and watched his nose flare and eyes sharpen. “You promised a hundred percent effort if you lost the match-up.” Her finger jabbed with each word. “Which. You. Did. Remember?”

His head jerked back, a line appearing between his brows. “I’d like to erase it from my memory.”

Her hands balled on her hips. She probably looked like every stereotype of a hormonally enraged woman. But she was beyond caring. “Well, you can’t. A real man keeps his word. A weak one doesn’t. So which are you?”

He sucked in a large breath that seemed to inflate him. Make him grow taller.

“Which do you think?” he ground out.

“Guess you’ll just have to show me.” She began to pull on the door handle, then stopped and looked up at him. The anger on his face almost made her lose her nerve.

“Oh. And one more thing. Full effort means that if you have the urge to drink again, you’ll let me know. No surprises. We’ll get you the help you need.”

Before she could yank open the door, he placed his hands flat against it on either side of her face and leaned in, dangerously close. She shivered at his proximity, fingers of fear tiptoeing up her spine.

“Don’t ever insinuate that I’m taking my sobriety lightly. Not getting help. I attend AA meetings every week.” His jaw clenched and his brows angled sharply together. A dull and heavy silence fell. Her heart skittered along her ribs like the wand she’d once used to play the xylophone.

“Didn’t mean to suggest you were. And I’m glad you’re attending Alcoholics Anonymous.”
Please keep it up
, she added silently and lifted her chin. “Now, let me in before I fine you for making us both late to practice,” she added, keeping the quake out of her voice. He was looking at her with the stormy expression her mother had worn when Heather had questioned her sobriety. Yet she was an adult now, not a girl to be pushed around.

He seemed to give himself a little shake, then moved back, allowing her the room she needed to hustle inside before things got uglier.

His next words stilled her hands on the door.

“I can’t promise you.” His words broke through the small oblivion she’d girded herself with, dropping like a dark, sharp stone.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t promise I’ll stay sober. Being an addict is a life sentence, and I won’t make promises I can’t guarantee I’ll keep. Will I keep up with my AA meetings and fight like anything not to drink? Yes. Am I focusing on becoming a better player and advancing my career? Definitely. Will I fall off the wagon again?” A shadow crossed his even features, distorting them. “I don’t know. I sure hope not.”

Something in his low, ragged voice pierced her armor and made her soften. At least he was honest. Not giving her the false assurances she’d heard growing up. Still, it didn’t quiet the unease shimmering through her at what could happen in the months ahead with Garrett.

Her eyes met his and she struggled to speak, the words straining against her ribs and becoming lost. He meant everything he’d said; it was obvious. But was it enough?

He blew out a long breath and moved restlessly. “Look, I don’t know what you have against alcoholics, but if you had any experience, you’d know—”

“My mother was addicted to prescription painkillers. She nearly killed me when I was thirteen in a car accident. I’ve had more than my share of experience with addicts, thank you very much.”

Her hand rose to her mouth, but it was too late to stuff her family’s secrets back inside. Why, oh why, was it impossible to control her words? First they wouldn’t come, then they burst from her with a will of their own. Now she’d revealed too much. She didn’t want Garrett’s pity. She needed his respect.

Yet when he looked at her, she didn’t spot sympathy. Surprise, yes. Understanding, it was there too.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said at last, peering straight into her eyes.

She nodded brusquely. Personal sharing time was over. “Well, that’s in the past, and I’d rather focus on the present. Shall we?” When she pointed to the door, he swept it open and waited for her to precede him.

They passed through the cool, dim, narrow space that led to the field, their shoulders brushing, hands bumping into one another. A peaceful quiet kept pace. It was a fragile presence that neither seemed willing to shatter, a jagged truce they didn’t want to break.

* * *

A
N
HOUR
LATER
, Garrett threw hard and watched in frustration as his pitch veered left of home.

“Ball!” called Dean. “That batter would have walked. Bases would have been loaded.”

“Great,” Garrett snapped and grabbed Dean’s tossed ball. “Coach Smythe, any suggestions?” he asked, seeming to startle the older man leaning against the wire fence of the bullpen.