Читать книгу A League of Her Own - Karen Rock - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

“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?