Karen Rock - A League of Her Own

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.