Kitabı oku: «A League of Her Own»

CHAPTER ONE

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.