Free A League of Her Own by Karen Rock Page A

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.
    “I’ve got one,” said a familiar female voice, and he tightened at the sound of it. Heather. Her revelation about her mother touched him; it explained that haunted look in her eyes. But it didn’t change the fact that she was his manager and the obstacle that stood in the way of his having the winning season he needed.
    “Whaddaya got, Skip?” the pitching coach drawled, his wrinkled elbows fitting neatly into the fence’s metal diamonds.
    Heather opened the gate and walked in, bringing the clean, citrusy smell he associated with her.
    “Garrett, you lost the pitch-off with me because you were tiring and lost your arm slot.”
    He glanced at Smythe, who shrugged, neither denying nor confirming Heather’s observation. But his arm hadn’t dropped down. He would