Free A League of Her Own by Karen Rock Page B

have noticed that. In fact, after all these years of playing and struggling for control, wouldn’t someone have mentioned it before? And who was some college player to point out what he did wrong?
    The one who whupped your butt this morning
, a voice reminded him. He shut off his protest with a jerky nod and let her go on.
    “Your angle has to be the same every pitch.”
    He shrugged. “It felt identical every time.”
    She raised her eyebrows, a know-it-all look that annoyed him to no end. “There was a slight variation.”
    He tossed the ball in the air, biting back what he really wanted to say. In the parking lot, Heather had seemed approachable. But now, she acted as if she knew better than everyone else. And while that was expected for a team manager in the Minors, she lacked the experience he required to trust her. “I threw seventeen out of twenty strikes.”
    Heather nodded, looking impressed, and he relaxed. Things would be easier between them if she understood that she had a lot to learn. “Yeah,” she put in, “but I threw eighteen out of twenty, which doesn’t make me happy. It should have been twenty out twenty. That’s the difference between us. I don’t settle for great. I want perfection. That’s the way you win games.”
    He reeled back, feeling the slap of her words. Was she suggesting he didn’t care? Wasn’t motivated? He had everything on the line here. “Look, Skipper,” he said evenly, an edge of frustration clipping his words short. “I want to control my arm as much as you do. Even more. And how is it that you detected a variation in my arm angle when no other coach or manager has ever said a word about it?” He tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, but he had to say what he felt.
    Heather, however, looked as cool as the light wind that ruffled the grass by their feet. “I can’t speak for what other people saw, only what I picked up. If you get your arm angle corrected, you’re capable of twenty out of twenty. Now that I’m your manager, I’m recommending a throwing program for you to get your flaw corrected. Since you’re pitching tonight, we’ll start tomorrow here at noon.”
    He nodded, his mind in turmoil. He’d planned on practicing more himself anyway. But following a softball pitcher’s advice about his overhead throwing angle? That was crazy.
    “And Smythe.” She paused in the open gate, her eyes on him. “Work on making sure Garrett recreates that angle every pitch. When he drops his arm, let him know and have him do it again correctly. It’s the only way he’ll get the feel for when he drops out.”
    Smythe nodded, his rheumy eyes making Garrett wonder if the guy would notice a fly ball before it smacked him in the face. If Heather was right, would Smythe be able to spot the supposed flaw?
    He watched her saunter away, wishing she’d stayed, but glad she’d left. His feelings for her were all over the map. If he was irritated with her on the field, why was he so intrigued and attracted off it? He needed to stop thinking about Heather as anything more than his manager.
    * * *
    H EATHER LEANED ON the glass counter of Mr. Ferguson’s crammed baseball card shop later that afternoon, inhaling the familiar scents: cherry chewing tobacco, strong coffee and old leather from autographed gloves lining the walls. Beside them hung classic jerseys mixed among snapshots of World Series–winning teams and signed bats. In a corner, a seat from the Dodgers’ old stadium still held court, a black cat snoozing on it.
    “Hey, Babe,” she crooned, crossing over to stroke its soft fur.
    “Heather!”
    An older man with a florid face and white hair bustled from the back office, his smile wide. “It’s good to see you. Guessed you might be in town. Sorry to hear about your father. Is he feeling better?”
    She gave Babe a final ear scratch and joined Mr. Ferguson by the cases. “He’s full of salt and vinegar.”
    His grin matched hers. “So he’s back to his