Marriage On His Mind. Susan Crosby

have done a great job raising her.”

      “You’re contributing your share.” He continued his perusal of the stands as Drew tapped the ground repeatedly with his bat.

      “I wanted to thank you for letting her call me Dad. It means a lot to me,” Drew said after clearing his throat.

      Jack shifted on the bench, hammering down the flash of insecurity he’d been struggling to control ever since Dani had broached the subject with him. “She seemed concerned that when her new sibling arrives he or she would be confused by big sister not calling you Dad. She calls me Daddy, so it’s different.”

      “She’s always been particularly sensitive to people’s feelings. Amazingly so, for a child.”

      “My brother was like that. God, I miss him so much. If Dan had lived—”

      “Life would have been different for all of us, Jack. Immeasurably different.”

      Unwilling to step back in time, Jack tuned in to the noise and activity around them, catching snippets of conversation and laughter until he spotted The Mou—Coach sliding into a vacant seat. He raised a hand to her and was rewarded with a quick wave in return. Inordinately glad that she’d already singled him out from so far away, his confidence rose. Maybe he’d hit a home run today, or start a double play, or—

      He struck out once, flied out twice and got on first because of a fielder’s error. Not exactly the shining example he’d wanted to present. Plus he’d never even had a chance to slide. On the other hand, he’d gotten three runners out at second and had thrown right on target to the first baseman.

      Coach had been uncharacteristically quiet during the game, as if she sensed his disappointment over his performance. He missed the badgering. He wanted to hear, “Hey, Ponytail,” followed by a caustically given instruction—or even an insult. Wondering where her gruff exterior had fled, he kept an eye on her as he shook hands with the opposing team members after the game. He saw her descend the stairs to stand by the railing, and he walked over, gauging how close to get by observing her body language, a skill at which he was becoming entirely too competent.

      “Your fielding’s improving,” she said.

      “My hitting stinks.”

      She shrugged. “It could use some work.”

      “I’m willing to put my ego aside again, if you’re willing to teach me.”

      He watched her ponder his words. The old Jack would have pushed. The newer, improved model dug deep within himself for patience.

      “Bring a couple of bats and as many softballs as you can borrow,” she said after a long debate.

      “Monday at six?” Why do you look so sad? he wanted to ask, noting weariness in her posture, as if she’d been defeated in battle and needed to mend.

      She nodded, then pushed away from the railing.

      “You okay, Coach?” he asked as she turned away.

      Mickey shoved her hands into her pockets. I need a hug, she wanted to say. I’m lonely and I’m tired of not sleeping. And I get scared of the noises in the woods.

      “Coach?”

      She shifted to face him again. He had a nice face, a face with character—deep blue eyes dark with obvious concern for her, a jaw that held an edge of stubbornness, a mouth that looked as if it could utter soothing words or deliver hot, arousing kisses, both of which she could have used, neither of which she dared accept. He projected self-confidence and strength. He wasn’t afraid to take chances. He wasn’t afraid to fail. She wondered if he could teach her that as easily as she’d taught him how to slide.

      “I’m fine, Ponytail. I was just thinking about the Help Wanted sign I saw hanging on the snack bar. You might keep that in mind as an option.”

      He looked relieved that she teased him, seemed her old self again. She’d gotten good at bluffing. Too good, she realized. She’d had a difficult week, had missed her family more than she ever could have imagined. Aside from her lesson with Ponytail and polite exchanges with clerks in stores, she hadn’t spoken to anyone except a dog that joined her by the stream one day this week. He’d laid his head in her lap and let her pet him for a few minutes, then after one lick of her face he’d loped away, his golden coat gleaming in the sunlight, his tags jangling.

      “We’re all headed to Chung Li’s Pizza. Would you like to come?” Ponytail asked, moving a few steps closer, as if he thought he needed to catch her as she fainted.

      “Thanks, but I’ve got to get home. I’ll see you Monday.”

      “I hope it’s going to hurt less than the first lesson,” he called as she jogged up the stairs.

      “No guarantees,” she yelled back. “No guarantees,” she repeated softly to herself. Not in baseball. Not in life.

      

      “Keep your weight on your back foot, then step into the swing,” Mickey instructed him as he stood at home plate. “And—”

      “I know. Keep my shoulder down and both eyes on the ball.”

      “Right.” She pitched the ball, which landed in a poof of dirt two feet in front of the plate.

      He stared at it, then lifted his head, his mouth clamped against a smile. “That was just to see if I was paying attention, right?”

      “I’m a little rusty,” she said in apology, fighting a returning smile. Add a sense of humor to the list of appealing things about him, she thought. She’d looked forward to today more than she’d wanted to, more than was healthy to achieve her goals. She’d forsaken leaning on her family for a while, until she came to terms with herself as an independent person. Now she was in danger of leaning on this man, who was a tempting combination of character, sexiness and, she suspected, comfort.

      “Glad to know you’re not perfect, Coach.”

      He hit the next pitch—almost straight up.

      “Didn’t anyone teach you to call ‘fore,’ Ponytail?”

      “Get the pitch up over the plate and I won’t have to golf it,” he chided.

      The next pitch sailed over the plate—ten feet off the ground.

      “Very funny,” he said, grinning. “You got that out of your system?”

      “Maybe.”

      “You like a challenge, don’t you?”

      Mickey pictured her three brothers and the constant competition they’d all given one another while growing up. She’d learned early to play hard—or tricky—or else be left behind. And being left behind was worse than occasionally putting on a dress to please her mother.

      Ponytail showed steady improvement over the half hour they practiced, learning to level out his swing and concentrate just on connecting, not always going for home runs. They had to stop every so often to gather the balls from the outfield, otherwise she worked him constantly.

      “Thursday will be the last game for the season,” he told her as they collected balls for the last time.

      “Really? So soon?” Now what? When will I see you again?

      “The town’s not large enough to support more than five teams. We play each other twice, then we’re done.”

      “I take it you hadn’t played much baseball before this.”

      “What was your first clue, Sherlock?” he asked as he approached, carrying an armload of balls.

      Jack leaned toward her; most of the balls spilled into the sack she held, some dropped to the ground. They crouched simultaneously, their heads almost colliding, their hands grasping the same ball. She tried to pull back; he tightened his grip on her hand.

      “What’s your name?” he asked quietly,