A League of Her Own. Karen Rock

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