A League of Her Own. Karen Rock

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.”