A League of Her Own. Karen Rock

of away games the summer she’d turned eleven. The year her mother was worse than ever.

      Being a part of that year’s championship run had instilled her love for the game while helping her escape a hellish life. She and the players weren’t related, but they’d always been her family. North Carolina’s dense woods, distant mountains and numerous streams part of her DNA.

      Like a migrating bird, flying home had settled the part of her that’d felt adrift since she’d left for college. Maybe she’d apply for a coaching position locally. Keep an eye on her father and help out with the Falcons...if he’d let her. She craved his approval, but there was as much of a chance of getting that as there was of her returning one of her mother’s recent calls.

      A moth fluttered by her forehead and she shooed it away, staring up at the cobweb-covered ceiling. She’d heard her mother’s promises too many times to trust them again. That faith had nearly killed her when she’d climbed into her parents’ car and woken up, two days later, in intensive care. It’d been her thirteenth birthday, a day marked with a lit candle stuck in green Jell-o and the news that Mom had checked herself out of the hospital and left their family for good.

      She pulled up the hem of her sweatshirt and traced the raised silver scar that ran along her stomach. It was a tangible reminder of how close that trust had come to ending her life. Her mother’s abandonment left wounds the surgeons couldn’t stitch closed...so she’d done it herself, shutting off the part of her that could ever believe in others again.

      Whomp! The loud bang of a ball hitting the backstop echoed in the still twilight. She scrambled upright and peered into the purpling light, Scout already bounding for the field. A tall man stood on the pitcher’s mound, his chiseled profile outlined by the sun’s last rays. His strong jaw flexed and, in a blur of movement, he wound up and let loose another fastball, his biceps tense before he dropped his arms.

      He was powerfully built with broad shoulders and a wide back that tapered to a lean waist and flat stomach. When he lifted the bottom of his shirt to mop his brow, she glimpsed a hard six-pack that sucked the air right out of her. The coach in her admired the physique that promised results on the field. The woman in her... Suddenly her sweatshirt was too warm over her tank top and she shrugged out of it, her eyes lingering on the strong play of his quadriceps shifting as he changed his stance.

      Male, athletic beauty like his was undeniable. The symmetry of his features and body, and the animal grace of his movements, made it hard not to stare. She wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend. Needed to focus on her father and building her career. A romantic relationship would only distract her. Still, he was a pitcher, same as her. There was no harm in a little conversation about that... Besides, she needed to call off a barking Scout.

      Oh, who was she kidding? It was hard to resist wanting a closer glimpse. And that’s all it could be, she told herself firmly as she sat up and left the dugout. How long had he played for the Falcons? She hadn’t seen him before. She would have remembered the tousled golden hair that grabbed the fading light and the intense eyes that suddenly swerved her way.

      “Oh!” she exclaimed, her hands rising to her ribs as if to contain her ferociously beating heart. “Sorry to disturb you. Scout, down.” She gave a silent thank-you to her unreliable tongue for not tripping up her words and watched, grateful, as her sometimes unruly pet lowered his belly and muzzle to the dirt.

      A frown marred the man’s handsome face, a line appearing between his slanted brows. He looked down at her over a straight nose that stopped above a pair of full lips. “This is a closed practice.” His eyes stared directly into hers, causing an odd, plummeting sensation in her legs. So much so that she dipped a little at the knees.

      She opened her mouth, but now her voice had run down her throat. Looking at him made it hard to think—or speak.

      He gestured to the square he’d marked off with glow-in-the-dark tape on the backstop. “If you don’t mind, I need to continue pitching. Alone. And this is private property.”

      Heather pulled words from her throat as if she was raising them from a well, determined to match his arrogant tone. Who did this guy think he was?

      That was the problem with good-looking guys. They expected everyone in the world to be nice to them but didn’t bother to return the favor.

      “I know. It’s mine. Or my dad’s. I’m Heather Gadway.” She strode forward and extended a hand. When he shook it, a rush of awareness exploded up her arm.

      “Garrett Wolf,” he drawled, his voice dark, smooth and hypnotic. “Your father recently signed me.” He glanced at Scout. “Nice dog.”

      Words collected in her mouth and lay there, irritation weighing them down. He was the reclamation project, the reformed alcoholic who’d caused his last Triple-A team lots of trouble with the media and on the field. And she’d almost let herself be attracted to him. Well, shoot. That was not going to happen.

      She dropped his hand as if she’d touched acid and stepped back, a knot forming in her throat. At five-ten, she was a tall woman, but Garrett had to be more than half a foot taller. Six-four or -five, maybe.

      “Welcome to the team,” Heather forced out, not meaning it at all. Why had her father signed such a high-risk player, anyway? Sure, he was easy on the eyes, but it wasn’t like they were putting up billboards. Her dad, of all people, should know they didn’t need former addicts on the Falcons. What if he relapsed? Always a real possibility. “I’m visiting while my father recovers from his heart attack.”

      The stern lines of his face relaxed, and suddenly he was the all-American boy next door, the kind who broke every girl’s heart—every girl’s but hers. There wasn’t a chance she’d fall for his charm, no matter that his easy smile made her stomach jump and flutter. She’d seen what he’d been like before he’d found out she was the owner’s daughter.

      Garrett tossed his ball in a gym bag and scooped up his sports drink in a sleek, fluid movement that mesmerized her. When he drew closer, she could smell his pine-scented aftershave and a fresh, masculine musk. “Your father’s a good man. I hope he’s doing better.”

      Heather shifted her footing and cleared her throat. Garrett was getting under her skin in the worst way. His earlier arrogance needled her. Yet somehow, when the corners of his lips lifted and his deep dimples flashed, she had to catch herself before grinning back. Get a grip and be professional, she warned herself before saying, “He is. Chomping at the bit to get out more. I’ve practically had to tie him to the bed.”

      A spark ignited in his blue eyes, and she flushed. What a strange thing to say. Provocative when she meant to be anything but.

      “How long are you staying?” he asked, his deep voice lowering further, his unswerving, intent gaze on her.

      She scuffed the dirt, her ears ringing with the staccato thrum thrum thrum of her rapid pulse. “Not sure. I’m a pitching coach for the Morro Bay Red Tails. They want me back. But Dad needs me.”

      Garrett’s eyebrows rose. “So you’re a pitcher, too.”

      “I was. Still miss that feeling of controlling the game.” She pressed her lips shut. Now why had she admitted that to a stranger? One she should be running from instead of hanging around like a groupie...

      Understanding lit his eyes. “Me too. I like taking the lead. Being in charge.” He stepped closer and stared down at her before he tucked a strand that’d fallen from her ponytail behind her ear. She shivered, the caress turning her inside out as his hand lingered by her cheek.

      Unable to look away, she returned his stare, wishing he was anyone else. Or she was anyone else. But whatever she might fantasize, the reality was that this magnetic pull had to be severed. After a moment, she forced herself to back away.

      “I’d better be going. My father probably needs me.”

      “Tell him I wish him well,” Garrett said. “Will he be at tomorrow’s game? Both of you?”

      The