by Karen Rock
“He was your roommate, but he felt like a brother to you.”
“Exactly. He was all the family I had,” he said fiercely. Ever have had, he added silently.
“What was his name?”
“Manuel. Manny. He taught me about superhero comic books. I showed him how to throw a fastball.”
“What happened?” She pulled back but kept her arms around him, her eyes searching his face.
He shut his eyes, seeing the closed casket for the hundredth time, a picture of Manny in a backward-facing Braves cap on top. “He got shot in a drive-by when he aged out of the foster system and moved back to Atlanta.”
“That’s awful,” she breathed. “I hope they caught the murderer.”
He jerked out of the warm arms he didn’t deserve, and stood.
“They haven’t. But I’m just as much to blame.”
The color drained from her face. “How?”
“I left him to play for the Minors. He asked me to wait. To stay with him one more year until he got out, but I didn’t. Didn’t stay in touch, either, and now he’s dead. Killed by a rival gang.”
His knees gave out and he sat again, dropping his head low. There it was. The truth. Every ugly inch of it. Now she’d have another reason to hate him besides his alcoholism. Of course, before Manny’s death, he’d never had more than a beer or two. But after—it’d been the only way he’d been able to keep going, though he’d driven himself straight into the ground. Might as well have joined his brother, he’d thought on his worst days.
“But that’s not your fault.” Her fingers brushed through his hair, and he peered up at her, not seeing the condemnation he expected. “He didn’t have to go back to his gang.”
“I stopped being someone he could count on. Without me, it was the only family he had.”
“It was still his choice,” she said firmly, her eyes fastened on him.
“One I forced him to make.” Why the hell wasn’t she getting this? He needed her to understand, not argue. This wasn’t some classroom debate in whatever private school she’d probably attended. It was his life. Manny’s life. And death.
Her nose scrunched, and when she shook her head, her hair fell across her cheeks. “You’re wrong.”
A roar filled his ears as every muscle tensed, the back of his neck bristling. He wasn’t getting through to her. Probably never would. They weren’t as alike as he’d thought. Not even close.
“Why are you so sure you’re right about everything? Even things you know nothing about?”
She sucked in air, the shock in her eyes stabbing his heart. He didn’t mean to hurt her, but she pushed every one of his buttons sometimes.
She shoved off the bench and marched out of the dugout.
“Heather!” he called, and she turned, nearly tripping on the shaggy dog at her heels. “I didn’t mean that.”
Her eyes leveled with his.
“You’re better than you think, Garrett. I may not be able to convince you, but you need to believe in yourself. Why not help the boys who are working here at the field? Instead of pushing away the past, make up for it. Do it for Manny.”
And with that, she slipped away, passing in and out of moonbeams until she disappeared from view.
He gazed after her, wondering.
His baseball comeback was for himself and for Manny. Could the camp be another path to salvation?
One that would honor his friend...if the memories and guilt it raised didn’t rip him to shreds.
He let his head drop into his hands. It was impossible. He wished he could take back what he’d said to Heather.
Take it all back.
But then, regret was his life’s soundtrack. He’d just add this night to the list of moments he’d do over.
If only he could.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HEATHER AND MR. LETTLES strode into the Falcons meeting room the next day, his smile broad, hers forced but wider.
Fake it ’till you make it.
The mantra swam in her head, pushing against the current of nerves running through her.
She hoped the players would help out after hearing about the baseball camp. Her gaze took in the sea of men lounging in rows of fold-out chairs in the windowless room. Fluorescent lights illuminated expressions that ranged from polite interest to barely concealed hostility. Not exactly the receptive welcome she’d hoped for, but coming off a losing series, she’d anticipated some lingering bad feelings.
Maybe her expectations were a tad high.
But still, this had to work. She looked at Garrett and he gave an almost imperceptible headshake. No support there.
Not that she’d expected it after their dugout confrontation. Still. She felt let down. Was it too much to hope that she’d gotten through to him? That he’d see the opportunity to turn his past into something positive? Working with the kids would help him as much as it’d benefit them.
Yet involving herself in his personal life wasn’t her job. She was a baseball manager. Not a life coach. No matter that the ache in his voice, his painful past, rang a bell inside her. It reminded her of the sound echoing in the empty spaces her mother had left.
She and Garrett were alike. After his confession last night, something connected them, a ribbon of understanding that twisted and tied them together. They both needed to prove that their past did not define their present.
The men quieted when she stepped up to the podium, and Garrett’s lids lifted. Their eyes locked for a heart-stopping moment, and the warmth of his embrace rushed back. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Last night, she’d crossed a major line. She was his boss, not his girlfriend.
She peered down at her note cards and focused. Seeing her speech thawed the anxiety freezing her vocal cords.
“Good morning, Falcons.”
“Morning, Skip,” several responded, Valdez’s voice loudest of all. Others, however, stared at her without expression, their eyes already glazing over. She swallowed. If they accepted her fully as their manager, they’d be more receptive. Without their support, she had no idea how it’d go over. Regardless, she had to proceed.
“To give back to our community, Falcons leadership has decided to open a baseball camp using our old field and facilities. Foster children from around the state will be attending as a way to instill in them the pride and confidence that goes with gaining sports skills and competing. Although Mr. Lettles has been kind enough to reach out to local coaches and gain volunteers to work with the boys, we would be grateful if you would donate some of your free time to help out as well.”
Several of the men ducked their heads and twisted sideways to look at one another. She couldn’t read their expressions from that angle and wondered. Were they considering or rejecting her idea?
Mr. Lettles kept up his relentless smile and nodded encouragingly. At least she had one person on her side. She met Valdez’s adoring look. Make that two. A few chairs made grating noises as the men turned back around.
“I need to know what you can offer and what times you’re available to help. Please use the sign-up sheet on the table by the door. It will be hanging outside my office after this meeting as well.”
She pulled sweating hands from her pockets and rocked up on the balls of her feet. “Part of being a professional team is giving back to your community. Volunteering would also be making a big difference in the lives of these kids, many of whom have experienced great hardship. Even tragedy.”
She glanced at Garrett, whose features had sharpened.
“I appreciate any time you can offer.” She turned to the beaming man beside her. “Mr. Lettles, is there anything you’d like to add?”
“The boys worked hard to fix up the field while you were in Florida,” he crowed. “Some of the boys follow the team very closely and are big fans. We treated them to a game a couple of weeks ago, and they haven’t stopped talking about it since. I believe you were pitching, Mr. Wolf.”
Garrett’s eyes widened, and his tense mouth d
ropped open slightly.
“The kids would be awed to meet you and the rest of the Falcons in person. All of you could be positive role models in their lives. Support like that is very important. Thank you for considering this.”
Heather took in Garrett’s pale face. What was he thinking? He’d been a role model to Manny until he’d left for the Minors. Was he beating himself up for leaving his little brother?
She stepped out from behind the podium. “The boys will be at the old stadium starting Monday, and I hope to see you stop by. As for tonight’s game, let’s give our home crowd something to cheer about.”
“Got it, Skip!” hollered Valdez, who hustled over to the sign-up sheet. To her relief, a few players rose and followed him. Then a few more, and several more after that, until a line of men formed, stretching to the back of the room.
Wow.
Happiness filled her. They might be mistrusting her advice on the field. But off it, they held no grudge. These were the giving men she’d hoped for. It made her prouder than ever to manage them, even if they weren’t fully accepting her.
Yet.
But they would. This was a start. Wins tonight and tomorrow would restore some goodwill, and they’d enjoy working with the kids on Monday, their day off.
Garrett strode past the crowd and out the door without a backward glance.
Her stomach twisted. Everyone, possibly, but Garrett.
* * *
A COUPLE OF days later, Garrett walked from the two-story dormitory building on a path that passed the old field. He was early for his pitching program but wanted to avoid the baseball camp kids. He hoped the time would guarantee they hadn’t arrived yet and he’d get some extra throwing in. Since the Falcons had lost another game over the weekend, he needed to be in perfect form tomorrow when he took the mound.
But the smack of a bat hitting a ball followed by the hollering of kids made his stomach drop to his toes. No such luck.
He sped up, nearly jogging as he rounded the bend by the lowest part of the old field’s wall. The bright morning sun shook off its cloud cover and lit up the day. The glare made him squint, nearly missing the ball that zipped over the wall.
Instinctively, he grabbed it. His palm stung and he shook it out, ready to hurl the ball back before anyone noticed.
He reached behind him for the throw, then pulled up short when a tall kid with red, spiky hair appeared, his head swinging from side to side, a frantic expression on his face. Manny, he thought for a moment, taken by the resemblance. While his friend had been dark-haired... Then he shook away the thought. This was the kid who’d yelled to him at a game a few weeks ago.
“Coach is gonna kill me if I lose another one,” he heard the kid mutter, his eyes still on the ground.
Garrett looked around and noticed two more balls nearby. The kid was definitely going to earn his coach’s ire if he let this many go. He flipped the ball around in his hand, debating. If he threw it now, the kid would see him. But if he disappeared, he’d be leaving the boy in the lurch.
Reluctantly he cleared his throat. “Hey. Over here.”
The kid looked up, and his startled expression turned to wonder, his eyes growing wide.
“You—you—you’re Garrett Wolf,” he gasped, silver braces reflecting the light as his mouth dropped open.
Garrett forced a smile, wishing he was anywhere but here. “Guilty.” And he meant that in too many ways to think about.
“Wow!” The boy scampered closer and leaned bony elbows on the wooden fence, large hands dangling over the side. “I want to throw as fast as you someday.”
“Thank you.” Garrett knew he should add something else. Ask the kid what position he played, maybe autograph a ball, but a need to get out of this conversation clipped his response short.
He scooped up the other two balls. Once he chucked them back, he’d shake off this conversation like a bad dream.
Manny had looked at him like that once. As though he was the greatest thing in the world—Manny’s world. And maybe he had been since his little brother hadn’t grown up with anyone who cared about him. Only what he could do for them.
Even a small kid could deliver drugs. A bigger kid, like Manny had been when they’d picked him up, carried guns. It was how he’d ended up in a group home.
As for Garrett, he’d been blamed for taking a foster family’s car out for a joyride. The certainty that they’d never blame the real culprit, their son, had kept him mum. He’d been labeled too many times to fight against what others believed.
“So is it true?” the boy asked excitedly, his words tumbling over each other. “You were a foster kid like us?”
Garrett tossed him the first ball and admired how the kid caught it without seeming to look.
“Yes.”
He had to keep this brief and get out of here. He lofted the next ball and watched the kid catch it with little effort. He had some natural ability.
“Holy crap.” The kid’s exclamation stopped Garrett’s last throw. “And you made it.”
“Anyone can make it,” he forced himself to say. No sense crushing the kid. Besides, he glimpsed athletic promise in the boy that could be—should be—nurtured. Yet life didn’t give kids like him a lot of chances. Garrett had been lucky when a talent scout had attended one of his high school games. Who knew where he’d be if that hadn’t happened?
A defeated look crossed the boy’s face, despite Garrett’s encouragement. He’d been so excited just seconds ago, and now he looked glum. “Not everyone. I won’t make it.”
Garrett’s breath stalled. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve already got a record,” the boy answered, a small hitch in his voice. “Some people say I’m trouble.” He hung his head, his thin neck appearing beneath a squared-off hairline.
“What idiot told you that?” Garrett snapped, his tone making the boy’s head lift. Manny had said the same thing when they’d met. He’d warned that he’d make a bad roommate, but he’d been the best thing that’d ever happened to Garrett. Until his death became the worst.
“My old foster families. Me. Not Mr. Lettles, though.” The boy made a sucking noise with his teeth. “I’ve done bad stuff, but I’m trying to be better now.”
The desperate determination in the boy’s voice touched Garrett.
He opened his mouth to say something but was cut off when a man wearing striped baseball shorts and a sleeveless shirt jogged up.
“There you are, Levi. They warned me that you pull these little disappearing acts.”
His scowl turned to surprise and then pleasure when he spotted Garrett on the other side of the fence.
“Mr. Wolf. It’s nice to meet you. I’m a big fan. I coach the local high school JV team and...”
“That’s interesting,” Garrett muttered, not interested at all. What he cared about was that Levi, a kid who already believed he was trouble, was being treated that way. No wonder he didn’t think he’d make it.
“Yes, well—” the man trailed off, then looked back at Levi who seemed diminished somehow, despite his gawky height. “We’ll stop pestering you. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do with your time than bother with us.”
Garrett glanced at his watch, an urge to do something he knew he’d regret seizing him. Pressure built and, unable to contain it, he blurted, “Actually, no. Thought I’d come inside to deliver this ball. Give Levi and the kids a few pitching tips if you have room in your schedule.”
Levi’s brown eyes lit up, and the man goggled at him, his mouth opening and closing until he figured out how to make it work.
“We’d be honored.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Garrett muttered, striding around to the front locker room entrance, regretting every step.
How could there be pleasure when he anticipated only pain?
* * *
HEATHER COULDN’T BELIEVE her eyes when Garrett stepped onto the field, a ball already in his hand. A redheaded preteen—Levi, she reca
lled—raced up to him, his long arms gesturing wildly, his mouth moving even faster.
How did they know each other? More importantly, what had changed Garrett’s mind? It’d felt great when Valdez had showed up and begun helping the kids with infielding. Even Waitman was over in the batter’s box, positioning small hands around bats. But seeing Garrett flooded her with joy. This had to be hard on him, but he’d put the kids ahead of himself. That was impressive, selfless, strong, caring and every other good adjective her mind could wing his way.
When he caught her stare, he nodded and shrugged, a small smile tugging up the corners of his handsome mouth. Inside, she melted. There was a difference between a good-looking man and a good-looking, good-hearted man, and Garrett was the latter. Infinitely more attractive. Not that, as his manager, she should notice. Shouldn’t even look. Especially given her fear that his addiction could return. But the fact that he was making an effort softened her defenses.
She hefted a cumbersome bag of balls and stepped up beside him.
“Garrett.” She passed him the bag. “It’s good to see you.” She smiled, wishing his eyes didn’t look so shadowed, his rigid muscles making him seem like a skittish thoroughbred.
“Skipper.”
Interesting that he called her Heather when they were alone and Skipper in public. As if they had two relationships, one known only to themselves. Next time she’d correct him if he called her by her first name. After that intimate moment in the dugout, their boundaries needed more defining than ever.
“Thanks for coming out to help.” She pointed to a few of the kids and beckoned. “I’ll warm this group up, teach them some stretches and send them to you for pitching practice. Sound good?”
He nodded, his jaw set, his expression resolute. “Sure. I’ll start with them.” He gestured to the remaining five kids. “Then we’ll swap.”
“That’ll work.”
And it did. For the next hour, they traded groups. The boys learned the rudiments of pitching, some better than others, all having a great time. Voices rang out in the large green space. Beaming, excited faces surrounded her.
Even her father was laughing in the outfield with one of the kids. He held his glove in front of his body, head high, demonstrating the best position to transfer the ball to his throwing hand. Heather felt a pang of concern at his profusely sweating face. She’d warned him this might be too much activity, but he’d waved away her protests. When had he ever listened to her? Besides, he looked like he was having the time of his life. He tossed another ball into a sky so blue it could have been a tropical ocean.
