him, his face impassive. He’d had a tough time controlling his arm when he’d been drinking, a problem that plagued him sober, too. But he’d keep working on it. Straighten out his pitch the way he’d straightened out his life.
“Don’t take it personally,” Dean muttered, nodding a thank-you when Garrett slid cash to the waitress delivering their sodas. “If these guys would put more effort into their game, we might have a winning season.”
“They don’t bother me.” Garrett turned sideways and leaned his arm on the table, facing Dean. “The Falcons haven’t gone to the playoffs in over fifteen years, right?” He lifted his soda and drank, telling himself it tasted better without rum.
“Yeah. And now that Pete left—our manager—we’ll be lucky to finish at five hundred for the season.” Dean tossed some nuts into his mouth and chewed, his expression distant. “His wife told my sister the contract we offered him was at a lower salary. The Gadways can’t pay more. Wonder if the stress caused Dave’s heart attack.”
“Could be,” Garrett mused, feeling bad for the man who’d given him this break. He hoped they’d find someone good to manage the team, to take the pressure off Mr. Gadway and help the Falcons. Plus, at twenty-seven, Garrett was getting old to be considered for a move up into the Major Leagues. Without a strong, stable team behind him, one that wouldn’t make errors that allowed hits or runs, his prospects of getting the stats he needed to impress their parent team were lower still.
A couple of giggling young women stopped beside their table, their voices shrill, as they eyed Garrett and Dean. Garrett avoided the blonde’s come-hither look, not impressed with the blatant flirting. He had better goals than scoring with a new girl every night.
“Heard he’s stable though...” Dean mopped up an overturned drink the girls spilled when they bumped into their table.
“Oops. Can we buy you another one?” purred the blonde, flipping her long hair out of her eyes. “Rum and Coke?”
“We’re fine,” Garrett muttered without giving her more than a brief glance. He hated to be rude, but baseball groupies, which these girls looked to be, were hard to get rid of.
“I insist.” The brunette leaned over far enough to give both men a healthy view of her cleavage.
“It’s not your call to make,” Garrett shot back. “Now. If you’ll excuse us?”
“I’m Melissa,” the blonde piped up, extending her hand to Dean as if she hadn’t heard Garrett’s dismissal. “And this is my friend, Dana.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dean said, clearly torn between two good-looking women and Garrett’s glare. “My friend and I—”
“Are having two rum and Cokes. Coming up!” Melissa called and sauntered away, her hips swinging in short shorts.
“So what do you two like to do for fun?” Dana trailed a fingernail up Garrett’s arm and leaned close so he could smell her sharp perfume. “Whatever it is, Melissa and I are up for it.”
Garrett jerked away and placed a twenty on the table. “Use this for the drinks. Have a nice night.”
He strode away and heard Dean’s mumbled apology before the catcher joined him at the door. Garrett pushed through the exit and plunged into the balmy night, his heart rate slowing as he gulped in the smoke-free air.
“What the heck, dude!” Dean called as Garrett hurried toward his sports car. All around them, crickets serenaded the half moon that hung low and bright in a dark sky.
Garrett wheeled around. “Go on back. Hanging out with those women, drinking...that’s not my scene. Not anymore.”
Dean jogged up to him. “Hey. I get it. You didn’t want to be bothered. With that ugly mug of yours, getting pestered by gorgeous women must happen a lot. Poor guy.”
A low laugh escaped Garrett. Dean was growing on him. Garrett had vowed to keep his distance from the other players. Avoid situations that’d tempt him to drink. But Dean seemed different from the rest. An ally when he could use one. According to his sponsor, in between AA meetings he’d need support like Dean’s.
Garrett leaned against his car, one boot resting on his rims. In the distance, a rushing stream gurgled, the frogs’ deep hum accompanying the violin whir of insects.
“It’s quiet in Holly Springs.” Strange as it sounded given his former, fast-paced life in Atlanta, he liked it.
Something about this small town settled the part of him that felt unmoored. Like he could belong here, though he knew that wasn’t possible. As a kid shuttled from one house to the next before landing in a group home, he’d learned not to put down roots. Get too comfortable or close to anyone. The one time he had, it’d ended in a tragedy he did his best to avoid thinking about.
“It’s a little too quiet.” Dean glanced up the road toward the center of town where a few lights twinkled. “Since they shut down the last of the fabric mills a year ago, the town lost its only major employer and draw, except us. If we fold—”
Anxiety stabbed Garrett, sharp and sudden. “Is there a chance the team’s going under?” Mr. Gadway was the first to give him a chance. Would there be others?
Dean looked around and stepped closer, lowering his voice. “There’s a rumor that it’s up for sale.”
“You think that’s true?”
“We’re not drawing as many fans as we used to, and with another Minor League team starting up just an hour farther from Raleigh than we are...” Dean jerked his chin west, then looked back to Garrett.
Garrett rubbed the back of his tense neck. “We need to turn it around—hope the next manager is going to do that...” He’d never have a strong record if the team kept losing game after game. He needed his time with the Falcons to count—to attract Major League attention, he had to make his mark.
“Who’s going to take over as manager? Not Reed.”
Dean slapped at a mosquito, leaving a smear of blood above his elbow. “Hope not. He doesn’t put more than three words together. These younger guys need a firm hand.”
“But if they couldn’t afford Pete, who are they going to get?” Garrett wondered.
When Dean shrugged, Garrett’s jaw flexed. New owners would mean uncertainty and flux while they set up infrastructure, time he couldn’t afford to waste. New management, if it was someone inexperienced or ineffective, could cause the same damage. He’d worked too hard to lose this second chance.
Not when it might be his last.
HEATHER SAT IN the Falcons’ former dugout and gazed at the sky. It was purple, almost watery-looking. The moon peered back at her over the tree line, and birds called their good-nights from the spreading branches. Scout, the family’s collie, bounded through the entrance and circled the bench before flopping down at her feet, exhausted from chasing who knew what...
She zipped her sweatshirt against the slight chill, thinking for the hundredth time that she should leave their old field and head home. Yet after two weeks of staying indoors, either in the hospital or by her father’s side, she needed this gulp of air.
And being here was peaceful. Even the rattling cicadas in the scrub brush sounded like a lullaby. She’d always escaped here during her mother’s addiction-fueled rampages. A place she could run to from home.
Heather wondered what would have happened if her mother hadn’t sustained the back injury that’d hooked her on painkillers. Although it’d happened when Heather was too young to remember, she’d always wished she could have done something to prevent the muscle sprain—or seen the signs of her mother’s medicine misuse, a habit that’d become a much bigger problem