A League of Her Own

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.”

“Thank you.” Heather hung up and studied her palms. No matter what the doctor suggested, Heather knew the truth from a lifetime of lessons drilled into her by a demanding parent.

Talent was no guarantee.

* * *

“LET’S DRINK TO Mr. Gadway’s recovery. Two days post-op and he’s already up and bossing the nurses around.”

Garrett Wolf nodded in agreement then stared at the glass of Jameson his teammate plunked down on the pub table before him. His hands were clenched in his lap. He inhaled the familiar, woodsy smell of the whiskey, imagining its smooth taste on his suddenly parched tongue.

His sponsor’s phone number ran through his head. He’d call if he couldn’t resist those three fingers of whiskey. And he could use it tonight. Down the whole bottle until the sting of his miserable performance at the game earlier floated away. Luckily he’d attended an AA meeting this afternoon. It helped.

“Drink up, buddy. The night’s young and the season’s still early. Don’t let tonight get you down. You’ll win next time.” The Falcons’ starting catcher, Dean, pulled up a wooden stool and gulped an identical beverage.

Garrett’s dark thoughts grew blacker. As a starting pitcher, he’d screwed up this chance to prove himself. A win would have confirmed that his past, as a Minor League player who’d squandered his potential, wouldn’t repeat itself. He needed to show that the Falcons’ risky decision to sign him would pay off.

But playing competitively after a three-year hiatus had rattled him, catching him off guard. Self-doubt, not booze, had impaired him this time. Ironic. Tomorrow, he’d hit the field and work on the control he’d lacked. Get his act together. If he didn’t, he’d miss his last opportunity to move up to the Major Leagues. It was the childhood dream that’d gotten him through foster care, the adult goal that’d turned his life around.

“Aren’t you going to drink that?” Dean asked, eying the whiskey. “Toast to Mr. Gadway?”

Garrett shoved the glass away, his fingers lingering, before forcing himself to let go. “I’ll send a card.”

“More for me, then.” Dean studied him, then shrugged and threw back the drink.

Garrett looked away, not wanting to see the guy swallow the tempting brew. Yet all around him his new teammates were drinking beer so frothy he felt it on his upper lip, taking shots that made his own throat burn. He wanted a drink in the worst way. And with only twelve months of sobriety under his belt, he didn’t trust himself to resist.

Not in this place.

Not ever.

In a couple of minutes, he’d leave. He’d already congratulated the new shortstop who’d been called up from their Double-A team. It was the reason they’d gathered here tonight to celebrate.

Dean squinted up at him. “Are you one of those devout types?” He ran a hand through his short brush of red hair. “Didn’t mean to offend you.”

Garrett relaxed. The guy meant well. It wasn’t like the world conspired to make him relapse. Though sometimes it seemed like it.

“You didn’t. And I’m not.” He pulled a bronze coin from his back pocket and placed it on the table, leaving it out long enough for Dean to get a look before sliding it away again.

Without a word, Dean swept the glasses away and deposited them on another table. When he returned, his face had lost its jocular expression. “My dad was an alcoholic. It’s something to earn one of those chips, and I wish he’d done it. You should be proud.”