Heart of the Game Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Praise for Rachel Spangler

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Pre-Game

  Top of the First

  Bottom of the First

  Top of the Second

  Bottom of the Second

  Top of the Third

  Bottom of the Third

  Top of the Fourth

  Bottom of the Fourth

  Top of the Fifth

  Bottom of the Fifth

  Top of the Sixth

  Bottom of the Sixth

  Top of the Seventh

  Bottom of the Seventh

  Top of the Eighth

  Bottom of the Eighth

  Top of the Ninth

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Sometimes baseball is just a metaphor for life, and sometimes it works the other way around. All Sarah Duke ever cared about was baseball, and she’s finally earned her shot as a full-time sports writer. She loves the work, she loves being one of the few women to ever gain access to a man’s world, but most of all, she loves the game. When Duke meets Molly Grettano and her two sons at the ballpark, she instantly connects with the young family, but Molly isn’t sure Duke’s ready for something more. Molly wants someone softer, more feminine, and more importantly, someone steady. She and her boys have been abandoned before, and she’s vowed never to put them in that position again. If she were ever to trust anyone, it would have to be someone fully dedicated to her and her children. Duke has a lot of heart, but neither woman is sure there’s enough room left in it for anything other than baseball.

  Praise for Rachel Spangler

  Timeless

  “Timeless is unusual. It is a sweet romantic tale of girl going home to find that thing she didn’t know she wanted was there all the time. But it is much more than a simple romance…Ms. Spangler’s characters are always deep and multidimensional.” —Curve magazine

  Does She Love You?

  “Spangler has given us well developed characters that we can love and hate, sometimes at the same time.” —Lambda Literary Review

  Spanish Heart

  “Spangler’s novels are filled with endearing characters, interesting plot turns, and vivid descriptions. Her readers feel immersed in the worlds of her novels from the start.” —The Observer

  LoveLife

  “Rachel Spangler does a wonderful job creating characters that are not only realistic but also draw the reader into their worlds. The lives these women lead are so ordinary that they could be you or I, but it’s the tale Spangler weaves between Elaine, Lisa, and Joey that is so beautifully written and extraordinary.” —CherryGrrl.com

  The Long Way Home

  “Rachel Spangler’s third book, The Long Way Home, explores how we remake ourselves and the consequence of not being true to our real selves. In the case of Raine, her perceived notions of small-town life may have been tainted by being 17. The reality of what she finds when she returns as an adult surprises her and has her wondering if she’d been wrong about her home town, her parents, and her friends. Spangler’s story will have you staying up very late as you near the end of the book.” —Lambda Literary Review

  Trails Merge

  “Sparks fly and denial runs deep in this excellent second novel by Spangler. The author’s love of the subject shines through as skiing, family values and romance fill the pages of this heartwarming story. The setting is stunning, making this reviewer nostalgic for her childhood days spent skiing the bunny hills of Wisconsin.” —Curve magazine

  Learning Curve

  “Spangler’s title, Learning Curve, refers to the growth both of these women make, as they deal with attraction and avoidance. They share a mutual lust, but can lust alone surpass their differences? The answer to that question is told with humor, adventure, and heat.” —Just About Write

  Heart of the Game

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Heart of the Game

  © 2015 By Rachel Spangler. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-371-4

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: March 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Lynda Sandoval and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Learning Curve

  Trails Merge

  The Long Way Home

  LoveLife

  Spanish Heart

  Does She Love You?

  Timeless

  Heart Of The Game

  Acknowledgments

  I was born October 20, 1982. Down the road I may regret putting that in print since it will always mark my age, and I admit it now only in order to make a point. You see, most people see their birthdays as important to their lives for obvious reasons, but for me something else happened on my birthday, something important, maybe even more important than my birth: the St. Louis Cardinals won the World Series. When I say I have been a Cardinals fan since birth, I’m not exaggerating. What’s more, I was born almost a month early. I like to think it’s because I didn’t want to miss seeing that game. I don’t remember a time when baseball wasn’t a part of my life. The game has taught me so many lessons about life, loss, and human nature, and even love. This book is my attempt to give a little bit back to the sport that has given so much to me.

  Still, baseball, like life, is a team sport, and I’ve been blessed with one of the best support teams in the world. Jenifer Langosch, sportswriter for MLB.com, answered countless questions about the day-to-day life of a sportswriter over the course of the last year. I am sure there are a few details I still managed to boot, and those mistakes are mine alone, but Duke is a much stronger, more realistic character because of Jenifer’s patience and willingness to share her expertise. Thanks to my friend Teresa Grettano, who let me use her last name when, halfway through the book, I still didn’t know what to call Molly. And thank you to Will Banks for continuing to keep me updated on great things happening in Queer studies. Toni Whitaker and Barb Dallinger once again served as beta readers. They are kind and gentle and caring, and they are always the first people who get to hold my new babies. They also make the book stronger by letting me know if I’ve actually done what I set out to do.

  As usual, the Bold Strokes team has done a bang-up job of making this book better than I could ever make it on my own. Sheri’s cover is another eye-catcher that fully captures the mood of the story. Toni Whitaker is the woman to thank for making it available to you in a multitude of eBook formats. Stacia Seaman did the hard work of copy-editing for an author who to this day has no idea where the commas really go. Ruth Sternglantz made sure those of you on social media knew when the novel was finally available for purchase, and a myriad of proofreaders checked and double-checked to make sure none of us missed anything along the way.

  My good friend and substantive edit
or, Lynda Sandoval, despite her lack of interest in sports, stood by me from start to finish. Lynda is the editorial equivalent of the best catcher in baseball. A good catcher is not just the brains of the team. She actually makes the pitchers better by giving them the confidence to throw the pitches they really want to. I trust Lynda to block any pitch I may accidently bury in the dirt, then pick it up, toss it back, and say, “I’ve got your back. Go ahead, try that one again.” Whatever the writerly equivalent of an ERA is, mine is better because I knew I had Lynda behind the plate.

  I’d also like to thank two other groups of people who don’t normally make an appearance in these sorts of things. The first is my parents, who taught me to love the game. They let both me and my brother miss school every spring training so we could see live games, and they let us stay up late to watch big games on TV. They paid money they likely didn’t really have to get us to Busch Stadium on vacations; they taught us about the fundamentals and hard work and never giving up on your team even when they were down in the count or in the standings; and no matter what hardships our relationships have endured over the years, we have always been able to talk about the Cardinals. The second group is made up of the kids I’ve gotten to coach in Little League. Many of their names have appeared in this book as a way to honor their pure joy in playing a sport. The last few years of working with them reminded me that all the finest parts of baseball will always be best understood by children.

  And speaking of children, I once joked that one of the main reasons I had one of my own was that I needed an excuse to keep playing ball. Jackson has never let me down in that sport. Teaching the boy I love the game I love has been one of the great privileges of my life, and I already see ways in which the student is surpassing his teacher. Jackie, you remind me of everything that is right, and pure, and good in the great American pastime.

  Finally, there are never enough words to thank Susan Spangler. How do you thank the person responsible for giving you the courage and the freedom to live a life you love? There’s no better teammate, no better batterymate, and no one I’d rather have hitting behind me in the lineup or waiting for me at home plate. You are the heart of my team, and I couldn’t do any of this without you.

  I am abundantly blessed with such a large and amazing team, not through my own deserving, but through the grace of God. Soli deo gloria.

  For Susie.

  There’s no one I’d rather have with me during a long season, and even after so many of them, it’s still all your fault.

  Pre-Game

  The crowd pushed around her, a mass of denim and skin blocking the sun and even, at times, the air. Tall trunks of legs rose past her line of sight, a solid forest uprooted, flowing and shifting like a river and carrying her along. Everyone towered impossibly high and swift around her, a legion of giants, but such is the worldview of every four-year-old. With her small hand engulfed securely by her father’s, she found nothing disconcerting about her inability to see beyond the blue jeans in front of her. She allowed herself to be pulled along in his wake, content to be part of this stream of people with him for once. She even looked like him now, almost. Her overalls were only a shade lighter than his pants, and they covered her legs the same way even if they did come up higher and have silver buckles. They also said “OshKosh.” She liked that word. Her mother had said it when she pointed to the blue label. Her father didn’t have a blue label, but he wore a red shirt like hers. Red like a fire truck, red like a crayon, red like the little bird on her hat. It wasn’t her hat, though. It was Aidan’s, but Aidan was sick, so she got to wear it.

  She also got his ticket. “Ticket.” She said the word loudly enough to be heard by her own ears, then float away on the sea of moving trunks behind her. She liked the word as much as she liked the slip of paper protruding from her tight fist. She’d seen it at home but hadn’t been allowed to touch it until they’d come into this cavernous hallway. Once in the dim night and the forest of knees, her father had handed it to her. She sensed its importance without understanding its purpose and silently hoped to prove herself worthy of this thing, this ticket.

  She felt more than saw their path change. There was a pause, then a step to the left, a few more steps forward, then over. Soon they were near a wall, close enough she could have touched it, but she didn’t. She followed only the denim knees she recognized as his as they turned down another smaller hall. This one wasn’t as crowded. Light slipped in among the legs ahead, and the gray slab walls on either side offered shelter from the pushing, grinding river of bodies. Her father slowed, allowing the tension in their joined arms to slacken, and she scooted up even with him. Gradually the layers of legs before her stepped away, each one leaving more slivers of sunlight for her eyes to adjust to until finally the last of the legs stepped away, revealing the most beautiful sight her young eyes had ever seen.

  The enormity of the view seeped in slowly, like the gentle warmth of the setting sun against her cheeks. The path before her descended steeply to a low wall, separating this plain of cold, gray concrete from a vast open field of colors more vibrant than anything she had in her box of crayons. The dirt was a rich shade of orange, but not like an actual orange, burnt, crumbled, and cut through with stark, bold white lines. They offered a dry contrast to the lush green of the grass, which stood bright and deep, rippling into patterns. Rows crossed one another in the faintest shades, lighter or darker, like those left by her mother’s vacuum across their living room carpet. If someone had vacuumed the field, it must have been God. Surely no person could have done something so big and so perfect. Even though the concept of the divine hovered foggy and uncertain in her mind, she knew God lived in the stained glass and tall pipe organ of her church, and she knew instinctively He lived here, too.

  Men, or rather, big boys occupied the field. They dotted the richly colored grass, the brilliant white of their clothes signaling to her they were part of the field, or maybe the field belonged to them. They ran about, back and forth, or swung bats. Some of them simply sat in the grass, arms and legs outstretched, bending and straightening languidly. They were playing. The formality of gods blended with the youthfulness of children to draw her closer.

  A group of younger children brushed past her, their hands clutching cotton candy, popcorn, snow cones, but her eyes remained locked on something more compelling than any petty treat. The men on the field had birds on their shirts, red birds, bright and definitive against the white, the same little bird she had on her hat. She drew steadily nearer now, slowly but purposefully inching closer, over the lip of each stair. She’d let go of her father’s hand, but still felt anchored, as if tethered to him. He had brought her here. He wore the red bird, so did those boys in white, and so did she. Her mind made connections loosely, rapidly, freely, but her feet moved to a rhythm set to a reason she could only sense.

  She stepped to level ground, the last of the gray concrete beneath her feet, before the low wall, and saw her opening. A little door, a small gate, towering bodies of men shifted all around, but they were dull and faded compared to the sharp pull beyond. She strode with an unnamable confidence now, threading her way nimbly around obstacles too big to pay her any mind. Her foot struck out, both of its own accord and of her deepest wish, then hovered, suspended over the burnt orange clay. Inches from Eden, she halted, then was whisked backward and upward as her father scooped her swiftly into his arms.

  “You scared me to death, Sarah. Don’t ever wander off like that again.” The harshness of his words was undercut by both relief and exasperation as he carried her slowly back up the muted gray stairs.

  She struggled against his hold, squirming around to see the field over his shoulder, her face scraping against the dark stubble of his beard. “I want to be out there, Daddy.”

  “So does everybody else who’s ever picked up a baseball,” he snapped, then sighed. “We all want to be out there, but we’re not allowed.”

  “Then why are those boys out there?” She pointed to the
players.

  He turned slowly toward the direction indicated by her outstretched hand. He stared at the men on the field, his blue eyes seemingly focused on something bigger or farther away than the players in his line of sight. He didn’t speak, and she waited, captivated by the pensiveness in his gaze, the sag of his shoulders, the slight crook at the corners of his lips. He’d always been a giant in her eyes, but for a moment he changed in a way a mythical creature may be timeless, or boundless. They stood, transfixed for what felt like a long time before he sighed heavily. His shoulders dropped and the deep creases along his mouth returned as he turned back to her and said, “Some of those boys are blessed, some of them work harder than all the others along the way. Most of them are both. Either way, they earned the right to go on that field. The rest of us are just lucky to be able to see them play.”

  He set her down on the stadium seat, then with a smile even a child could tell was fake asked if she’d like a hot dog.

  She ignored the question and tried to focus on the feeling slipping away. “Blessed,” she repeated as she stood on her bright red chair and looked out once more on the field, the colors, the boys, and their play. She didn’t know if she was blessed, but she did understand hard work. If that was what she needed to do to get closer to that game, then that was what she’d do. Somehow those men with the bird on their shirts had earned their spot in this place. She turned to her dad one more time and said, “Someday I’m going to earn it, too.”