He didn’t even swing at the first pitch. In fact, he looked frozen in place, the pressure too much to take.

“Thataway, Ponytail. Wait for your pitch,” Mickey yelled.

He dropped the bat, miming comic amazement that she was calling out encouragement. She noted people around her smiling amongst themselves over her lack of nastiness to him, and she heaved a huge internal sigh. For someone who had wanted anonymity, she’d sure earned a reputation in a short time. Since she’d never been content to sit on the sidelines before, she didn’t know why she had expected herself capable of it now.

She watched him scoop up a handful of dirt to absorb the sweat off his palms, then settle in at the plate again.

Crack!

The ball sailed over the shortstop’s head and dropped between the center and left fielders. The stands erupted with cheering; Mickey knew he couldn’t possibly hear her yelling instructions to him as she watched the progress of the ball and the outfielders chasing it. His teammates shouted and motioned for him to keep running.

One runner scored. Two. Three. He rounded third and headed to home. The ball soared in to the cutoff man at second base.

“Slide!” Mickey screamed, cupping her hands into a human megaphone. “Slide!”

Whoosh! Down he went, streaking into home amidst a rooster tail of dirt and dust at the same moment the ball landed with a pop in the catcher’s mitt.

“Safe!” the umpire bellowed.

His teammates mobbed him at the plate where he lay gasping, their voices rumbling with congratulations and surprise at the in-the-park home run. The only thing Jack could hear distinctly was Coach’s voice, an octave higher than the men’s and clearly thrilled at his success.

“All right, Ponytail! You did it! You did it!”

Someone stuck out a helping hand. Jack grasped it and was pulled to his feet. “Which one of you dropped that piano on my back as I got to third?” he asked, doubled over, eliciting laughter from the team as he was swept into their circle of celebration. Finding an unexpected well of energy, he broke out of the group and jogged away from them, toward the stands, toward Coach.

Across the field, past the opponent’s dugout, up the stairs he trotted, until he stood in front of her and could see her delayed reaction to his presence. Lifting a hand to her cap, he spun it around until the bill pointed backward. Gently, he pulled off her sunglasses and passed them to the person beside her. He settled his hands on her shoulders, and he could feel imminent flight within her and see caution in her eyes. Brown eyes, he noted, clear as aged brandy.

“I’ve won a lot of cases in court, Coach, but nothing ever made me feel as good as this. Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” That said, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers.

Spontaneous combustion. The words raced through his mind as what he’d planned as a friendly kiss of gratitude exploded into something much more. Stunned, more winded than he’d been after the run around the bases, he pulled back after five seconds on a roller coaster that had reached the top of the first hill instantly and started a swift descent into frenzied madness.

Mickey opened her eyes slowly as Ponytail pulled back; she looked into eyes as startled as her own must be. Knowing this moment was all she would ever have of this man, she grabbed his T-shirt with both fists and held him there.

The familiar odors of sweat, dirt and glove leather assailed her, sending her careening back to adolescence, to a happy and carefree time. For an instant she was transported into the dugout at the spring training camp of the L.A. Seagulls, the major league baseball team her father had managed for the past fourteen years. Comfort, familiarity, homecoming—she felt all this as she twisted his T-shirt in her hands and dragged him back to her.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured. Standing on tiptoe, she looped her arms around his neck and tugged. Amidst catcalls and whistles all around them, she kissed him back, reveling in the arousing taste of his mouth and the solid comfort of his body.

She wandered aimlessly, lost in a storm of feeling that obliterated everything from thought. For two years she’d been dead, worse than dead—lifeless. Now there was just him, and her, and their embrace—life’s most glorious celebration. Then from below her a tiny, high-pitched voice sliced into the maelstrom.

“Mommy, why is that lady kissing my daddy?”

Three

Ice water. Someone had dumped a fifty-five-gallon drum of frigid liquid on her, Mickey thought as she jerked herself out of his arms.

“Shh, Dani,” she heard a woman say.

“But, Mommy—”

Mickey realized it was Stacy who spoke to the child, a little girl dressed in a summer shift like her mother always wore. A little girl with long, silky brown hair like her mother and dark blue eyes like...Ponytail. Her father.

Mickey’s hands flew up to cover her mouth as she realized what it all meant. He was married. Married to Stacy, the only person Mickey had spoken to at the games, the person she’d passed instructions to Ponytail through. They were a family.

And she’d kissed him. He’d given her a friendly kiss. Well, sort of. It had escalated into something else. But she’d pulled him back for another longer, hotter, deeper kiss. He could have stopped her, though. Couldn’t he?

Furious and embarrassed, Mickey snatched back her sunglasses and leapt onto the bench behind her, then the one beyond that. Another. Another. Lord, for a small stadium, it seemed endless. She couldn’t get out fast enough.

Jack watched her take off. A few seconds passed before he interpreted the look of horror on her face. Realizing the conclusion she’d jumped to, he scrambled to follow her.

“Coach, wait!” He had the advantage of longer legs, but she was being chased by a demon. He gave up trying to explain in private. “We’re divorced, Coach! I’m not married!” he yelled as she hit the top of the stadium, ready to take flight.

His plastic cleats spun on the concrete stairs and he tripped just as he pulled within arm’s reach, calling out as he stumbled, and fell with a thud.

“Jack!” She dropped down beside him, her hands fluttering over him.

“You know my name,” he said in surprise, pain welling as he sought her eyes through the sunglasses she’d shoved back on to free her hands.

“Well, of course I know your name.” She growled the words impatiently. “I’ve been sitting in the stands for weeks. How could I not know your name. Where do you hurt?”

“My right ankle.”

A crowd migrated up the stadium steps. Jack grabbed her hand as she started to move aside when the first baseman, Scott, knelt beside him. “Don’t go,” Jack said to her. “I need to talk to you.”

“You’re in pain.”

“Please. You misunderstood.”

“How’re you doing?” Scott asked as he ran efficient hands down Jack’s leg and ankle.

“Go away,” Jack ordered. “I need to talk to Coach first.”

“Could be broken, buddy. We should get you to the hospital ER.”

“A few minutes’ delay won’t hurt. Back off, Scott. Coach?”

She hovered over him, her expression serious. “I’m really proud of you, Ponytail. You did great.”

“Not Ponytail. Jack.”

She swallowed. “Jack.”

“Now tell me yours.”

“Coach. It’s Coach.”

“I’m not going to see you again, am I?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t know. It’s a small town.”

“So, we may run into each other, but you’ll still avoid anything more personal.”

“I have to,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I can’t change it.”

He squeezed her hand; his eyes closed briefly as a wave of pain washed over him. He couldn’t decide which hurt the most—his ankle or the fact he may never see her again. “I can’t ever remember feeling like that about a kiss. And you...you pulled me back for more.”