League of Her Own

by Faith O'Shea

  League of Her Own became book two of a new series, all about the Greenliners, and a few of the players on the other baseball team that plays in Boston.

  I hope you enjoy.

  Faith

  About Faith

  Faith O’Shea is a contemporary women’s literature writer who admire strong women, truth, justice and love stories that touch the heart. Writing has always been her passion, but she had to wear many hats before making it her life’s pursuit. Through her work in banking, real estate, teaching, and retail she has accumulated a wealth of knowledge about the human condition, creating depth in her unforgettable characters.

  Faith resides in Massachusetts with her husband Jeff, her two dogs, Cooper and Molly, and cat Isis. Her adult children live close by and she visits weekly for grandma time for her five grandsons. In her spare time, she reads for research and pleasure, walks Cooper, dabbles in the kitchen, and has dinner with friends. A member of Facebook, and Twitter, you can visit her on any of her social apps or find her through her website at www.faithoshea.com.

  Books by Faith O’Shea

  The Greenliner Series

  Thrown for a Curve

  League of Her Own

  Clutch Hit

  The Scalera Family Series

  Cold Sweat

  Edge of Forever

  Thin Blue Line

  Coming Home to You

  Finding Joy

  Fire and Ice Series

  Consumed by Fire

  Skoli on Ice

  Heart on Fire

  Heart of Ice

  Tendril of Ice

  Rekindling the Fire

  Clutch Hit

  Alicia Nilsson, the Vice President in charge of Player Development for the Boston Greenliners, would do just about anything to see her team win the World Series. And she’d proven it. She had also proven, quite possibly, that she was crazy. But when she bumped into a Cuban player at a bar in Cancun, what else could she do? He was the third baseman she’d been looking for and he came with a strong bat to boot.

  Mateo Alvarez couldn’t believe his luck, or how far a woman would go to provide for her team’s future. He chalked it up to some pretty strong existential winds, the kind you don’t mess with.

  At least he wasn’t willing to.

  Could he convince Alicia that his glove and bat might be clutch, but they weren’t the only things she needed?

  Excerpt from Clutch Hit

  Alicia Nilsson approached the Campari Sports Complex, the knot in her stomach tightening with every step. It was the first time in the two years she’d held the job as Senior Vice President of Major and Minor League Operations for the Boston Greenliners that she felt this kind of dread. She usually relished the interaction she had with the men she’d drafted, traded for or farmed in their minor league system. When she’d taken the job, a rise up the front-office ladder, and only the fourth woman who’d risen that high in the ranks of Major League Baseball, she couldn’t wait to put her well-defined plan into action. Dan DeLorenzo, her boss and President in charge of Baseball Operations had given her the green light to create a manual that spelled out exactly what it meant to be a Greenliner. From clubhouse behavior to how to wear the uniform, to rules about facial hair, she’d defined what administration expected from their team members.

  The expectations, no longer ambiguous were clearly stated and she hadn’t stopped there. She culled the scouts until she had the best, and she gave them quantitative measures for what she wanted from them- specifics on strengths, weaknesses, stats, family, attitude, any and all information they could gather about the person in question. And she insisted each player be treated as if he were a precious investment.

  Because he was.

  She’d done her part, objectively evaluating each of their prospects, discussing their skills and talents and what she thought they’d bring to the team with the managers. She’d had individual sit-downs with each of them, wanting to get to know who they were, and how they approached life. She challenged the professionals in the big leagues to be better, and she outlined ways they could achieve those goals. What had surprised most of her critics, is that they had all listened. What the naysayers had missed in the gender equation was that she was good at her job.

  She’d been talking baseball since she’d been a toddler at her father’s knee, interned with the team in high school, and when she’d graduated from college with a degree Sports Management, she was hired as Dan’s assistant. From that moment on, she’d made a point of learning every player’s name, from every league, minor to major, every stat, where the men came from came, how they got where they were and what it would take for them to move up. Every detail was at her fingertips, and she could answer any question Dan put to her. All of her hard work paid off for as soon as her predecessor had retired, she’d been promoted. Even the owners had given their blessing. Dan knew she’d do anything to help her team win, whether it be working twelve-or-thirteen-hour days, traveling across the country to meet their rookies, mediating between the front office and her guys, which is what she called the players, or putting organizational goals ahead of anything personal. They had a mission statement in the two-word motto, “Bring It”. They wanted to win and insisted everyone commit to the kind of team spirit that would accomplish that goal.

  Last year they’d almost done it, but almost didn’t cut it. She’d spent most of her time since the loss in October helping to fill in the missing pieces in their quest for a ring, but she’d gone over and above in one instance. It was what was causing the dread.

  With clammy hands, she opened the glass door of the facility and stepped inside. She could hear voices, the crack of the bat, all the signs that a practice was in session. At her request, Leo Quijano, the infield coach, had brought three of their potential stars in two weeks early for a mini-training camp. She wanted to see if her instincts had been right, see if they’d bring it. It looked good from what she’d heard but she needed to give it a more personal touch, strengthen the connections, show up. The players needed to know she was paying attention, that they were valued. They were the biggest investment the team would make and in order to earn dividends she needed to monitor their progress daily.

  When she moved to the edge of the field, the dread came with her, increasing in weight and mass. The Cuban she’d rescued from Mexico was standing at the plate, totally focused and she watched, spellbound. He looked so good standing there, and there was an unexpected ripple of pride. His swing was near perfection, and he met the balls that came flying at him with the kind of power she knew would win ball games. It was what his body did to hers that caused the concern. His muscles rippled with each stroke of the bat, and her breath held as he lifted one ball after the other into the nets over four hundred feet away.

  He was hers. Her find, her…

  Her mind drifted back to the day she’d met him, sitting at a bar in Cancun. She’d needed a break after the World Series loss, needed to regenerate for the hard work that was ahead, so she’d moved forward with her plans, going solo when her usual traveling companion had been unable to accompany her. She’d walked the beach, gotten some sun, slept in late, all those things she’d come for, but by the third day she’d gotten restless. Scenes from the last game of the World Series began streaming again. It was top of the ninth inning, fucking Rick Watters, the Greenliner closer, one strike away from a win when, crack, the batter sent the ball flying out over the Green Monster, taking back the lead and the Series win. That one ball, placed smack dab over the plate, had ended the team’s run for their first championship in over eighty years and a coveted duck ride through the streets of Boston. The rival team had been touted around the city holding the trophy high in the air, while she was laying by a pool, drowning her sorrows in tequila concoctions. Her team’s victory had been dashed by a single clutch hit. She’d needed to find a new closer, a third baseman, and a shortstop. They would be the pillars on which they could build a winning team and she’d been chomping at the bit to fin
d them.

  After a morning strolling the open markets, trying to decide if she should head home and get back to work, she’d found a cantina where she decided to grab some lunch. It was an open-aired eatery, the rotating fans overhead creating just enough of a breeze to spell relief from the hazy, hot sunshine. After glancing around for an empty seat, she claimed one next to a good-looking man at the end of the bar. While sipping a margarita, light-headed from the heat, the potent tequila and lack of sleep, she threw caution to the wind, and began to flirt with him. He was dark, gorgeous actually, and she felt a burst of heat that knocked her off her stride. She’d been ready to end her dating drought, here, far away from those who knew her, and all that was familiar, and he seemed to fit the bill. In a big way.

  His lips were full, his eyes bits of obsidian, his shoulder length dark hair brushed back, a widow’s peak framing a heart shaped face. And he carried himself like an athlete, all muscle and sinew.

  She leaned over, was a breath away when she asked, “Are you alone?”

  He met her eyes and she felt another surge of fire streak through her.

  “I am. Yes.”

  His voice was heavily accented, but his articulation was precise. She was more than intrigued. She swiveled toward him, crossed her legs, allowing her sundress to shift up. It gave him a glimpse of some thigh.

  “Where are you from?”

  He searched her eyes. She felt his hesitation, thought maybe he wasn’t as attracted to her as she was to him, attracted at all. His scrutiny was unnerving, and it caused another flush of heat.

  When he said, “Cuba,” all she could do was gape.

  She knew some Cubans who had defected to play ball. She’d heard some of the horror stories about their attempts to get to America, the ransom, the threats, and a death. It wasn’t an easy country to escape.

  There was concern in her voice, when she asked, “How did you get here?”

  She sensed his body stiffening, as if she were a threat to his well-being.

  “A fishing boat.”

  His eyes kept wandering to the doorway as if he were expecting someone, or maybe he’d been planning his exit strategy. She still wasn’t sure which.

  “When? Recently?”

  His eyes had narrowed at her inquisition.

  “This morning.”

  He slid off his stool and took some rumpled bills from his pocket to place on the bar.

  “I must go.”

  She put a hand on his arm. The sizzle that came was mind numbing.

  “Where? Where are you staying?”

  She hadn’t seen the duffel he had with him until he picked it up and shouldered it.

  “I do not know yet.”

  No wanting to let him go, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I am a ball player and I must find a way to get to America.”

  All she’d heard was ball player. She’d whisked him away to her hotel room, all thoughts about physical satisfaction receding into the mist.

  She’d sat him right down, pulled his whole history out through a series of questions.

  When he’d told her he played third base, she’d felt the hairs on her neck rise in attention.

  He’d played for the Camaguey Alfareros, one of the provincial teams, and he’d seen some action on the national team, had travelled to Rotterdam and Canada with it.

  She’d known only the best were given that prerogative.

  When she’d asked why he left, he’d told her he was tired of playing for no more than blood, sweat and the glory of the state.

  Expecting the worst, she held her breath after she asked if there were any repercussions that came out of the exodus. She let it out when he’d told her he’d landed safely, without any problems. Only later did she find out he’d come with little money and no real strategy on how to get to America.

  During the many conversations that followed she’d asked what he would have done if she hadn’t come along. He had no answer other than, he’d waited for a mystical solution. He’d quoted something written by Rumi, about his soul needing to be somewhere else and he intended to end up there.

  She’d been stunned by his reply. The man read Rumi. She didn’t know much about him other than he was poet, centuries back. She’d shaken her head at his faith in the impossible, thought the sentiment might have been wishful thinking, if it hadn’t worked.

  It made her wonder if her presence had been fated? She’d almost chosen Cozumel as her starting point. Almost hadn’t gone, once Casey had told her she was needed in Boston.

  Unwilling to dwell on it, putting it down to coincidence, she went right to work.

  It had taken days to do her vetting, and when she was finally convinced that he might be the third baseman she’d been looking for, she’d called an agent she knew and got the official ball rolling. It was Keith Zamoutto who’d ultimately helped Mateo apply for a visa and began negotiating a contract with a major league team. Her major league team.

  It had taken months to get him here, along with a few sacrifices. She’d put the organization before her own personal integrity.

  Now she had to live with it.