If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant’s life, she will choose to save the infant’s life without even considering if there are men on base.

—Dave Barry

Pace’s mind was still on Holly as he pulled his duffel bag from the back of his car. Okay, so she’d turned out to be far more pretty than annoying; he still didn’t have time for her. Gritting his teeth at the movement of his shoulder, he strode toward the field under the late afternoon sun, meeting the guys on the pitcher’s mound.

They were a ragtag team of middle school kids who played here every single day. They didn’t belong to any school team; no one would have them. There was a rec center league, but it was too far from here, closer to the center of town, and these kids didn’t have the means to get there, much less pay the fees to join that league. They needed something here, on the edge of the county, to keep them busy and out of trouble, and he’d made that something baseball.

He’d discovered them one day after a particularly tough game of his own, where he’d pitched like shit, hurt like hell, and had come here just to stand on a field where talent didn’t matter, only heart did.

“You’re late,” Chipper said, tossing Pace their ball. Chipper was their catcher, a term used quite loosely since mostly the only things he ever caught were Ding Dongs. Literally. He could catch Ding Dongs in his mouth. He was the park champ.

“Don’t worry, Pace,” River piped in, slurping from a soda, making Pace’s mouth water. “We won’t make ya take a lap.” River was their pitcher. Another loose term, as River had a helluva time getting the ball anywhere near home plate, much less over it.

They were working on that. “I brought you guys something.” Pace’s fingers actually twitched to yank that soda away from the kid and down it. Christ, he missed Dr Pepper like he’d miss a limb.

“Chocodiles?” This from a hopeful Chipper.

“Better.” Pace let the bag drop and crouched down to unzip it, revealing a pile of brand new leather gloves, all infinitely higher quality than what they’d been using.

The guys hit their knees to get a closer look. “Dude . . .”

“Sweet . . .”

“Tight . . .”

Pace watched them all grab a glove and marvel over them with more joy that he’d gotten out of his last three wins. He rubbed his shoulder absently, wondering what was wrong with him that he was brooding about . . . hell, he didn’t even know. “When you get home, put a ball inside each glove and wrap it with a rubber band or string to break them in.” He rifled through the bag. “And Chipper, I brought you a new bat.”