Read From Left Field: A Hot Baseball Romance (Diamond Brides Book 7) for Free Online

refused to listen, refused to believe that she was contributing to animal cruelty in any way.
    Haley had other reasons for disliking Missy Newton, more personal ones. But she didn’t need to get into those, not here. Instead, she went on: “Pet Ownership University would bring Missy, and other people like her, crawling out of the woodwork.” She watched her staff nod in agreement. “But let’s go with the other ideas. Ginny, can you manage the bake sale? And Stacy, can you be in charge of the car wash? And Kate, can you be the point person for the silent auction?”
    Both women agreed enthusiastically. Paws could do this. They had to. The animals were counting on them.
    ~~~
    Predictably, the game was as shitty as the rest of Adam’s day.
    In the top of the third, he went back for a fly ball. He’d played left field for the Rockets for ten years now; he knew every angle in the park. He wasn’t surprised when he felt dirt under his cleats, telling him he’d reached the warning track. He wasn’t surprised when he felt the wall against his shoulders, telling him he’d reached the limits of the playing field. He wasn’t surprised when he saw the line the ball was taking, when he extended his glove high above his head, when he jumped at the precise second to make his leap coincide with the ball’s arc.
    But he was surprised as hell when his hand came down empty, and his body smashed hard against the wall.
    His timing was off. He didn’t bother watching the fans scrambling for their souvenir in the stands. Instead, he limped back to his place in left field, stretching hard to keep his muscles from cramping. He glanced toward the dugout and saw one of the trainers hovering on the second step, but he waved the guy back. Second game of the season—too early to give in to aches and bruises.
    That Philadelphia home run, though, was the beginning of a rout. The next guy at the plate walked on four balls. The ninth-place hitter batted him over. The lead-off batter stepped up and knocked out his first homer of the year, a wicked fly ball to right.
    And the Rockets never recovered.
    Adam did his best at the plate, but the left-handed Philadelphia pitcher was a lousy match-up for him. Adam struck out swinging twice, and he was caught looking a third time. And just like that, the Rockets were .500 for the season.
    The locker room was quiet after the game. All the boisterous bragging of Opening Day was gone, replaced with the low-key frustration of a team struggling to find its feet when public opinion said it should be sprinting down the straightaway. It had been like that for a lot of spring training—some great streaks where everything clicked for four or five or even six games and it looked like the team was destined for the post season, only to be followed by a clutch of games where absolutely nothing went right.
    Adam knew his job, though. He hurried through his shower and pulled on street clothes. Sure enough, the reporters were waiting for him by his locker. Ross Parker led the pack. The columnist already had his notebook out and his pen ready. “So, Adam. It looked like you should have had that fly ball in the third.”
    Is that a question? That’s what he always wanted to ask, when reporters gathered around with their easy observations and sly comments. But he knew better than that. He had to give them what they wanted.
    “It’s tricky,” he said. “Getting used to twilight and the light stands and the full stadium after all those weeks in Florida. We were knocking the dust off tonight. We’ll be back in it tomorrow.”
    Another reporter chimed in, a new guy Adam didn’t recognize. “So your excuse for those three strikeouts is the lighting?”
    Asshole . But he said, “No excuse,” with an apologetic smile that he held just long enough to make sure one of the News & Observer photographers caught it. “Fernandez is always a tough match-up for me. I need to do better.”
    Parker was back again. “A couple of