Home Field Advantage (Bluestone Lakes #2)

Prologue

Dallas

The bases are loaded in the bottom of the ninth.

We’re so close that I can taste victory on the tip of my tongue. Something we’ve never had before. In my four years of coaching the San Francisco Staghorns, we’ve never had a shot at going to the biggest championship game in the league, let alone making the playoffs.

That’s not the only reason for the pressure weighing heavily on my shoulders, though.

This game will determine if I get to keep my job as head coach.

Do I have a backup plan if we don’t make it? Nope.

Should I? Probably.

With one foot on the top steps of the dugout, I rest my elbow on my upper thigh as I watch, without blinking, each of the players on the team. The same ones I played alongside years ago. My shoulder throbs from the memory, but I shake it off.

My friend, and head pitcher, Mitch, takes his stance on the pitcher’s mound.

The next batter from the Atlanta Strikers takes the field, and the crowd goes wild as he waves his hands in the air to encourage cheers from the stands.

Once he gets into position, the stadium quiets down, or at least it does to me while I hold my breath.

We’re up by one run.

One fucking run.

If we don’t strike out here, we could lose the game.

There’s a runner on third base with a lead off the bag, ready to run. Mitch looks to Tyler, standing on third, who’s ready in position in case he tries to advance for a steal at home plate. It’s a risk if the runner attempts it, but I wouldn’t put it past them to tie the game.

With eyes back on home plate, Mitch throws a strike.

Everyone still has eyes on third base to make sure he doesn’t get the steal.

Another throw. Another strike.

It all comes down to this.

We just need one more strike to win this.

“Come on, please make it,” I mutter under my breath as I watch intently as he winds up, and everything begins to move in slow motion.

I stop breathing, afraid that if I even blink, it will throw off the ball or some shit.

The ball releases from his grip, flying rapidly, and I send a silent prayer that the batter swings and misses.

But as my luck would have it, the opposite happens.

The crack of the ball connecting with the wooden bat echoes, and I follow the ball as it soars through the outfield and over the fence.

Releasing a long, drawn-out exhale, my head falls in defeat.

We just lost our spot in the playoffs.

My team played a hell of a season, so losing my job isn’t their fault. But to the team owners and fans, everything falls back on me and my ability to coach them. Every season for the last four years, we’ve won just enough games to scrape by for even a shot at the playoffs, but we always fall short.

Looking up, I see the Atlanta Strikers and the coaches flood the field with their arms in the air, shouting and celebrating their victory, while my team’s disappointment is painted on every face.

These are not just players to me.

They’re my brothers, and their success is my success.

“Heads up, boys,” I shout across the field as I step out of the dugout.

Even though I have no room to talk since my head was down just moments ago, I know they’re just as devastated as I am over this loss.

My feet drag me to the field, where the players line up to congratulate the other team.

I do the same by meeting the Strikers coach before following my team into the dugout to grab our things.

We filter through the door leading to the locker room.

The only sounds are the rustling bags, the light thump of cleats, and my heart pounding in my chest.

I hate this for them.

I hate this for me.

I’m the last to enter behind everyone, and as soon as I do, my eyes lock with the owner of the Staghorns. Clark Harris stands there, leaning against the wall, with a sympathetic smile. He knows he has to fire me today, and the pain of doing it is etched on his face.

Before I took this job, which followed the abrupt end of my career, he was my mentor.

He was my head coach.

He was like the dad I never had.

I tip my chin with a silent greeting before he places a hand on my shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Forcing a smile, my lips form a straight line. “Never a good thing, huh?”

He shakes his head.

Clark never beats around the bush, and I love him for it. Except right now, my stomach is in knots, and I’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“We can talk after you finish up with the guys and get changed,” he says, then turns to leave me there with my spiraling thoughts.

If I were optimistic, I’d imagine him telling me that he isn’t going to fire me, and instead give me one more chance, one more season, to figure out this coaching thing.

Especially since he didn’t ask me to meet in the privacy of his office.

I would be grateful, accept it, and work harder than ever before.

But my life tends to lean toward adverse outcomes, if I’m being honest.

The team is all changed, and with their heads down low, they all sit on the benches scattered around the locker room.

“You all played a hell of a game,” I say, clearing my throat. “If you all play the way you have over the last few months, I have no doubt that we can win the title next year.”

They nod in unison, but no words are said back.

“We have a chance next season. A big one, especially with the advantage that we have a lot of home games on that schedule. We know how this field works. We know every patch of dirt, weird bounce, and the way the sun glares. This field is ours and belongs to us.” I pause, looking from Mitch to Tyler and then the rest of the guys.

“And next year the championship will belong to us too.”

A round of cheers erupts from the locker room, and I force a smile. I didn’t exactly lie to them. They do have a chance next year—it’s just probably going to be without me.

I give each of them a mix of handshakes and high fives before leaving them to head to my office off to the side.

I take a moment to scan the photos along the wall through the years that showcase my journey here in San Francisco.

Stopping in front of my desk, I read the block which bears the inscription Dallas Westbrook – Head Coach on a small gold nameplate.

I run my fingers along the title I never wanted, but when my world crashed around me it allowed me the opportunity to keep baseball in my life.

And now I have to say goodbye to it.

A throat clears behind me, and I snap my head to find Clark standing in my office and closing the door behind him. “Hell of a game today.”

I nod, but remain silent.

“Unfortunately, I’m at a crossroads,” he continues. “While we always try our best to come out of a game with a win, sometimes the other teams surprise us when they swing and hit it out of the park.”

“It was an impressive game on both ends.”

“It was. But that’s not why I’m here.”

I swallow, gesturing for him to take a seat, and he waves me off.

“You’re like a son to me, Dallas. You were the greatest pitcher I’ve ever coached. Probably the greatest of all time.”

“It was a short time,” I add.

“Things haven’t been the best since you were forced into early retirement, and I think we jumped too quickly offering you the role of head coach.”

“I haven’t been at my best, and the team deserves better.”

He shakes his head. “Could you use some work? Sure. We all could. But you are the best, even though I know you struggle to believe that.”

This time, I don’t respond. I assess his features, searching for the lie, to see if he’s sugar-coating something with me for the first time. The fine lines and wrinkles from his old age show nothing.

“I appreciate that,” I finally say, choking out the words.

“And I want you to understand I’m not here to fire you,” he says.

My eyebrows knit in confusion.

“I’m offering you a break because I know when one is necessary. You have what it takes to coach this team, but you never had the chance to get over how your career ended. And that’s on me. I didn’t want to lose you, so I pushed you into this position before you were ready.”

My stomach flips, and I feel like I want to throw up right at his feet, while simultaneously wanting to kiss him for this chance. “What does this mean?”

“Coach James will take over for the offseason training. We can figure out what to tell the press. I want you to take some time to focus on yourself and get your shit together. We can figure out your next steps after that. No decision has to be made right this second, and I won’t allow you to make another impulsive one for the sake of keeping this team in your life. ”

This is…unexpected.

“Thank you, sir.”

“First, stop calling me sir,” he warns with a finger to my face. “Second, you got this. I know you do. There will be no more strikeouts. Only home runs from here on out.”

I let his final words settle as my shoulders relax.

No more strikeouts, only home runs.

The words have more meaning than just baseball, and the both of us know it.

Everything in my life is just a never-ending streak of strikeouts.

I don’t intend for it to be that way, but like he said…

I need to take the time to focus on myself for once.

I wish I could tell him right now I’ll take the offseason to get my head on straight and come back stronger, but that would be impulsive.

That could potentially just lead to another situation like this, but worse.

“Thank you, Clark.” I nod, swallowing past the emotions. “Mostly for never giving up on me.”

“Never,” he says, offering me a grin and a firm handshake before walking away.

My eyes stay stuck on him as I try to force myself to believe everything he just said.

That it’s not a dream.

That I’m not fired, but instead given a second chance.

“I think I saw your daughter roaming around the family waiting area outside the locker room,” he says, just as he’s about to leave my office. “You better go get that sweet girl.” And then he walks away.

Inhaling and exhaling one more time, I exit into the long hallway that leads from the locker room to where the families gather after games.

“Daddy!”

Snapping my head toward the small voice, I crouch down quickly as my daughter leaps into my arms. A full smile fills my face as she wraps her arms around my neck, burrowing her head into my neck.

“Hey, bug.” I laugh.

She pulls back, keeping her arms around my neck. “I’m sorry your team didn’t win, Daddy.” She wrinkles her nose as if disgusted by the game’s outcome.

I mess her hair with my hand. “It’s all good,” I lie, refusing to let my emotions show in front of her. “Where’s your mom?”

“Right over there.” She turns to point where April, my ex-wife, stands with one shoulder against the wall at a safe distance to allow us this little moment, as if she knew Sage was precisely what I needed.

Once our eyes meet, she presses off the wall and approaches us with a sympathetic smile on their face.

“Hey. I’m sorry about the game,” she says.

I shrug a shoulder, trying not to let her know how much it’s already affected me in the short time since it’s been over.

“Not to jump into anything when you’re already down about it, but…” She wrings her hands together like she’s nervous. “We need to talk.”

“Not you, too,” I groan.

She tilts her head and raises a brow in confusion.

“Clark”—I blindly gesture to the locker room I just came out of—“he also had a word with me right before this.”

“Right.” She nods.

“Can I have a word with you, too?” Sage asks, looking up at me.

“For you? I’ll give you as many words as you want.”

“I want a bazillion,” she emphasizes.

I poke her nose with my index finger. “Then a bazillion words you get. And if it’s okay with Mommy, maybe we can get a post-game treat? That always fixes everything.”

“Can it be ice cream? Please!” she pleads, hands clasped together.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Depends on what kind?”

“Cotton candy! Duh!” She giggles.

“Then we can definitely get ice cream.” Sage dances where she stands, and I look up to April. “If that’s okay with you?”

April nods but remains silent as she turns to walk down the hall. Sage takes my hand as we follow out into the parking lot. She skips the entire way to my car. Once I have her buckled in her seat, I close the door and face April.

“You want to talk now or later?”

“I really hate to do this now,” she says, the words coming out painfully, like she really doesn’t want to have to do this. “But I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it for the past month. I didn’t want to put more on your plate with the busy end of season schedule, but now they need an answer.”

“Who needs an answer to what?”

She averts her gaze briefly, and I know her enough to know she avoids eye contact with me when she’s nervous.

“I was offered a new job opportunity,” she spits out quickly.

“That’s great?” I question, unsure what has her so nervous. “Are you going to accept?”

April finally looks at me again. “I’d like to.

But it requires moving to Wyoming. They want me to help get the new obstetrics team up and running at the new hospital.

It’s a huge opportunity for me, and an honor to even be asked.

The other hospital on the opposite side of Cheyenne has outgrown their department and can no longer keep up with the demand. It’s only temporary.”

Did she say Wyoming?

What the fuck?

When I don’t respond right away, she continues. “It’s not my favorite idea to move out of San Francisco and uproot Sage’s life, even if it’s only temporary.”

Just as I’m about to open my mouth to ask more questions, the conversation I had with Clark circles my head like a movie replay that was meant to come into focus at this very moment.

A second chance to get my life together.

“I’m sorry to spring this all on you. I just need to give them an answer,” April finally says. “But we have to discuss Sage.”

“Take the job. I’m coming with you.”