Her Last Shot

Kindergarten teacher Rachel Darling has been in love with local baseball hero Bastien LeBeau her whole life. From afar, she's watched her brother’s best friend chase his dreams to the big leagues. But with him sidelined and home due to a knee injury, Rachel decides to take one last shot at catching his attention.
Bastien LeBeau is still hoping for his chance at the majors. While recuperating, he bides his time coaching Little League. He’s expecting chaos on the field, but he’s not expecting the kids’ teacher to join in. And he's sure as hell not expecting that teacher to be his little sister’s best friend, up to her attention-seeking antics again. Why can't Rachel realize he's not the man for her? And why can't he go back to seeing her as a pesky kid, and not the smart, sassy and way-too sexy woman she's become?
Curve balls galore are thrown between Rachel and Bastien, but will they realize that it’s time to put away the games and set their sights on a new dream of love? Or will they allow old dreams to decide their fate?

Saturday night in June in Swan's Creek, Maine was unbearably boring. It was the same old people that you saw every day and night for the past year, complaining about the same things. Nothing new, nothing exciting. The tourists hadn't yet flooded into Maine, swarming like the infamous black flies, landing on everything, taking over the towns, streets, everything in their path until September. While they could be a real pain in the ass with the congestion and demands, they fed the economy and brought new blood to the area, like a turbo shot for the town.
Locals hung out at the Salty Dog for the beer, the companionship and the baseball game. Tourists rarely came to this bar, just drove by, maybe stopped for a few pictures to say they went to a local dive. But they left quickly enough, driven out by the people of Swan's Creek who were territorial of their hangout and suspicious of out of towners. Leave them to the surrounding towns. Swan's Creek was insular and they liked it that way.
Bastien LeBeau squinted at the pool table, trying to push the sounds from the Red Sox game on the television out of his mind. The crack of the bat and cheers from the local crowd gathered at the bar jarred his concentration and he missed the cue ball, knocking his target completely off the table, nowhere near the pocket. He cursed.
Mike Kincaid, his cousin and partner in crime, clapped him on the back. "Better luck next time, loser. That must have been a helluva conversation with your agent. Hell, I didn't even know you still had one."
"Bastard." Bas muttered, and grabbed his beer and drained the last swallow. "It's informal. Hank keeps his ear out for opportunities for me."
Mike paused. "And have there been any?"
Bas rested his chin on the top of the pool cue. "No. Not at any level."
Mike cracked the balls. "You really want to play minor league baseball? You're too old for that shit."
"It's a pathway to the majors." Bas shrugged and stepped out of Mike's way as he circled the table.
"I couldn't do it. Not the minor leagues. You got a good life here. Isn't that enough?"
"It's my dream. I still have the legs and bat speed. Plenty of players have made it later."
"Dumbass." Mike chuckled and circled the table, scoping his next shot. He shoved his glass at Bas and pushed him towards the bar. "Make yourself useful and get us more beer. I'll be a while."
Bas grumbled but headed for the bar and his sister, Lacey, who was heckling the customers and keeping things flowing including the beer and food. He leaned against the end of the bar next to a cute little thing in a pink polka dot dress, who was sipping a girly drink with an umbrella of all things. He didn't even know the Salty Dog had umbrellas or that his sister knew how to make a girly drink.
He stepped to the bar next to the woman and slid the mugs on the counter and jutted his chin at Lacey. "Two more Seadogs."
She scowled at him. "You might want to slow down."
"I don't have to work tomorrow and I have a long summer to fill."
She wiped the counter in front of him. "Beer isn’t the answer."
He glared at her. "And you just lost your tip."
She snorted. "Like you'd tip me anyway. Whatever." She stomped down the end of the bar to the beer taps.
“Hey Bas!” One of the local guys called from the other end of the bar. “Didn’t you play minor league ball with that bozo at bat, Martinez? Shoot, man, you’re way better than he’ll ever be. What happened, man?”
Bas flushed, the familiar anger a slow churn in his gut. When would he ever get past the stigma of failing at professional baseball? Before he could respond, Lacey whacked the guy with the towel the always hung from her apron.
“Stuff it, Lou. Just watch the game or you’re cut off.”
Lou’s voice drifted into a whine, probably bitching how Lacey would make good on her threat, but not quite loud enough for anyone, especially Lacey, to hear the actual words. She looked over at Bas, the glint of sympathy in her eyes, as she poured the beer. Damn. Even his sister pitied him.
He leaned against the counter and glanced at the woman who was sitting with her back to him. She was a tiny little thing. He towered over her and could easily see that she was curved in all the right places, with just enough padding for a handful during a hot sweaty bout of stress relief. Her long wavy dark hair cascaded down her back and he resisted the urge to test one of the curls and see if it was as soft as it looked. His lower brain stirred first the time in several months, roused by the possibility of something new. Maybe beer wasn't the only way to get through the summer. A distraction could be exactly what he needed.
He tapped her on the shoulder and said, "I haven't seen you around here before. I'm Bas."
She slowly swiveled on the seat and her startling blue eyes peered up at him from under impossibly long eyelashes. "Hi, Bas."
"Oh shit." The word popped out before he could think.
Rachel Darling, his younger sister's best friend, gazed up at him, a question in her eyes, and a hint of hurt quickly masked by a bright smile. She turned further on the stool to face him, her smooth bare legs sliding along his rougher skin, igniting a tingle that had nothing to do with the several beers he had already consumed. Lust slammed into him and he tamped it down ruthlessly.
He hadn't really spent any time with Rachel in several years, beyond family picnics and isolated events, and she certainly had never looked this hot before. Most of his twenties had been spent away from Maine playing college then minor league baseball, up until two years ago when his minor league contract wasn’t renewed partly due to an injury and partly due to the seven years he’d spent, not getting much further than an occasional foray into Triple-A ball. After that, he’d moved back home to lick him wounds and figure out a strategy. He had accepted a permanent position teaching high school history and coaching the baseball team. He had buried himself in the job, admittedly sulking and hiding from his failure, and the long Maine winters had helped him hibernate. Now it was summer, two years later, and he was ready to join the living and the first woman he saw was the one woman he could never have.
And little Rachel Darling had grown up into a stunning woman. His sister would kill him.