Dexter Canfield had given Bryce a key to the facility, so he unlocked the door and went inside. The smells of sweat and socks and the indefinable scent of masculine dreams greeted him as he walked down a short hallway decorated with commemorative bricks inscribed with contributor names. Bryce stopped long enough to read the name Benton Farms in the short list of $5,000 benefactors. He entered the first office on the right where the name plaque on the door already said “Coach Benton.”

The office had been cleaned out in preparation for his takeover. Someone had spackled over reminders of the previous occupant’s certificates and photos. Fresh beige paint covered the walls. The large metal desk in the center of the room was free of clutter, and Bryce found the drawers empty. He set his cartons on top of the desk and began taking out his belongings and stacking files and documents in some sort of manageable order.

He would hang his diplomas and framed recognitions on the wall behind the desk. Research materials and empty file folders waiting for paperwork on players went into the plain gray file cabinet. He spread his playbooks and coaching charts on top of the desk, sat in the utilitarian metal chair and flipped through the material, deciding which formations would work for a coach starting up with a new team.

After a couple hours, he took a break to simply appreciate being where he’d always wanted to end up. He stared out a wide window that overlooked the field where, in a short time, he’d teach a bunch of raw players to become productive team members. One adult wearing shorts and a polo shirt stood on the sideline while two teens practiced pitching and catching a baseball in the center of the practice area.

Bryce spread his hands on the desktop and watched the interplay between the man and the boys. The man was obviously coaching. Bryce understood the connection between a coach and his players. He understood what each meant to the other, how each player individually was a vital link to the success of the whole. How parents and family and friends contributed to what happened on the field.

He imagined Bucky Lowell in this office and figured he probably had had pictures of his family on this desk, images that comforted and supported him. Bryce had no pictures to put here, no wife or children to think of while he made decisions that affected so many lives and dreams. Audrey had taken his dream of kids away from him.

He sighed. Maybe, if the house deal went through, he’d get a dog, a photogenic one. And maybe, if he got really lucky, he’d marry again and have those couple of kids he’d always wanted. And then quite unexpectedly, an image of Rosalie came to his mind, the way she looked now—grown up but still with a youthful sultriness that took his breath despite the sadness of the past in her eyes. He shook his head. “Don’t even go there, Bryce,” he said. “The woman has made her attitude about you perfectly clear.”

He left his office and wandered onto the practice field where the informal baseball session was still going on. The adult waved him over and stuck out his hand when Bryce approached. “Coach Benton,” the man said. “Welcome to Whistler Creek. Or, welcome back I should say.”

Bryce shook hands. “Thanks. It’s been a long time.”

“I’m Ted Fanning, baseball coach,” the man said. “This will be my third year on the faculty.”

“Nice to meet you.” Bryce shielded his eyes and looked at the boys on the field. “I guess those are a couple of your stars?”

“That’s right.” He pointed. “Watch that pitcher. He’ll knock your socks off.”

Bryce observed the kid wind up and let loose with a curveball that seemed good enough to have been computer generated. “Wow. The kid’s good.”

“You bet he is.” Coach Fanning cupped his hands around his mouth. “Let’s see a fastball, Danny!”

The boy obliged and Bryce whistled in appreciation. “Damn. That pitch had to be nearly eighty miles an hour.”

Fanning grinned. “I’ve clocked him at eighty-two. And how about that accuracy? The catcher barely has to move his arm. And the best thing is, I don’t have to worry about the kid’s dedication. Here it is, off-season, and he practically begs me for extra practice time.”

Bryce continued to watch the phenom pitcher with mounting admiration. “How old is he?”

“Hard to believe, but he’s only going to be a freshman this year.” Again the grin. “I’ll have him four more years. A coach’s dream.”

Yeah, and definite quarterback material. Bryce couldn’t help fantasizing about seeing the kid in a football practice jersey. He’d already determined that the quarterback spot on the Wildcats would be up for grabs at the end of the current season. And he had no good prospect coming up the ranks. Unless …

“Ah, tell me something, Coach,” he said.

“Sure thing.”

“Do you think this kid might be interested in playing football along with baseball?”

Fanning’s smile faded. “You’re not thinking of taking my player, are you?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Bryce said. “Just thought maybe he could do both.”

Fanning scratched his head. “You’re seeing him in a quarterback spot, aren’t you?”

“He’s got the arm for it.”

Fanning thought a moment. “The seasons don’t overlap. And he’s certainly dedicated enough to go through additional training….”