Dustin Colt, shortstop for the St. George Redrocks, left behind the construction crew’s chatter and whirl of power tools with a wave to his younger brother.

White dust clung to his shoulders, hair, pants, and any surface it could find. He rubbed the globs of dried Sheetrock compound off his arms and ignored the fact that they were probably in his beard, too. He ran his hand down the rough whiskers. Shaving was bad luck—unless you were a Yankee, and then it was a requirement. He’d give up the beard for a shot at a Yankee paycheck. Making Yankee money would mean he didn’t have to maintain an active role in the company he and his brother had started way back before Dustin made it out of Triple-A.

Not that he wasn’t making good money as a Redrock—he was. There just never seemed to be enough. His family didn’t ask for handouts, but he couldn’t turn his back on the people who’d fed and housed him when he was making peanuts and following his dream. Since he now had the means to relieve their burdens, he wanted to help. His brother, for example, was supporting a wife and four kids. Kids were expensive—even more so when they graduated from diapers.

He shook his head and picked up the pace. Coach Wolfe had a low tolerance for tardiness on game days, and Dustin was already pushing his luck. He’d shower at the clubhouse to save time.

The construction manager insisted that the workers park down the street at the grocery store, so they didn’t clog the roads and block the few owners who had already moved into their new homes.

Tripping over a high curb, Dustin cursed under his breath. He stepped again, only his foot caught on something else. He picked up his foot and the front half of the soul of his shoe dangled. That was just great. He’d had these work boots for nine years. One might say they were beat up, but he preferred the term broken in. Dustin pressed on, limping as his boot made a kler-flap with each step.

“Excuse me?” called a chipper female voice as a Camry older than his nephew pulled alongside the sidewalk.

He turned to see a pretty brunette hanging out the passenger-side window. She had dimples high on her cheeks and freckles sprinkled across her pixie nose. Her face was fresh, without a trace of makeup, and her long hair was … reckless. She wasn’t the usual groupie flagging him down for an autograph or selfie, which was probably why he stopped to stare. Or, perhaps he stopped because his heart was beating so rapidly.

“Hi.” She slowly climbed out of the car, and he got a good look at her long and shapely legs.

“Hi,” he replied like an idiot.

She moved as if she was afraid to startle him or something. She had startled him, but his legs had no intention of moving him away from her. “Um, I brought you something.”

Embarrassed by his broken shoe and doing his best to avoid a kler-flap, he shuffled closer. He wouldn’t agree to a selfie, not while covered in Sheetrock dust and smelling like he’d run sprints in the desert. Maybe he could convince her to meet up after the game tonight. Or, better yet, he could offer her tickets for the game and hope she didn’t bring a boyfriend along. That was smooth—much smoother than hi.

She reached through the open window and retrieved a plastic bag off the seat, which she pressed into his hands. Their eyes met, and his already speeding heart careened around a corner like a curveball on crack. Never, in all his life, had he ever seen a woman with gold eyes. Yet, her eyes were the perfect balance of yellow, brown, and something whimsical that produced an alchemy effect turning them to gold. Liquid gold, to be precise, as they were warm and swirling with … compassion.

He blinked, unsure if he’d read her right.

“I was once on the street, too. If you want a good meal, the soup kitchen isn’t far. I put a card with the address in there.” She tapped the plastic with her finger.

“Soup?” He glanced down at the bag now crinkling in his hands as he turned it over, trying to determine what exactly she’d given him.

“I know it’s hard to accept help, but people care about you and want to help.”

His chin lifted, and he tried to catch her eye again. “You care about me?”

Her hesitation was barely discernible. He wouldn’t have even noticed if he didn’t spend his life studying batters and watching for those hesitations and small adjustments that would send a ball his way. “Of course I do.” Her dimples appeared, perched like little birds on her cherry cheeks. “I hope to see you for a meal or two before you move on.”

He opened his mouth to ask for her number, and shut it quickly as she climbed back into the car and sped away.

Dustin turned the bag over in his hands until he found the card she’d mentioned. Written in clean block script was the name and address of the local soup kitchen. “What the …?”

A do-or-die warning beeped on his phone and he cursed, breaking into a run. Kler-flaps echoed around him. There was no way he’d be on time now. His only hope was that Coach wasn’t waiting in the locker room.

Dustin hustled through the grass-green metal door. The stained concrete floor was cool against his socks. He’d ripped off his busted work boots as soon as he hit the car, throwing them in the back seat along with the gym bag full of workout clothes, his “emergency” mitt, and several bats. Which meant he’d run into the building shoeless—not an easy task when the temperature was already over one hundred degrees, and the parking lot baked like an all-day barbeque.

Despite the air conditioning inside the building, he was boiling inside.

“What happened to you?” asked Brayden Birks, starting pitcher and easily the most talented guy in the bullpen.

Dustin threw the zip-top bag at Brayden and glared.

Brayden caught it easily enough. “What’s this?”

“I believe they call them essentials bags.” The little card inside had said as much. It’d also contained an encouraging quote, the address to the soup kitchen, and a scripture about hope. The penmanship was neat and tidy and—of all things—cute. It personified the mystery girl who dropped the bombshell in his hands.

Brayden cocked his head to the side.

“Apparently, I look homeless.” Dustin landed on the bench and began peeling off his ruined socks. He threw them in a trash can in the corner. “Some woman pulled over and staged an intervention on my behalf. She gave me that.”

Brayden laughed—hard. His eyes crinkled at the corner and liquid leaked out. He brushed it away, dramatically, while holding his stomach. “You’re going to bust my spleen—stop it.”

Dustin growled.

Brayden began to settle, drawing in several gasping breaths, and then he pointed at Dustin and started all over again.

Dustin stripped off his pants and shirt, tempted to throw his smelly shirt in Brayden’s face. “Not funny.”

“No, it’s stinking hilarious.” He opened the bag and pulled out a small bar of soap. “Here, you’re going to shower, right?”

There was soap in the locker room showers. Nice soap. Expensive stuff with vitamin E and aloe to protect their skin against the dry air. “I don’t need soap.”

“I beg to differ.” Brayden ducked, and Dustin’s shirt flew over his head. “Look, there’s shaving cream and a razor too.”

Dustin ran a hand down his beard. He was in great physical shape—the best of his life thanks to the team trainers and the hours he spent hauling Sheetrock. Not that the woman could see all his hard work under his baggy construction clothes. Still, she had to know he wasn’t homeless. The whole thing was probably a joke. “I should have told her who I was.”

“Yeah, nothing impresses the ladies like the old do-you-have-any-idea-who-I-am line. They love cocky. In fact, I lead with do you know who I am when I hit the clubs.”

“Shut up.” Dustin reached for a towel.

“Is that what you told her? Shut up?”

“No.” He wouldn’t have told a lady to shut up, no matter how she’d insulted him. “My mama raised me better than that.” There was something about this woman, though. Her golden eyes were big and trusting and full of concern. The more he thought about her, the more he was sure she hadn’t meant to insult him. She truly thought she was helping, which was admirable. And stupid. She was pretty—much too pretty to approach strange men on the street. He tugged at his beard again.

“She got you thinking about something.”

Dustin nodded. “I’m worried about the new coach. He’s as straight an arrow as they come, and I don’t exactly fit the image. You saw how fast he got rid of Jackson Kimber.”

“Kimber was a—” Brayden muttered a word Dustin wouldn’t repeat.

“Can’t argue with you there.” His back ached from standing on the scaffolding and reaching above his head to apply the compound. He arched to relieve the strain. He’d need to get in with the physical therapists. If they knew he was doing drywall, the new redhead PT, Elise Smith, would chew him out. His body basically belonged to the Redrocks for the duration of his contract.

What was he supposed to do? Turn his back on his brother? Dropping family wasn’t an option. Besides, the drywall business was his fallback.

No one expected Dustin to take baseball all the way to the majors. No one but him. He’d known since he was a kid that playing professionally was where the Lord wanted him. When he stepped onto the field, it wasn’t about money or contracts or agents or fans. When it was just about playing ball, his heart opened. Fear disappeared. Mistakes and guilt were wiped from his mind. Anger and sorrow had no place inside him. He communed with the Lord of Heaven in those times and hadn’t been able to feel that way any other place.

Was it a long road to the big leagues? Heck yeah! He was thirty years old and had languished in a farm system for years. The Cubs had traded him to the Redrocks in their inaugural year on a dime. For ten years he made peanuts during the season, crashing on his parents’ couch during the off-season. His trust in himself and the Lord finally paid off, and he was living his dream. If he wanted the dream to continue, he needed to up his game.

He grabbed the plastic bag off the bench. “I’m hitting the shower.”

“‘Bout time.” Brayden plugged his nose.

Dustin contemplated flipping him off, but decided his mother had taught him better than that, too.

Once alone, with empty shower stalls and a few sinks for company, he took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. Not shaving was a tradition in the MLB. Guys started the season off with smooth cheeks and a pocket full of luck and ambition. By the end of the season, they were supposed to have a scraggly beard and a championship. Based on their record so far, the Redrocks weren’t going to win the title. Their less-than-stellar record didn’t mean Dustin couldn’t start fresh—they didn’t have a shot at the pennant, and no one on the team could point their finger at him and say he’d jinxed them. He could prove to himself, and his family, that baseball was the only career he needed and finally sell his half of the drywall company to his brother.

He glanced at the razor in the plastic bag. There was no way the cheap blade would hold up against his facial hair. He’d have to wait to shave until he got home, but he would shave. Being paid like a Yankee started with believing he was worth a Yankee salary. And seeing was believing. He was going to be one clean-cut Redrock.