Returning to Willow Run is like stepping into another world.

I turn the key and slip into the foyer of the vacation home owned by my general manager, Mike Messmer. The heavy wooden door closes behind me, the noise a reminder that I’m here to shut the door on my old life and enter a new one. Mike thinks I’m back to once again pull myself together, to find my head. But that’s far from why I’ve returned. There’s one simple explanation.

A woman. An innocent. Not at all the kind of woman who’d have anything to do with a professional baseball player like me.

But like a foul ball hitting an unsuspecting fan in the stands, she bounced off my chest, mouthed a mesmerizing “I’m sorry,” and shot me with a blue-eyed gaze that made my heart skip a beat and my brain forget why I’d been sent to Willow Run in the first place. The smell of beer-battered fish and the long line I was standing in reentered my mind but only after she finished lifting her full pink lips and tossed me a genuine smile that kick-started my senses.

“Fish out of water.” Her perky tone lifted toward me through a grin. “Didn’t mean to flop into you. Every spring fish fest is packed like this, yet every year I manage to lose my best friend. I should put her on a leash.”

I immediately wanted to be that best friend of hers, not just for the day, but also for the entire week I’d be staying in Willow Run. Heck, she could put me on a leash. I’d happily kneel at her feet, look up at all that radiant beauty, and flash my puppy-dog eyes at her.

She lifted a hand in greeting. “I’m Addison. I see you’ve found the right line for the best fish fry in Southern Indiana.”

I held her warm hand in mine. Couldn’t let go. Tingles like I’d never felt before skittered along my skin from her touch. From that moment, we hit it off. After experiencing some crazy adventures I’d only ever read about, I finished my road trip going deep on a grassy knoll somewhere out in the middle of the woods, hitting not one but two home runs with the most beautiful brunette I’d ever seen.

Much like the incident I try not to remember, the week of Addison and Ben changed my life. For six months I kicked myself for having not exchanged last names. A boneheaded move on my part, it made it impossible for me to contact her each time I wanted to hear that sweet-sounding voice of hers.

And I wanted to hear that Southern lilt—a lot.

Warming from the memory of last spring, I toss my bags to the great-room floor, march on into the kitchen, and snatch a cold one from the fridge. Mike said he left a few behind and for me to make myself at home. I do exactly that and twist off the first cap just as the voice inside my head transitions from beautiful to bad.

I stare out at the lake through the sliding glass doors and hear Mike’s words loud and clear, as if he were standing right in front of me, voicing them again. They cut in like a wicked curveball, moving from top to bottom and right through my head. Thankfully, this time, they’re not as buckling as they were the day he cut me from the opening-day roster. “I really think Willow Run Lake’s the place for you right now.”

I sat in shock, frozen like a statue on the other side of his desk.

“Go and take a break. Don’t think about a thing. Put your head back on straight and come back when you’re ready. We believe in you, Bender. But you’ve got to get back to believing in yourself.”

The last part still haunts me today. How am I supposed to believe in myself when I can’t possibly get the pain of that ugly day out of my head? I don’t know the answer. Believe me, I’ve looked. I tried every therapy they threw my way.

I slide the door open and step onto the back patio. My fingers are numb, but only from the cold bottle in my hand. It’s certainly not from the fact it’s been weeks since I’ve even thought about touching a baseball.

I sink my back against the warm wood of a lounge chair in the sun. In all the years I’ve been playing baseball, I didn’t see this coming. Not for me. But I was wrong. And honestly, I don’t wish what happened to me on anyone.

While I’m wallowing in thought, the hum of a swarm of bees snares my attention. Off to my side, I watch as blurs of black and gold fly in and out of the opening at the top of a patio umbrella. Eventually, my gaze roams to the lake where the reflections of puffy fair-weather clouds paint the surface of the calm water. Aside from an occasional chirp from a bird in one of the trees nearby, it’s quiet and peaceful.

I close my eyes and let my thoughts move with the gentle breeze. As always, visions of a beautiful brunette enter my mind. She’s been kissing me each night in my dreams since I met her last April.

Addison.

Her name vibrates my entire being each time I hear it in my head. I pull in a long swig, dreaming of being with her again. The cold, smooth liquid moves down my throat with ease but does little to quench the heat that’s pulsing throughout my body.

If only we’d exchanged last names or even numbers. But we didn’t. Reality sinks in. What if I can’t find her?

I hope that’s not the case because I already need to hear her voice. Like right now. I need Addison’s vocal chime replacing the one that’s suddenly started shouting at me from the yard.

“Well, well. Look who’s back. What, the Archer Hills beer league lookin’ for a bullpen catcher?”

I sit up and lean forward, recognizing the elderly lady from next door, but for the life of me, her weatherworn face isn’t conjuring up a name. After a futile attempt at remembering, I move to help her up the steps and listen in amusement as she verbally coaxes her arthritic knees into lifting her up and onto the deck. Despite my offer to take her hand, she waves me off, flashing inflamed knuckles that immediately catch my attention. They remind me of what mine look like when I’ve worked out too hard.

“Actually,” I say, responding to her snarky comment with one of my own, “life’s even better. I got traded to the American Legion for half a pack of Big League Chew and a bucket of batting practice balls.”

She snickers, then manages to settle herself into a chair. “While you’re up,” she jerks her head toward the sliding glass door and points to the bottle in my hand, “go get me some of that watered-down crap you’re drinkin’. Unless you got somethin’ better. In which case, I’ll take that. I got a feeling I’m gonna need a few to deal with you.”

I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but I grab a few beers and return. Surprising me, and seemingly without even taking a breath, she tips her head back and downs the twelve ounces. I watch as she tightens the hold she has around the neck of the bottle, her white-knuckled grip quickly growing brighter and brighter. With her eyelids narrowed, I get the feeling she’d like to be choking something else. Eventually, she slams the empty against the armrest and releases a heavy breath. She’s clearly irritated. Though I haven’t the slightest clue why.

In time, she pans her cloudy gaze in my direction, shooting laser beams at me that are glowing in agitation. “Bender.” She pushes my name past her throat like a mother would do in warning, carrying with it the unmistakable tone that says enjoy sitting down now because, young man, you’re in a mighty heap of trouble. “You didn’t play a lick this season. Son, where the heck’ve you been?”

Lost. It’s my first thought. And lost I still am. But as much as it’s the truth, I don’t dare tell her that.

I lift my cap, swipe back my hair, and reposition my hat on my head, giving thought to the conversation I don’t particularly want to be having with the nosy neighbor whose name I have yet to even remember.

I offer up another beer, which she readily accepts. “How much time you got?” I ask, thinking maybe after a few tall ones she’ll forget she even knows who I am.