Time Out by Jill Shalvis

It was the warm-up T-shirts, shorts, and practice jerseys he’d had over-nighted. He had new equipment as well; bats, batting helmets, gloves… He handed the clothing out, then waited for them to run back to the building. Instead, they all stripped and dressed right there. “Jesus,” he muttered, slamming his eyes shut. “Some warning!”
    “Hey, we’re covered,” Sharee called out. “We’re all in sports bras and spandex.”
    “From now on,” he grated out, “you change inside. Always.”
    “Prude,” someone muttered, probably Sharee.
    Prude his ass, but swallowing the irony, he risked a peek and found them all suitably dressed. “Ground rules,” he said. Now he sounded as anal as Rainey. “No ripping or cutting the sleeves off, no tying the shirts up high, no bras showing, and all shirts need to be neatly tucked in. And no sagging. There will be no asses on my field.”
    “We’re not allowed to say asses.” The timid voice belonged to the same girl who called him sir. “We’re not supposed to swear.”
    Mark slid her a look. “Pepper, right?”
    She gulped. “Yes.”
    “Well, Pepper. No swearing is a good rule. Tuck your shirts in.”
    More grumbling, but there was a flurry of movement as they obeyed. So far so good. “I want to see how you hit,” Mark said. “Later, I’ll get someone out here to videotape you so we can analyze your swing. We’ll get stats both on you and also on the teams we’re going to be playing so we can strategize, not just for your season but for the big fundraising game between us and Santa Barbara.”
    They were all just staring at him, mouths agape. Pepper raised her hand.
    “Yes, Pepper.”
    “We don’t have a video camera. Or stats.”
    “You have them now,” Mark said.
    “We’re going to play Santa Barbara?” someone asked.
    “We’re going to beat Santa Barbara,” he said. “The boys’ teams too.” He pulled a clipboard from his duffle bag. “Come on, move your asses—” Shit. “Butts. Move your butts in close so you can see.”
    “You need a swear jar,” one of the girls said to him. “By the end of the season, you could probably take us all out to dinner.”
    There were some giggles at this, and he looked at the amused faces. “How about this,” he said. “I’ll put a buck into a swear jar every time I swear, and you ladies have to put in a quarter every time you don’t give me your all. Deal?”
    “Deal,” they said.
    Mark spent the next twenty minutes outlining what he wanted to see, and then lined them up for drills. He started with them quick-catching the pop flies he sent out. Or theoretically quick-catching, because he didn’t have much “quick” on his team. Three of the twelve could catch. Well, four if you counted Pepper, who tended to catch the balls with her shins, which made him doubly glad he’d brought shin guards. He had five or six who could hit, and a bunch more who tended to keep their eyes closed.
    And then there was Sharee, who’d already dropped and given him push-ups for being rude and obnoxious to her teammates.
    Twice.
    He put them out in the field for field practice next. “Wait for your pitch,” he told the first girl up. “Take two, then hit to the right.”
    “Huh?”
    “Sharee’s pitching, right?” he asked.
    “Yeah. So?”
    “So she gives it her best from the beginning, but she’s only got two good ones in her.”
    “Hey,” Sharee said from the mound. “I can hear you.”
    “Good. Learn from it.” Mark turned back to the batter. “Take the third pitch and hit to the right.”
    “Why the right?”
    He gestured to their first baseman and right fielder, both engaged in a discussion on what their plans were for the night. “They’re not even looking at you. If you get any ball at all, you’ll get all the way to second.”
    Which was exactly what happened.
    Sharee threw down her glove in disgust.
    “There’s no temper tantrums in the big leagues,” Mark told her. Which was a lie.