I'm afraid that the second I allow Frank Steadman, the new general manager for the Kansas City Royals, to enter our small Arizona townhouse, my mother will be right on his heels. Whenever major league baseball makes its way back into Dad's life, Mom likes to make a surprise appearance, screwing with Dad's head all over again.

Last time she showed up was Christmas two months ago when an old teammate of Dad's was in town and wanted to have dinner. I don't know how she found out about it. She stayed for exactly forty-eight hours, and it took a month to get Dad out of his post-Mom funk.

I can't deal with that again.

I've got track starting next week, and someone has to take care of Grams. God knows we can't have another incident of her shuffling outside in her old lady underwear at noon telling all the neighbors that the air-conditioning is broken.

Frank Steadman is grinning at me from the other side of the screen door. I can't make myself return the smile. He's a very nice guy, don't get me wrong — one of the few baseball people who regard my dad with some amount of respect instead of pity. I've just had my guard up since two hours ago when Dad told me Frank was stopping by for dinner. The good thing is that two hours' notice probably isn't long enough for Mom to get here from whatever dream she's chasing at the moment.

"Little Annie Lucas," Frank says, pulling open the screen and letting himself in. "You're practically a lady now, aren't you? Bet your dad is scared shitless."

I hear the familiar uneven thud of Dad's steps, his metal non-leg banging against the wood floors. He can insist on wearing pants 24/7, but his part-robot status is still obvious. "You got that right. I think it's about time I locked her in her bedroom for five or so years."

"Jimmy" — Frank looks over my shoulder — "How are you?"

Frank Steadman and Mom are the only people I've ever heard call my dad Jimmy instead of Jim.

They give each other the one-armed man-friendly hug before Dad ushers him into our small kitchen where my lasagna is now ready to be removed from the oven.

"Congrats on the new job, Frank," I say, sliding on green oven mitts. "They must have been really desperate for wins if they're turning Yankees recruiters into general managers."

Both Dad and Frank laugh. "Yep," Frank says. "That, and I came cheap. Anything to get away from New York. Been there too long."

"How's spring training going?" I hear Dad ask after I've set dinner on the table and started down the hall to wake Grams.

"All right." Frank sighs. "Got a couple rookies with potential. It's the veterans that are driving me batshit crazy. We don't have enough room on the field for all their egos."

The rest of the dinner conversation switches to non-baseball topics, like Dad's barely above a minimum wage job at the glass factory in town, and then onto his non-leg.

"Everything good with the leg, Jimmy?"

I watch Dad's face carefully while holding a fork out for Grams. Her wrinkled hand drifts in front of me, blocking my view.

"Same as last time." Dad swallows a bite of pasta, chewing slowly. "I'll have another scan in two months."

My heart speeds up. I hate the scans. I'm a head case for three or four months before and then relieved as hell after for only a few months before it starts all over again. I miss being too young to keep track of these things. To not understand the term oncologist.

It isn't until an hour after Frank's arrival, while we're in the living room and I'm curled up on the love seat beside Grams reading to her from my physics textbook, that Frank finally gets to the point of this visit.

"I got a kid I want you to look at," he says to Dad.

"Huygens' principle states that each point on a wave front ..." I read quietly to Grams while watching Frank remove his laptop from its case.

"A wave front," Grams mumbles beside me. "Isn't that what took out the Titanic, Ginny?"

I grind my teeth together. She can't help it. I know she can't. But I hate with a passion being called my mother's name. "That was an iceberg, Grams."

Frank must have caught what Grams said because he looks up from his laptop resting on the coffee table. "You look just like her, kid. It's amazing."

My expression probably represents anything but happiness, and Frank bows his head quickly. "Sorry."

Unlike the other baseball-related "old friends," I've always had the impression that Frank is aware of the real woman Dad is married to. Either he's observed enough, or Dad has confided in him.

He and Dad lean their heads together as they sit at the edge of the couch waiting for the video to download. I close my textbook and turn on the TV.

"Look Grams, Wheel of Fortune."

She turns her gaze to the television across the room. "Thanks, Ginny, sweetheart."

"Annie," I whisper in her ear before standing up. "I'm Annie."

I walk behind the couch and lean on my elbows. Dad reaches behind him and pats my hand, glancing over his shoulder for a split second. "It's just a phase."

I shrug, like it doesn't bother me, and nod toward Frank's laptop. There's a guy on the screen now, standing on the pitcher's mound. He's young. Really young. Sweat glistens on his forehead, dripping down from the edge of his dark hair. He's Italian or something that gives a person beautiful tan skin, dark hair, and chocolate brown eyes. Features much better suited for Arizona sun than my pale blue eyes and white-blond hair. I cart SPF 70 around like a diabetic with their insulin.

"He's hot," I say, winning an over-the-shoulder glare from Dad. "What's his name?"

"Why is that important?" Dad says, though he knows we have different priorities in this situation.

I shrug again, looking all innocent while ogling the computer pitcher.

"Jason Brody," Frank says. "He's only nineteen. Spent half a season with our farm team in Texas."

We all watch as Jason Brody winds up and throws his first pitch. Even with the click, click, click of Pat Sajak's wheel spinning on the television, I hear the smack of the ball against the catcher's glove, loud and clear.

"Holy shit," I murmur, leaning over Dad and seeing his unreadable expression. Frank is silent while Dad watches Jason Brody throw about thirty more pitches. Finally the video ends.

"Well, what do you think?" Frank prompts.

Dad leans back against my arms, carefully evaluating his answer. That's how he is with everything — quiet and calculated. Frank's hinted on previous visits that Dad was quite the hotshot in his own pitching days. His BC days. Before Cancer. I was too young to remember any of that.

"The fastball's great, obviously," Dad says. "What's he throwing? Ninety-five, ninety-eight?" Frank nods. "Have you given him any coaching? There's potential for a decent slider with his arm, but not without some work, some good instruction."

Frank grins. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"It's jelly donut, goddammit!" Grams shouts at the TV.

Frank is temporarily distracted but returns his focus after Grams throws the newspaper at the television.

"She's got an arm, too." He chuckles and then tucks his laptop away. "Johnson, the Royals' new owner, isn't too keen on signing a nineteen-year-old rookie to close this season. Plus, Brody's got a few indiscretions on his record, for lack of a better word. No high school diploma, not much...