Page 1 of Catching Her Heart (Austin Stars Baseball RomCom #2)

CHAPTER ONE

I clutch my press credentials like a lifeline as I walk through the Austin Stars' stadium for the first time.

The laminated badge reads "Piper Blackwood, Austin News Network" in bold letters, and I've been carrying it around for three days like a talisman.

It's not that I'm nervous, I'm just strategically cautious.

The last time I trusted an athlete with a story, I ended up with a front-page retraction and a one-way ticket out of Chicago. But that was then. This is now. And I'm going to prove that I belong in this business, even if it kills me.

There's a story here. I can feel it.

I check my watch—twenty minutes until the team meeting I'm supposed to observe.

Plenty of time to scope out the clubhouse and figure out who my best source is going to be.

In my experience, it's never the star players who give you the real story.

It's the guys in the background, the ones who see everything but don't usually get asked.

I spot a man in a team polo shirt adjusting some equipment near the batting cages. Perfect. Equipment managers see everything, and they're usually chatty.

"Excuse me," I call out, walking over with my most professional smile. "I'm Piper Blackwood with Austin News Network. I'm covering the team now, and I was wondering if you could help me understand the clubhouse dynamics a bit better?"

The man looks up, and I'm momentarily distracted by his eyes—they're the most unusual shade of green, like sea glass. He's younger than I expected for an equipment manager, maybe late twenties, with dark hair and a face that looks like it belongs in an old movie. Classic features, kind smile.

"Sure," he says, straightening up. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, I'm trying to get a read on the team chemistry. Who are the real leaders? Who should I be watching? The official roster doesn't always tell the whole story."

He nods thoughtfully. "That's true. What you see on paper isn't always what's happening in the clubhouse."

"Exactly!" I pull out my notebook, pleased to find someone who gets it. "So who would you say is the heart of this team? The guy who really makes things tick?"

The man considers this, and I like that he's not giving me a quick, throwaway answer. "I'd say it's probably the catcher. Ted Brennan. He's the one who sees everything from behind the plate, calls the game, keeps everyone focused. He's been here longer than most of the current roster."

"Interesting." I scribble notes. "And what about the recent winning streak? Any insights into what changed?"

"Jay's engagement definitely helped team morale," he says with a slight smile. "When your ace pitcher is happy, it tends to lift everyone else up. But honestly, I think it's more about the team finally clicking as a unit. These things sometimes just happen."

I'm impressed. This guy actually knows what he's talking about. Most equipment managers I've interviewed just grunt and point me toward the PR department.

"This is really helpful," I say, still writing. "And you are...?"

"Ted," he says.

"Ted...?" I wait for a last name.

"Brennan."

I freeze, my pen hovering over the paper. "Ted Brennan. As in, the catcher Ted Brennan?"

"That would be me."

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize what just happened. I just spent ten minutes interviewing the "heart of the team" while thinking he was the equipment manager. This is exactly the kind of mistake that got me in trouble in Chicago—making assumptions instead of doing my homework.

"Oh, I’m sorry," I say, mortified. "I thought you were?—"

"Equipment staff," Ted finishes, his smile becoming more amused than polite. "Yeah, I got that."

"I don't usually... I mean, I did my research, I just..." I flounder, trying to salvage some dignity. "You weren't wearing a uniform."

"It's batting practice," Ted says reasonably. "We don't always wear full gear for BP."

Right. Of course. Because I would know that if I'd been covering baseball for more than five minutes instead of getting thrown into this beat with zero preparation.

"Listen," I say, closing my notebook and trying to regroup. "Can we start over? I'm Piper Blackwood, and apparently I don’t know a catcher from a groundskeeper."

Ted laughs and the sound is warm and genuine. "Nice to meet you, Piper. And for what it's worth, it’s not always obvious who does what around here. You asked good questions."

"Even though I was asking them to the wrong person?"

"Especially because you were asking them to the wrong person," he says. "Most reporters only want to talk to the flashy guys. You were looking for the real story."

There's something about the way he says it that makes me think he might actually mean it. But I've learned not to trust athletes who are too charming.

"Well," I say, trying to regain my professional composure, "since you are apparently the person I should be talking to, would you be willing to do a proper interview sometime? On the record?"

Ted considers this. "What kind of story are you working on?"

"The truth," I say. "About what's really behind this team's success. Not the PR-friendly version, but the actual story."

Something shifts in Ted's expression, becoming more guarded. "And what makes you think there's a story there?"

"Because teams don't just flip a switch and become contenders overnight. Something changed, and I want to know what."

Ted is quiet for a moment, studying my face. "You know, most reporters who come through here are looking for drama. Clubhouse conflicts, contract disputes, personal problems. Is that what you're after?"

"I'm after the truth," I repeat. "Whatever that is."

"Hmm." Ted picks up a batting helmet and turns it over in his hands. "Tell you what. Come to tomorrow's game. Not as a reporter, just as someone trying to understand baseball. Watch how the team actually works together. Then we'll talk."

"I don't need to learn how to watch baseball," I say, a little defensive. "I know the game."

"Do you?" Ted's smile is calm but challenging. "Because you just spent ten minutes talking to me about team dynamics, and you didn't once mention pitch framing, or how a catcher manages a pitching staff, or the mental side of calling a game. You know the statistics, but do you know the story?"

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because he's right, and that's exactly the kind of surface-level understanding that got me in trouble before.

"Fine," I say. "I'll watch the game. But I'm still a reporter, and I'm still going to ask the hard questions."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Ted says. "See you tomorrow, Piper."

As I walk away, I can't shake the feeling that I just had my first real conversation with an athlete who didn't try to snow me with clichés or charm me with false friendliness. Ted Brennan actually seemed to care about giving me thoughtful answers.

Which, of course, probably means he's the most dangerous interview subject of all.

But as I replay our conversation in my mind, I realize something else: for the first time since I arrived in Austin, I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow's game. Not because I'm hunting for a story, but because I'm curious to see Ted Brennan in action.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.