Page 2 of Catching Her Heart (Austin Stars Baseball RomCom #2)
CHAPTER TWO
I arrive at the stadium far earlier than I need to, determined to find the press box without looking like a complete amateur. The credentials hanging around my neck feel heavier today, weighted with the embarrassment of yesterday's Ted-is-the-equipment-manager incident.
The problem is, this stadium is apparently designed by someone who thought navigation should be an Olympic sport. I've been wandering for twenty minutes and I’m still lost. Every sign I follow leads to another sign pointing me in a different direction.
"Excuse me," I ask a security guard, "do you know how to get to the press box?"
He points vaguely upward. "Take the elevator to the third level, follow the signs."
I've been following the signs. The signs are lying.
After another ten minutes of wandering, I spot an opening that looks promising. Finally! I go in and step into a section of seats with a perfect view of home plate.
This has to be it. I settle into an empty seat in the third row, pull out my notebook, and congratulate myself on figuring it out.
The other seats around me are filling up with what must be other media members and VIPs.
Everyone looks so comfortable and familiar with each other.
These must be the seasoned baseball reporters I'll be working with.
"Oh my goodness, you must be Ted's new girlfriend!"
I turn to find a woman in her fifties with beaming at me. She's wearing an Austin Stars jersey with "brENNAN" and the number 12 on the back.
"Excuse me, what?"
"Teddy told us he met someone special! I'm Kathleen, Ted's mom." She pulls me into a hug before I can explain the misunderstanding. "Girls! She's here!"
Two more women turn around—one about my age wearing the same jersey, and an elderly woman with perfectly set silver hair and sharp blue eyes.
"This is Bridget, Ted's sister, and this is Nana Brennan," Kathleen continues, beaming. "We are so excited to finally meet you!"
"Oh, I think there's been a?—"
"You're even prettier than Teddy described," Nana interrupts, pulling out her phone. "Let me show you his baby pictures!"
"I'm actually not?—"
"Don't be modest, honey," Bridget chimes in. "We know all about you. The sports reporter, right? Teddy was so flustered when he came home yesterday, talking about this brilliant woman who asked all the right questions."
I open my mouth to correct them, but Kathleen is already unpacking what appears to be enough food to feed a small army.
"I made sandwiches," she announces, pressing a wrapped bundle into my hands. "Corned beef. Teddy's favorite. And I brought extra just in case you came! A mother knows these things."
"Mrs. Brennan, I think you misunderstood?—"
"Call me Kathleen, sweetheart. We're practically family now!"
Practically family? I've known Ted for exactly one day, and that was a professional disaster.
"Look, there's our boy!" Nana points toward the field where the players are taking warm-up swings. "Number 12. Isn't he handsome in his uniform?"
I follow her gaze and spot Ted behind home plate, adjusting his chest protector. Even from here, I can see the easy confidence in the way he moves, the way other players gravitate toward him between drills.
"He's been talking about you nonstop," Bridget whispers conspiratorially. "Asked Mom to make extra sandwiches, which he never does unless he's really smitten."
"I think you're confused about?—"
"Oh! It's time for the national anthem!" Bridget jumps to her feet. "This is my favorite part!"
Everyone around us stands, and I'm trapped in the middle of the row with no escape route. The announcement comes over the loudspeaker asking everyone to remove their hats and put their hands over their hearts.
That's when Bridget opens her mouth and begins to sing.
It's very enthusiastic. Also very loud. And very, very off-key. I try to keep my expression neutral, but it sounds like she's torturing the melody with a rusty spoon.
People in the rows around us are starting to wince. A man in front of us actually covers his ears, pretending to adjust his cap. But Kathleen and Nana are swaying along proudly, completely oblivious to the musical carnage happening.
"What so proudly we haaaaaailed..."
I glance down at the field and see Ted looking up at our section. His shoulders are shaking slightly, and I realize he's trying not to laugh. When our eyes meet, he shrugs apologetically and mouths "I'm sorry."
Despite everything—the confusion, the trapped situation, the assault on my eardrums—I find myself smiling back and mouthing "They're sweet."
And I mean it. They are sweet, in an overwhelming, assume-you're-dating-their-son kind of way.
Bridget's crescendo could probably shatter glass. The poor man in front of us gives up all pretense and just openly covers his ears.
When the anthem finally, mercifully ends, everyone sits down with visible relief. Bridget looks flushed and proud.
"I've been taking voice lessons," she announces to no one in particular.
"That's wonderful," I manage.
"She's going to sing at your wedding!" Nana declares, pulling out her phone again. "Now, about those baby pictures..."
"I really should explain?—"
"Oh look, honey," Kathleen interrupts, pointing to the field. "Ted's looking over here again. Wave!"
Before I can stop myself, I look down and see Ted behind the plate, his mask pushed up on his head. He's definitely looking in our direction, and when he sees me watching, he tips his cap slightly.
It's such a small gesture, but something flutters in my chest. Which is ridiculous. I'm here as a reporter. A professional. Not as someone getting swept up in romantic gestures from cute catchers.
"Aw, that's his special wave," Bridget sighs. "He only does that for people he really likes."
"How do you know he has a special wave?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"Because we've been coming to his games for three years, and we've never seen him do that before," Nana says, showing me a blurry photo of what might be baby Ted in a bathtub. "This one was taken when he was six months old. See how he's holding that rubber duck? Even then he had good hands."
I stare at the phone, not really seeing the picture. Ted has never done that wave before? That little tip of his cap was special?
"Are you writing him a love letter?" Kathleen asks, noticing my notebook.
"What? No! These are work notes. I'm covering the team for Austin News Network."
"Oh, how romantic!" Bridget claps her hands. "A love story that starts with journalism. Like in the movies!"
"It's not a love story. It's baseball reporting."
"Same thing, really," Nana says wisely. "Both require patience, strategy, and the ability to read signs."
I'm about to argue when I notice Jay Talley jogging in from the outfield. He spots our section and nudges another player—probably Derek, Kate's husband from yesterday's tavern encounter. They both look up at where I'm sitting with Ted's family, and Jay grins widely.
Great. Now the star pitcher thinks I'm dating his teammate.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Austin Stars!"
The team takes the field for the top of the first inning, and I watch Ted jog to home plate with easy, athletic grace.
He settles into his crouch behind the batter, mask down, and suddenly he's all business.
Gone is the thoughtful man from yesterday.
This is the "heart of the team" he told me about—focused, commanding, in complete control.
"He calls every pitch, you know," Kathleen says proudly. "The pitchers trust him completely."
I watch as Ted flashes signals to Jay on the mound. Jay nods, winds up, and throws a perfect strike. Ted frames it beautifully, holding the position just long enough for the umpire to make the call before firing the ball back.
"See how he moves?" Nana points. "Like a dancer. Very graceful for such a big man."
She's right. There's something almost elegant about the way Ted works behind the plate. I find myself taking actual notes about his game management, the way he seems to anticipate every play.
"You're really watching him," Bridget observes. "Most of his dates just pretend to pay attention."
"His other dates?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
"Oh, honey," Kathleen pats my arm sympathetically. "Don't worry about them. You're different. We can tell."
"How can you tell?"
"Because you're the first one he's brought us sandwiches for," Nana says simply.
I'm still processing this when Ted stands to throw down to second base, trying to catch a runner stealing. His throw is perfect—a laser beam that beats the runner by two steps. As he settles back into his crouch, he glances up at our section again.
This time, when our eyes meet, I don't look away and neither does he.