Page 3 of Catching Her Heart (Austin Stars Baseball RomCom #2)

CHAPTER THREE

The Stars win seven to three, and I'm still trapped in the family section twenty minutes after the final out.

Kathleen is packing up enough leftover food to feed a small country while Nana critiques the umpire's strike zone calls.

Bridget keeps waving at players leaving the field, shouting "Great game! " at anyone in a uniform.

"There's our boy!" Kathleen announces as Ted emerges from the dugout, showered and in street clothes. His hair is still damp, and he's carrying his equipment bag over one shoulder.

He spots us immediately—probably because we're the only group still lingering in the stands—and climbs the steps toward our section. I notice he takes them two at a time, which seems either eager or desperate.

"Great game, honey!" Kathleen calls out, pulling him into a hug the moment he's within arm's reach.

"Thanks, Mom." Ted's eyes find mine over his mother's shoulder, and I see something that might be an apology mixed with mild panic. "How’d everyone enjoy the game?"

"Oh, it was wonderful!" Nana beams. "And Piper here was taking notes the whole time. She's so smart, writing everything down about what a good hitter you are."

I wince. Ted struck out twice and grounded out twice.

"Actually, Nana," Ted says gently, "I didn’t hit very well today, so I doubt Piper was writing that much about my at bats."

"Nonsense," Nana waves a dismissive hand. "You hit that ball right to the pitcher in the second inning. That takes skill!"

Ted looks at me with barely concealed amusement. "That's one way to look at it."

"So, what's the plan for dinner?" Kathleen asks, settling back into her seat like she's prepared to stay for hours. "Should we all go out? I know a lovely place that does family style?—"

"Actually, Mom," Ted interrupts, "don't you have that early morning doctor's appointment tomorrow?"

"Doctor's appointment?" Kathleen looks confused. "I don't have a?—"

"The dentist," Ted says quickly. "Remember? You said you needed to get to bed early?"

"Oh, honey, that's not until Thursday?—"

"And Bridget," Ted continues desperately, "didn't you say you had to get home to feed your cat?"

"I don't have a cat," Bridget says, looking at her brother like he's lost his mind. "You know that.”

Ted puts his hands on his hips and glares at his sister.

"And Nana, surely you want to get home to catch your shows?—"

"My shows don't start until nine," Nana says cheerfully. "Plenty of time! Besides, I want to hear more about Piper's job. Do you interview all the handsome players?"

I open my mouth to explain that I'm not actually Ted's girlfriend and this whole situation is a misunderstanding, but Nana's sharp blue eyes suddenly narrow as she studies her grandson.

"Are you trying to get rid of us?" she asks slowly.

Ted freezes like a deer in headlights. "What? No! I just thought?—"

"Oh!" Nana's face breaks into a delighted grin. "You want to court your girl properly! Why didn't you just say so, honey?"

"Court his girl?" Bridget squeals. "Oh my goodness, this is so romantic!"

"You kids have fun," Nana winks at me. "And remember, honey, never let him get to second base on the first date!"

"Nana!" Ted's face turns approximately the same color as the team's red jerseys.

"What?" Nana shrugs and turns away.

As the three women bustle around collecting purses and leftover sandwiches, I sit frozen in mortification. This cannot be happening. I'm a professional journalist, not some swooning fan who gets courted after baseball games.

"Piper, dear," Kathleen presses another sandwich into my hands despite my protests, "you take care of our boy. He needs someone to make sure he eats properly."

"Mrs. Brennan, I really should explain?—"

"Oh, you can just call me Mom!" she says, kissing my cheek before I can dodge.

Within minutes, they've whirl winded their way out of the section, leaving behind a trail of enthusiastic advice and the faint scent of Nana's perfume.

I sit in the suddenly quiet stands, clutching a corned beef sandwich and staring at Ted, who looks like he might spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

"I’m so sorry," he says, sinking into the seat beside me. "They're a lot to handle."

"They're sweet," I say, and I mean it. "Overwhelming, but sweet."

"They've decided you're my girlfriend based on one conversation yesterday. I tried to explain that you're a reporter, but they're convinced I'm being modest."

"Why didn't you just tell them the truth? That I mistook you for the equipment manager and made a complete fool of myself?"

Ted's smile is soft. "Because then they'd feel bad for embarrassing you. And because..." He hesitates, then reaches into his equipment bag and pulls out a baseball. "I thought you might actually want this. For research purposes."

He holds it out to me, and when I reach to take it, our fingers brush. The contact sends a little shock through my hand, warm and electric. Ted's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

"Ted Brennan, game ball, May 15th," he says quietly, not pulling his hand away. "From tonight's win."

"You kept the game ball?" My voice comes out softer than intended.

"I kept a game ball. There’s always more than one. This one's for you."

I look down at the baseball in my hands, at Ted's careful signature written in blue ink across the white leather. It's such a simple gift, but somehow it feels significant. Like he's giving me something real and tangible from his world.

"Thank you," I say. "I'll treasure it. For research."

"For research," he agrees, but his smile suggests we both know it's more than that.

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the stadium lights casting long shadows across the empty field. I should leave. I should thank him politely and go home to write up my notes for tomorrow's story. Instead, I find myself asking, "Do you always give game balls to reporters?"

"Never," Ted says immediately. "You're the first."

Something flutters in my chest again, stronger this time. "Why?"

"Because you asked good questions yesterday. Because you looked like you actually wanted to understand the game, not just get a quote for your story. And because..." He trails off, then starts again. "Would you like to get coffee? To discuss your observations from tonight?"

I glance down at my notebook, which contains exactly three legitimate observations and about fifteen doodles of Ted's number. This is a terrible idea. I'm supposed to be maintaining professional boundaries, not getting coffee with sources.

"I'd like that," I hear myself say.

Ted's face lights up. "Really?"

"Really. But I should warn you—I barely took any notes tonight. Your family is very distracting."

"Just my family?" There's something hopeful in his voice.

I look at him—really look at him. At the way his green eyes crinkle when he smiles, at the quiet confidence in his posture, at the way he's looking at me like I'm the most interesting person in the stadium.

"No," I admit. "Not just your family."