Page 4 of Catching Her Heart (Austin Stars Baseball RomCom #2)

CHAPTER FOUR

The coffee shop Ted chooses is nothing like I expected.

Instead of some generic chain near the stadium, he leads me to Hill Country Coffee tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop.

Fairy lights twinkle in the windows, and the smell of cinnamon and freshly ground beans hits me the moment we walk in.

"This is lovely," I say, looking around at the mismatched furniture and local art covering the walls.

"I found it my first week in Austin," Ted says, guiding me toward a corner table. "It stays open late, and the owner, Mrs. Adams, makes the best apple scones in Texas."

"You have a sweet tooth?"

"Guilty." His smile is boyish. "Don't tell my trainer."

We settle into our seats, and I immediately feel more relaxed. The stadium had been Ted's territory, but this feels neutral somehow. Like we're just two people getting to know each other, not a reporter and her source.

"So," Ted says after we've ordered—coffee for me, hot chocolate for him because apparently he really does have a sweet tooth—"what did you actually observe tonight? Besides my family's complete lack of boundaries."

"Your family is wonderful," I protest. "Enthusiastic, but wonderful."

"Nana called you 'honey' within five minutes of meeting you. That's got to be some kind of record."

"She also thinks you're an excellent hitter."

Ted laughs, the sound rich and warm. "She's been watching me play since I was a kid and still doesn't understand much about the game. But she never misses one."

"That's sweet. My parents barely understand what I do for work, let alone show up to support it."

"What do they think you do?"

"Mom thinks I 'write about sports' which she translates as 'couldn't get a real reporting job.' Dad thinks I interview athletes, which he translates as 'hopefully you'll marry a rich one.'"

Ted's expression shifts, becoming more serious. "That must be hard. Not having their support."

"It's fine," I say quickly, then catch myself. "Actually, no, it's not fine. But it's also part of why I'm so determined to make this work. I need to prove that I can do this job, that I belong in sports journalism. I really do enjoy it."

Our drinks arrive, and I wrap my hands around the warm mug, grateful for something to do with my nervous energy.

"What happened in Chicago?" Ted asks gently. "If you don't mind me asking."

I study his face, looking for any sign that he's fishing for gossip or trying to assess if I'm a liability. But his eyes are kind, genuinely curious.

"I trusted the wrong source," I say finally.

"A player told me he was being traded, gave me all these details about contract negotiations.

I ran the story, and it turned out he was lying to manipulate the team into better terms. The trade never happened, the team denied everything, and I looked like an incompetent writer who didn't fact-check. "

"Ouch."

"The paper had to run a front-page retraction.

My editor said I was 'too eager to please my sources' and suggested I might be better suited for lifestyle reporting.

" The bitterness creeps into my voice despite my best efforts.

"And now I'm competing with reporters like Simmons from the Chronicle who've been covering baseball for years.

He loves reminding everyone that I'm the 'new girl' who doesn't know the territory yet.

Plus my editor, Tim, is already getting impatient for exclusive stories. "

"That's not fair," Ted says firmly. "You ask tough questions. You're not trying to please anyone."

"How would you know? You've known me for two days."

"Because yesterday you called me out for giving you surface-level answers.

Because tonight you took actual notes about pitch framing even though you were supposedly just watching for fun.

Because..." He pauses, then continues more softly, "Because when you look at me, I feel like you're seeing something real, not just the uniform or the statistics. "

Ted's looking at me with such intensity that I have to glance away, and when I do, I knock over my coffee mug.

"Oh no!" I jump up as hot coffee spreads across the table, dripping onto my jeans. "I'm so sorry, I'm such a?—"

"Whoa there, butterfingers," Ted says, already grabbing napkins from the dispenser. But he's smiling, not annoyed. "Any baseball player with hands like that would get sent back to little league."

I freeze, expecting to feel the familiar sting of embarrassment. Instead, I find myself laughing. "Are you comparing my coffee-spilling abilities to professional athletics?"

"I'm saying your hand-eye coordination could use some work." He's grinning now, dabbing at the coffee on the table. "Good thing you chose journalism over sports."

"Hey, I'll have you know I was a terror on the softball field in high school."

"Oh really? What position?"

"Benchwarmer. I was an excellent benchwarmer."

Ted laughs so hard he nearly spills his own drink. "There's an art to good benchwarming."

"Absolutely. You have to maintain team morale, provide enthusiastic cheering, and most importantly, never drop the water bottles when you're passing them out."

"Did you drop the water bottles?"

"Frequently."

Mrs. Adams appears with a towel and a fresh mug of coffee, tsking sympathetically. She looks at Ted with a knowing smile. "This one's nervous."

"I’m not!" I protest, my cheeks burning.

"Don't mind her," Ted says, but his eyes are twinkling. "She's been trying to set me up with her niece for months. She's probably jealous."

As we settle back into our seats with my fresh coffee safely positioned far from my gesticulating hands, the conversation flows easier than it has any right to. Ted tells me about growing up as the baby of the family, always trying to keep up with his older siblings.

"I was the kid who practiced catching pop flies until dark because I was convinced that if I got good enough, my brothers would have to include me in their games."

"Did it work?"

"Eventually. Though by the time I was good enough to hang with them, they'd moved on to girls and cars." He grins. "Typical little brother story."

"I'm an only child," I admit. "I always wondered what it would be like to have siblings."

"It's loud. Competitive. Someone's always borrowing your stuff without asking." His expression softens. "But also you always have people in your corner. Even when they're driving you crazy, they're your people."

"Like tonight. With your family assuming we're dating and planning our entire future."

"Yeah, about that..." Ted brushes his hair back nervously. "I should probably warn you that they're going to keep doing that. Once they get an idea in their heads, they're like dogs with bones."

"So you're saying I should expect more wedding planning advice from Bridget?"

"Oh, definitely. She'll probably start asking about your dress preferences by next week."

We both laugh, but there's something underneath it—an acknowledgment that there will be a next week, that whatever this is between us isn't ending tonight.

"Can I ask you something?" Ted says, leaning forward slightly.

"Sure."

"Why did you stay tonight? After my family left, you could have politely escaped. Made some excuse about deadlines or early mornings. Why didn't you?"

It's a fair question, and I find myself considering it seriously. Why did I stay? Professional curiosity? The story I'm supposed to be chasing?

"Honestly?" I meet his eyes. "Because for the first time since I got to Austin, I didn't want to be anywhere else."

Ted's smile starts slow and spreads across his entire face. "Good answer."

"What about you? Why did you ask me to coffee?"

"Because," he says, reaching across the table to touch my hand briefly, "when you look at me, I feel like the most interesting person in the room. And I've never felt that way before."

The touch of his fingers against mine sends warmth shooting up my arm. I don't pull away.

"Ted—"

"I know this is complicated," he says quickly. "Our jobs, the whole reporter-athlete thing. But I'd like to see where this goes. If you want to."

I look at our hands, still touching across the table, then back at his hopeful face. Every rational part of my brain is screaming warnings about professional boundaries and the disasters that happen when reporters get too close to their sources.

But sitting here in this cozy coffee shop, with Ted's thumb tracing gentle circles on my knuckles, all I can think about is how right this feels.

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

Ted's answering smile could power the entire city.

We talk until Mrs. Adams starts pointedly stacking chairs around us, and even then we linger on the sidewalk outside, neither wanting the evening to end. When Ted walks me to my car, our fingers intertwine naturally, like we've been holding hands for years instead of hours.

"So," he says as I unlock my door, "same time tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Coffee. After the game. Unless..." He looks suddenly uncertain. "Unless you think this is moving too fast."

I think about everything that's happened in the past two days. Meeting Ted, his family adopting me, this perfect evening that felt more like a first date than an interview.

I step closer to him, feeling a little bolder than normal. "I think you might be worth breaking a few rules for."