Page 11 of Curve Balls and Second Chances (Pickwick Pirate Queens #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T hat afternoon, Rose stepped onto her porch, coffee in hand, planning to strategize for the upcoming playoffs and pretend the town hadn’t exploded around her love life.

She’d left Cindy running the coffee shop.

Her thoughts too tangled and her face too much at the forefront of gossip for her taste.

Home was where she could slow down and think.

The mug was warm against her palms, the chipped ceramic familiar from years of use.

She eased into her favorite rocker, the one that had belonged to her grandmother, and let the creak of its old joints settle into the rhythm of the cicadas.

The lake glimmered down the hill, the surface broken now and then by a fish jumping or the breeze teasing across it.

Ordinarily , this view would calm her, ground her, remind her why she’d stayed when others had left.

Today, though, her chest felt tight, and the coffee tasted bitter despite the three spoonsful of sugar she’d stirred in.

She’d told herself she’d focus on the tournament, map out lineups, run through batting rotations, and maybe draft a practice plan that would keep the women sharp without burning them out.

Baseball strategy had always been her safe place—angles, averages, instincts she trusted more than her own heart.

But before she could settle into that comfort, her gaze snagged on something out of place.

A small wooden box sat on her porch swing.

Her steps slowed, every nerve in her body going taut. She hadn’t heard a car pull up, hadn’t seen anyone walking up the gravel drive. The box was plain golden oak wood, smoothed from age, no markings on the outside. Just … waiting.

Cautious, she set her coffee aside and crossed to it, her bare feet whispering against the planks. She half expected the thing to vanish when she blinked, like something conjured out of her restless thoughts. But it remained, squat and solid, the afternoon sun warming its edges.

Her hand hovered over the lid before she finally flipped it open.

Inside was a faded Polaroid .

Her breath caught.

The three of them - her, Riley , and Acen - stood in front of the lake, dripping wet from a swim, all gangly limbs and crooked smiles.

She remembered the day instantly: late July , the heat sweltering, Riley daring her to jump from the dock even though the water was shallow there.

Acen had ended up hauling them both out when their laughter left them gasping more than swimming.

She hadn’t seen this photo in years.

The colors were time-bleached now, the whites yellowing, but the emotion was sharp as ever.

Riley’s hair stuck up at odd angles, his grin devilish.

She looked carefree, flushed, younger than she’d thought herself even back then.

And Acen - Lord help her - Acen stood between them with his arm draped across their shoulders like it had always belonged there.

Beneath the photo lay a folded piece of paper.

She hesitated, then smoothed it open.

Scrawled in dark ink was one line:

I never forgot. Not for a single day. – A

Her heart twisted. Her hand closed over the box as though to crush it.

And all the simple answers she’d been clinging to dissolved like sugar in sweet tea.

The Polaroid sat on Rose’s kitchen table like a ghost that refused to leave.

She’d carried it inside, set it down, and tried - Lord knows she’d tried - to ignore it.

She’d even busied herself with chores: rinsing the coffee mug, sweeping the porch, folding the laundry piled on the couch.

But no matter how many times she walked past the table, her eyes landed on that picture.

She’d studied it a dozen times already - the way her hair clung to her neck, how Riley squinted against the sun, Acen’s arm casually slung around both their shoulders. That summer, they’d been inseparable. A trio made of secrets, loyalty, and the kind of laughter that echoed for days.

Back when everything was still simple. Before Briana . Before the goodbye that wrecked her.

The scrawled note was still in her hand. I never forgot. Not for a single day.

She wanted to hate it. To throw it out and claim the past was a closed door.

She even moved toward the trash can once, her fingers gripping the paper so tightly the edges dug into her skin.

But when she hovered over the open trash can, her fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

Would let the piece of paper, the piece of the past, drift away into oblivion.

Instead, she’d found herself sitting again, tracing the edges of the photograph with trembling fingers.

She didn’t know what made her angrier - that Acen had kept something like this all these years - or that some small, foolish part of her heart still ached at the thought of him remembering.

The kitchen clock ticked, steady as a heartbeat.

Rose leaned back in her chair, arms folded tight across her chest. Outside , the afternoon shifted toward evening, shadows stretching long across the yard. Somewhere in the distance, kids shouted and laughed, their voices high and eager. The sound pulled at her, bittersweet.

She tried to focus on something else. Something that meant the world to her.

Baseball. Always baseball. It had been her refuge, her rhythm, the one place she could pour her hurt without it spilling over. Coaching her team, drilling the women on cutoffs and double plays, arguing over safe calls at second—it had kept her sane.

And Acen had to go and wedge himself right into the middle of it. Even baseball couldn’t get her away from him now.

She could still see him on the field earlier that week, leaning against the fence line like he owned the place.

Even injured, even out of the game, he carried himself with that same quiet confidence.

The way his eyes tracked her when she pitched warmups had unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Now this.

This box. This note.

A memory pressed into her palm like a bruise.

She picked up the Polaroid again, holding it at arm’s length as though distance might dull its sting.

She remembered the moment it had been taken.

Riley had stolen their mama’s camera and insisted they commemorate their “last summer before adulthood.” He’d called it their golden season.

Rose had rolled her eyes at his dramatics, but she’d secretly agreed.

That summer had been golden—sticky nights, bonfires, boat rides across Pickwick Lake , hours spent tossing a ball until their arms ached.

And Acen . Always Acen .

He’d been the center of it, though she’d never admitted it then. He made everything feel sharper, brighter. He challenged her in ways no one else dared—teasing her about her batting stance, racing her down the dock, kissing her in the shadows where Riley wouldn’t see.

Her thumb brushed his image in the photo, her throat tightening.

She could almost feel the heat of his arm slung across her shoulders, smell the lake water drying on his skin. She remembered how her heart had pounded that day, not from the swim but from standing so close to him, wondering if he’d lean down and steal another kiss.

Instead, he’d just grinned for the camera, easy as breathing.

And then he’d left.

Rose pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, trying to steady herself.

It had been twenty years. Twenty years of silence, of anger, of rebuilding a life brick by brick without him. She’d told herself she was over it, that the girl she’d been back then had grown into a woman who knew better than to pine after someone who’d walked away.

And for the most part, she believed it.

But the note cracked something in her she hadn’t expected. I never forgot. Not for a single day.

Why send it now? Why dig up what was buried?

She thought of Acen’s face when she’d seen him again, the shadows under his eyes, the way he’d stood like a man carrying more weight than he knew how to set down. She thought of the limp in his gait, the hint of pain he’d tried to hide.

She hated that part of her wanted to believe the note. That he hadn’t forgotten. That she hadn’t been erased.

Her hand tightened on the paper.

Because if he remembered… then maybe she wasn’t crazy for remembering too.

The air in the kitchen felt too close. Rose shoved back from the table and moved to the back door, stepping onto the porch. The sun was dropping low, bleeding gold and pink across the lake. Fireflies sparked in the hedges, winking like tiny lanterns.

She drew in a breath, steadying herself.

She’d faced tougher things than an old photograph.

She’d stood on the mound with a full count, bases loaded, knowing her team was counting on her.

She’d endured gossip, heartbreak, her mama’s illness after her daddy’s death.

She wasn’t about to let Acen Wheeler undo her with a Polaroid .

Still, she carried the box back outside, setting it on the porch rail. The wood gleamed in the last light of day, simple and unassuming.

But Rose knew better.

It wasn’t just a box.

It was a match struck over old kindling.

And she wasn’t sure whether to stomp it out… or let it burn.