Page 34 of Curve Balls and Second Chances (Pickwick Pirate Queens #1)
S aturday morning dawned too bright. Semi -finals day.
The softball field was already buzzing by the time Rose pulled her truck into the gravel lot. Heat shimmered above the fields though the sun hadn’t yet reached its peak.
Families hauled coolers and umbrellas across the grass, folding chairs slung over shoulders. The smell of grilled hot dogs drifted from the concession stand, mingling with sunscreen and the metallic tang of red dust kicked up by sneakers.
Kids darted across the outfield chasing foul balls, their laughter carrying high and shrill over the low hum of voices. The bleachers creaked and groaned as neighbors settled in for a long day of games, settling themselves like birds lining a fence.
Rose should’ve felt at home here. She’d been playing since she was a teenager, and coaching now gave her the same rush she used to feel rounding third with the crowd roaring.
The rhythm of the sport had always steadied her, rooted her, given her something she could count on.
But today, as she adjusted her cap and gathered the girls, the stares hit her like pitches to the ribs.
“Eyes on me!” she barked, forcing her voice steady as she walked the lineup through their warmups.
The girls obeyed with enthusiasm, ponytails bobbing as they jogged through drills. Gloves snapped open and shut. Bats cracked against soft tosses, echoing like distant firecrackers. Their cheers rang loud, oblivious to the undercurrents twisting through the stands.
But Tasha wasn’t fooled. She sat on the bench, water bottle tucked between her knees, eyes narrowing as she caught the flicker of panic in Rose’s gaze. Her friend’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She nudged Acen , who leaned against the dugout rail with his arms crossed, posture loose but eyes sharp.
“She’s rattled,” Tasha murmured.
Acen frowned, the crease deepening between his brows. “ Yeah . I see it.”
He’d been watching Rose all morning. How her shoulders hunched tighter than usual, how she avoided looking at the crowd, how she snapped at Riley for forgetting the batting order.
Rose clapped her hands, trying to infuse energy into her voice. “ Let’s go, ladies! Semi -final starts in ten—let’s make it count!”
The girls cheered, but Rose’s throat burned.
The first inning went smoothly enough. Rose kept her eyes trained on the field, calling signals, clapping encouragement, reminding herself that the game was all that mattered. Her girls hustled, snagging line drives, sliding into bases, chalk dust flying.
But in the stands, whispers began to stir like wind through dry grass.
Marlene sat in the second row with her church friends, a wide-brimmed hat shading her eyes. She leaned in, lowering her voice to just the right pitch. Quiet enough to sound conspiratorial, loud enough to ensure the row behind her would catch every word.
“I heard it from someone who’d know,” she said, her lips pursed with reluctant authority.
Her friend’s eyes widened. “ No …”
“Well, I don’t know for sure,” Marlene went on, feigning reluctance, “but doesn’t it make you wonder?”
Another woman in a visor clucked her tongue. “ You never can tell about people.”
Gasps and murmurs rippled outward, subtle but steady, like a pebble tossed into a still pond. Heads bent together. Eyebrows raised. A few hands covered mouths, though smiles tugged at the corners.
Rose could feel it, even from the dugout. The weight of their stares pressed between her shoulder blades, heavy as cinder blocks. Every time she walked toward third base to wave a runner home, she felt eyes pinning her like butterflies to corkboard.
The second inning cracked open with tension. One of her girls, Maggie popped a fly ball into shallow right. The outfielder sprinted forward, glove snapping shut just as Maggie’s cleats hit the bag at first base.
“Dang it!” Rose clapped her hands, loud and encouraging, masking her own fray of nerves. “ Shake it off, Maggie ! We’ll get the next one!”
The girls echoed her, chanting their teammate’s name. But Rose’s palms sweated around the clipboard. She shifted it against her hip, the metal clip biting into her side. Her eyes darted once toward the stands and immediately wished they hadn’t.
A group of mothers in lawn chairs turned their heads in unison, lips moving, eyes glittering with curiosity. When Rose’s gaze caught theirs, they didn’t look away. They smiled too sweetly, the way one might smile at someone you pitied.
Her throat tightened.
“Coach?” Acen’s voice cut through her haze.
She blinked, jerking her attention back to the game. Acen was holding up the lineup card, confusion written across his face. “ Who’s on deck? You skipped.”
Rose swallowed hard. “ Uh — Jessie . Jessie’s up.”
Her voice cracked just enough for Acen to notice. He caught Riley’s frown from his position behind the backstop and stepped closer to Rose .
Between innings, he finally pulled her aside, hand light on her elbow. “ What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She reached for the clipboard like it was a shield, clutching it against her chest.
“Rose. Don’t let her get to you.” His voice softened, but his eyes were steady, insistent. “ Talk to me.”
Her pulse stuttered under the intensity of his gaze.
“Focus on the game,” she said briskly, forcing her tone back to business. She turned, walking toward the dugout before he could press further.
Acen let her go, jaw tightening. He wasn’t done.
By mid-afternoon, the gossip had matured into something sturdier than whispers.
“That’s what I heard too,” a man in a Memphis Tigers cap said from the top row.
His wife shook her head. “ Mercy , if it’s true…”
“Well,” Marlene chimed in again, voice sweet as syrup, “ I just pray for her. That’s all you can do, isn’t it? Pray .”
But her eyes glittered beneath the brim of her hat.
Another woman leaned closer. “ Makes sense, though. Explains why she never?—”
Rose couldn’t hear the rest, but she didn’t need to. She could feel it in the way their voices cut off when she glanced their way. In the too-casual way someone laughed too loudly at nothing.
Her team clapped and stomped as they scored a run, cheers echoing across the field.
Rose forced a smile, but inside she wanted to scream.
She wanted to whirl on the bleachers and shout, Mind your business!
Keep your poison to yourself! She wanted to march up to Briana wherever she was hiding herself today - because of course Briana was the source - and demand she rot in her bitterness.
But her girls were watching. And Rose had always promised herself she’d be better than the people who’d torn her down.
So she clapped harder. Louder . Until her palms stung.
The game stretched long, every inning sticky with tension. Rose coached like a woman at war with herself. Her voice firm, her face impassive, but her body taut as a drawn bow. Every call, every substitution, every clap of encouragement felt like an act of defiance.
By the seventh inning, her team had edged out a narrow lead. The final out came on a strike, the opposing batter’s shoulders slumping as the umpire called it. The girls erupted into cheers, dogpiling near the mound, dust rising in a golden cloud.
Rose clapped, shouting encouragement, but she felt hollow. The victory didn’t settle inside her the way it used to. The girls hugged and laughed, but Rose’s gaze kept flicking back to the bleachers, to the clusters of neighbors still murmuring as they gathered their things.
After the game, the field began to empty. Folding chairs folded. Coolers rattled back to trucks. The sun dipped lower, baking the dust into reddish crust beneath their shoes.
Rose lingered by the dugout, clipboard limp in her hand. She wanted to go home, to shut the door, to be anywhere but under the weight of all those eyes.
But as she rounded the corner of the concession stand, Declan was waiting.
His ball cap shaded his steady gaze, and his arms hung loose at his sides. He wasn’t smiling, but there was no judgment in his face either. Just quiet steadiness.
“You okay?” he asked.
The words were simple, but they cracked something inside her. She opened her mouth to say yes, but the word caught in her throat.
Instead, she looked past him toward the field, now nearly empty, dust swirling in lazy eddies. “ Just tired.”
Declan didn’t push. He just nodded, the silence stretching comfortable, steady. He stood there with her, quiet and unshakable, like he was giving her the space to climb down from the wall she’d built, brick by trembling brick.