Page 43 of Curve Balls and Second Chances (Pickwick Pirate Queens #1)

R egional finals day.

Rose took a deep breath and refused to think about pop flies and how they’d ruined it for the team last year. This was a different year. With new beginnings, and she intended to take the trophy this time.

Meanwhile, she was on the softball field with the team, tossing practice balls and trying to act normal.

“You need to swing through the pitch, Maggie , not at it like it insulted your mama’s casserole,” she called.

The women laughed, and for a few glorious minutes, her stress lifted like a cloud moving away from the sun. This team. These women. They would give their all to win. And that was all she needed today.

Acen was watching from the bleachers, sipping from a thermos and smiling every time Rose shouted instructions.

When practice wrapped, he walked out onto the field, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You were born to coach,” he said.

“I was born to yell,” she joked.

They stood there for a beat too long, the air between them charged with something tender and unfinished.

He lowered his voice. “ I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, blinking fast. “ You’ll make me cry and ruin my tough-girl image. Today is a day to be seen as a warrior.”

“I like you better when you’re soft.”

She laughed, but it came out wobbly.

“Don’t go sweet-talking me now,” she said. “ We still have a game to win.”

He leaned in, his voice low. “ Win or lose, I’ve already picked my team.”

The Pirate Queens ’ bats cracked against balls as the warm-up continued, the sharp sound echoing across the field.

The morning sun was bright but not yet brutal, and the smell of freshly cut grass mingled with the tang of the chalked baselines.

The dugouts hummed with chatter as the women stretched, laced cleats, and tossed balls back and forth.

Rose paced along the first-base line, eyes sharp as a hawk. Every drill mattered now. Not because it would change their muscle memory in the next hour, but because it kept their nerves from swallowing them whole.

“Ginny, keep your glove down,” she barked, then softened it with a smile. “ You’re trying to snag butterflies, not grounders.”

Laughter rippled again, though there was tension threaded through it. Every player knew what today meant.

The Selmer Sidewinders weren’t just any opponent. They were the team that had taken the trophy two years running, their pitcher known for her wicked curveball, their outfield so fast they made stealing bases look like child’s play.

But this year was different. This year, the Pirate Queens weren’t the underdogs. They were equals. Hungry , determined, and stitched together by more than just batting averages.

Rose tossed a ball toward Maggie again. “ Drive through it. Yes ! That’s it.” The crack of a clean hit sent the ball soaring past second base, and Maggie whooped, running halfway down the line before jogging back.

Acen’s presence was steady in the bleachers, like a heartbeat she could sense even when she wasn’t looking.

He wasn’t just watching the game. He was watching her.

He’d made the decision not to coach with her today.

This day should be hers. According to him.

Instead of feeling weighed down by expectation, she felt buoyed.

The practice wound down, gloves smacking, cleats thudding against dirt, and Rose called them in. “ Huddle up, ladies.”

They circled close, the smell of leather, sunscreen, and determination wrapping around them like armor.

“I don’t need to tell you how much this game means,” Rose said.

“ But here’s what I want you to remember.

It’s not about proving the town wrong. It’s not about silencing whispers.

It’s about us. About what we’ve built together.

Every practice, every late night, every bruise and blister.

We’ve already won, because we did this as a team. Today is just the cherry on top.”

Her voice trembled just enough to betray her heart, but no one called her on it. Instead , they stacked their hands together and shouted, “ Pirate Queens !” loud enough to startle a flock of starlings from the nearby trees.

The stands were filling now, neighbors and classmates, parents with toddlers, old timers with folding chairs dragged close to the fence.

The whole town turning out. The bleachers rattled with the stomp of boots, paper programs fanned against flushed faces.

Homemade posters waved in the air: PIRATE QUEENS RULE ! and brING HOME THAT TROPHY !

“Listen up, y’all,” Rose said, hands on her hips.

“ The Sidewinders think they’ve got us beat.

They’re taller, they’re younger, they’ve got more travel-ball experience.

But none of them knows what it means to wear Pirate red .

We fight for each other. Every inning, every pitch, every play. That’s how we win.”

The women stomped and cheered, fists pounding the air. The sound rolled across the field like thunder.

The hum of chatter in the stands grew into a roar as the announcer’s voice crackled through the loudspeaker, calling both teams to the dugouts.

The Selmer Sidewinders strutted onto the field in crisp green uniforms, smirks flashing as they stretched. The Pirate Queens answered with steady steps, red jerseys gleaming under the sun, their logo, a heart-shaped softball with the team name embroidered on it, bold across their chests.

Rose’s throat tightened. This was it.

The first inning was all nerves.

The ump’s call echoed: “ Play ball!”

The first pitch cracked against the catcher’s mitt. The crowd roared.

The Sidewinders came out swinging, their leadoff batter slamming a double down the third-base line. The crowd roared, half in triumph, half in worry. Rose’s chest tightened, but she clapped her hands, calling, “ Shake it off! Next one, let’s go!”

The Pirate Queens ’ pitcher, Tasha , took a breath, rolled her shoulders, and delivered three blazing strikes to the next batter. The crowd erupted in cheers, stomping the bleachers so hard the metal rang.

By the time the third out came, the Sidewinders had managed one run. Not great, but not insurmountable.

“Okay, ladies,” Rose said, as her team grabbed bats. “ Let’s answer back.”

Maggie stepped up to the plate, adjusting her helmet, chin high. The Sidewinders ’ pitcher smirked, wound up, and let loose that infamous curveball. Maggie swung. And missed. The crowd groaned.

But Rose clapped. “ You saw it! Now you know. Reset !”

Second pitch. Crack . The ball sailed over the shortstop’s head, dropping into the grass for a clean single. The Pirate Queens ’ dugout exploded in cheers.

By the time the inning ended, both teams had scored once.

The game stretched into a battle of wills. Inning after inning, bats cracked, gloves snapped, dirt flew. The crowd grew louder with every play, children chanting, adults hollering, the old timers slapping knees and muttering about the glory days.

Rose shouted herself hoarse, pacing the dugout, clapping until her palms stung. She wasn’t just coaching. She was willing every ball, every step, every swing to go their way.

Acen’s gaze was steady from the stands, and sometimes, when the tension coiled too tight, she’d glance at him. He’d tip his thermos, nodding as if to say, You’ve got this.

By the top of the seventh, the score was tied 4–4.

The trophy sat gleaming on a table near the announcer’s booth, sunlight catching on its polished surface.

So close, and yet it felt miles away.

The Sidewinders were up to bat, and their slugger sent a screaming line drive toward center field. For a heartbeat, the crowd gasped. But Dani sprinted, glove outstretched, and snagged it mid-air, tumbling into the grass. She popped up, ball in hand, triumphant.

The Pirate Queens roared, slapping the dugout rail, screaming themselves breathless. Rose’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs.

Two outs later, they jogged in, bats ready.

“This is it,” Rose told them, voice shaking with adrenaline. “ Bottom of the seventh. Our house. Our time.”

Maggie got on base with a sharp single. The next batter bunted, moving her to second. The tension was unbearable—one run could end it.

Then came Dani . Her helmet tilted forward, eyes narrowed. She swung hard on the second pitch.

Crack.

The ball soared high, arcing toward left field. The crowd rose to its feet, a single collective breath held tight. The Sidewinder outfielder sprinted back, back—then stumbled. The ball dropped just past her glove, rolling to the fence.

Maggie tore around third, cleats kicking up dust. Rose screamed herself hoarse, waving her in.

The throw came late. Maggie slid across home plate, arms outstretched, and the umpire bellowed, “ Safe !”

The stadium erupted. Fans poured from the bleachers, voices merging into a tidal wave of sound. The Pirate Queens leapt from the dugout, gloves tossed, arms flung around each other as they screamed and danced.

Rose stood frozen, tears blurring her eyes as the reality hit. They’d done it. They’d finally done it.

Acen was suddenly beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off the ground. “ You did it, Coach ,” he whispered, voice rough with pride.

“ We did it,” she corrected, laughing through tears. “ All of us.”

The trophy was carried to the field, shining under the setting sun. The women passed it hand to hand, kissing it, lifting it high as the crowd chanted, “ Pirate Queens ! Pirate Queens !”

Rose touched the cool metal, her heart thundering. Not just from the win, but from everything it meant. Redemption . Belonging . A future she could finally believe in.

Acen pressed his forehead to hers as fireworks cracked in the distance, some enthusiastic fan having set them off early.

“This is just the beginning,” he murmured.

And Rose , standing on the dirt with her team screaming around her and the trophy in her hands, believed him.