Page 1 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

Half the stadium erupts in boos as the home plate umpire calls ball three. Erica’s on her feet again, yelling, “Come on, Blue! Get some glasses! That was a strike!”

I nod halfheartedly, silently reveling in the fact that Alabama is ahead after the top of the second inning and the Oklahoma pitcher is having a hard time finding this umpire’s strike zone.

“Sit down, you’re causing a scene,” I shout over the din as I tug on the sleeve of Erica’s t-shirt. But even if Erica sat down and shut up, the rest of the fans around us would still be causing the same racket, echoing Erica’s thoughts.

Erica plops down onto her seat, four rows back in the coveted behind-the-plate section of the stands.

Her parents are two rows ahead of us, and if they can hear me yelling at their oldest daughter, they don’t show any signs of it.

They’re not here for Erica, just like I’m not here for Erica.

All of us are here at the college softball national championship tournament because of Erica’s little sister, Alyssa Torres, who is currently setting up at shortstop, waiting for the next pitch to the Alabama hitter .

Another pitch—this time a called strike—brings the count to 3-1. “Thank you!” Erica calls to the umpire. “I swear, Naomi,” she says to me in a conversational tone, “if you guys win because of walks, I’m telling Coach Golding I want a new catcher.”

I roll my eyes as she nudges my shoulder. “You’ll never find a catcher like me, so you better come to terms with Alabama winning this game.”

Erica Torres and I play for the same professional team in the Women’s Fastpitch League, and even though our alma maters are going head-to-head in this tournament game, Erica would never dream of replacing me.

I’ve been catching for her since I got drafted by the San Antonio Storm four years ago and, unlike her teasing suggests, finding a pitcher-catcher combo that jives like we do is like finding a four-leaf clover.

“In your dreams, sugar .” Erica laughs, drawing out the teasing endearment in an overacted southern accent.

“Hey, that’s my line,” a deep, twangy voice says from behind. Trace’s big body casts a shadow over us, and I look up to find my best friend looking down at me and Erica from the row above.

“You’re late,” is all I say as he easily steps over the back of the chair and into our row.

He settles his large frame into the stadium seat, pulling his crimson hat low over his brow and adjusting his sunglasses.

Everyone else might see an Alabama fan trying to mitigate the effects of the early summer sun here in Oklahoma City, but I’ve known Trace long enough to know what he’s really on about.

“Sorry,” Trace says. “Duke called me right as I parked.”

I nod and watch as Oklahoma walks the inning’s leadoff batter.

A chorus of “Hey, it’s alright, get the next one” is echoed by Oklahoma fans, parents, and sisters in the vicinity.

The catcher jogs out to the circle as the Alabama player takes her base.

She covers her mouth with her mitt and takes a few seconds to talk to her pitcher.

In a week, that will be me and Erica. But today, I’m just a fan.

“Why was Duke calling you? I thought you didn’t have anything major this summer until that charity event in a few weeks.” I’m very familiar with Trace’s agent, Duke Pryor, and his commitment to bothering his client the least amount possible.

Trace shrugs and leans forward, putting his forearms on his knees, his massive shoulder cutting off direct eye contact.

“I’ll tell you later,” he says, and I know I’ll be bugging him until he spills the beans.

But it’s obviously not a conversation for the middle of this public space, surrounded by people who would flip their lids if they realized who was sitting next to me.

A sharp crack draws my eyes back to the play just in time to see the line drive up the middle.

I shout, but half a heartbeat later, a glove materializes and snags the hard-hit ball.

Alyssa lands on her feet, stumbling for a few steps with the momentum, but she finds her footing with plenty of time to throw the ball over to the first baseman for a double play.

Erica’s on her feet again, and even though I wanted that base hit for my alma mater, I’m also here to cheer for the wunderkind who made that ridiculous play. Erica settles down as the next batter comes up to the plate.

“I bet you fifty bucks the next out is a strikeout,” she says with an unstoppable smile on her face. While Erica comes alive on the field as a player, she is effervescent when it comes to cheering for her younger sister.

I shake my head, knowing from experience that she has a knack for calling things like this. But would she ever put her powers to good use on a lottery ticket? No, she only uses them to swindle me out of all my pocket change at sporting events .

“You’re on,” Trace drawls, reaching across me to shake hands with Erica.

We quiet down as the pitcher takes the Alabama hitter into a 2-2 count before finishing her off with a wicked rise ball and a swinging strikeout. Cheers mingle with boos as Oklahoma heads to their dugout and Alabama takes the field.

“Well,” I say, standing to give Trace room to lean over and pull his wallet out of his back pocket, “I’m going to the bathroom before the lines get long. Don’t make any more dumb bets while I’m gone.” Erica pops up and snatches the bill out of Trace’s hand. “I’ll come with you!”

We both laugh as we slip into the aisle and head up to the concourse. “Why do they always go in packs?” Trace mumbles as we walk away.

Ignoring him, Erica and I make a beeline for the nearest bathroom. No one stops us while we walk like we’re on a mission, but as we exit the bathroom, making our way back to our seats at a more leisurely pace, we oblige when fans of all ages recognize us and ask for pictures and autographs.

Only at a place like this, surrounded by softball—fans, players, and family alike—do we ever get stopped.

The average person at the grocery store never realizes they’re standing in the checkout line with two gold-medal-winning athletes.

But here, there are girls who look up to us and what we’ve done on the professional and international stages. Girls who dream of being us.

And we always stop for them.

As we near the edge of the concourse, an upbeat pop song plays, intermingled with rounds of laughter.

Erica and I step back out into the sun to find “celebrity” lookalikes flashing on the jumbotron scoreboard behind centerfield.

With each new celebrity or cartoon character on the screen, the fans’ laughter fills the stadium .

TRACE DAVENPORT and the league photo from last season flash on the screen, and my eyes jump down the few rows to where my best friend is sitting.

With his hat in hand, he rubs his palm across the back of his head, ruffling his sandy blond hair, distracted by typing on his phone in his other hand.

A second later, the same scene flashes across the jumbotron.

The laughs ratchet up to a raucous cheer as teenage girls and their dads scream, realizing that that is the real Trace Davenport, prompting my friend to lift his head.

Erica and I are only two rows away now, but the damage is already done.

Trace sees his face on the jumbotron and smiles and waves before a new celebrity’s picture fills the massive screen.

As I plop into my seat before Erica claims hers, Trace adjusts his hat on his head.

“I can’t take you anywhere.” I watch out of the corner of my eye as a handful of teenagers approach but turn around to return to their seats as the next inning begins.

Trace’s cheeks tinge with color as he settles in to watch the game with me. “Sorry?”

“Mmhmm,” I reply sarcastically. I know he can’t exactly help it. What’s a guy to do when a couple of TikTok thirst edits of his pregame warmups go viral, causing women everywhere to drool over this man and his pretty face and “bite-worthy thighs”?

Not my words, by the way. You can thank some random fan and a thirst trap video that went massively viral last season for that one.

Our attention is stolen away as Oklahoma’s lead-off batter sends the ball to the fence for a stand-up double.

Erica whoops while Trace and I cheer for our alma mater.

Oklahoma scores three runs, all of them off another record-setting home run from Alyssa, before Alabama records its last out of the inning .

I lean back, enjoying the break between innings for only a few moments before the first fan shows up. “Hey, Mr. Davenport,” a boy who looks to be about ten says, peering over me and Erica from the aisle. “Can I get a picture with you?”

“Sure,” Trace says with a huge smile. The kid definitely looks like the younger brother of a travel ball player who got dragged to the tournament just because the rest of his family was coming.

But Trace leans across my body as the kid bends in front of Erica, putting his head as close to Trace’s as he can.

The kid snaps several selfies in a row, and I can’t resist the urge to throw bunny ears behind Trace’s head in one of them.

“Thanks!” the boy chirps before scampering back up to the concourse and out of sight.

A couple moments later, the next fan shows up, and the process is repeated.

After the middle of the inning ends, and the small line of Trace’s fans make their way back to their seats, Erica stands up and motions for Trace to trade seats with her.

“No offense, Trace, but I don’t want half of my face in any more of your fans’ selfies.”

The game continues with Alabama only scoring two more runs and losing to Oklahoma by a large margin.

The loss lands Alabama with a one-way ticket back to Tuscaloosa and guarantees Oklahoma a spot in the semi-finals.

And during every inning break, a line of fans forms down the concrete steps of the stadium to Trace’s seat.

“You know,” I say to Trace as we file up to the concourse after the final out of the game, “coming to a softball event and getting out-fangirled by a football player was not on this year’s bingo card.”

Trace bumps my arm, pushing me in front of him as we join the mass of people leaving the stadium.

“I’ll fangirl over you some more, if you like, Naomi.

All you gotta do is ask.” I turn to raise my eyebrows at him and get a little wink.

Rolling my eyes, I turn forward again and shuffle a few more steps toward the exit.

“In all honesty,” Trace continues, his hand finding my elbow to keep us from being separated in the throng of people, “you deserve to be fangirled over a little more.”

I refuse to look back at him now that my cheeks feel warm, and not from the sunburn I know has been building thanks to the hours in the sun throughout this weekend.

Ever since the day we met, Trace has been the most supportive person in my life.

It’s not uncommon for him to say nice things like that, but there’s something about the way he says it…

maybe it’s because we’re here, surrounded by softball, and it’s making me sentimental.

“Hey, where’s Erica?” I ask, hoping to move the conversation away from me and my accolades.

“She stayed back with her parents. They’re going to find Alyssa after everyone’s left the stadium.”

“Let’s catch up with them outside. I want to say hi to Alyssa, too.”

“Anything you want, Sugar.”