Page 11 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

The front door of my apartment opens, casting a glare on my TV and The Bachelorette rerun from last season I turned on while waiting for Trace. He texted earlier, telling me he’d be over around six, but it’s almost seven, and the hanger is starting to set in.

I’m about to yell at Trace—one of only two people who would walk in without knocking—but then the unmistakably smoky scent of Rusty’s BBQ permeates my small apartment. Trace leans over the back of my couch and presses a quick kiss to my forehead.

“I thought we were going out?” I say, a sliver of annoyance snaking through my voice. “I got dressed up and everything.” I use my left hand to spread out the cream-colored skirt of my sundress while my right clicks off the TV, leaving us with only the sound of my overworked ceiling fan.

“You look beautiful,” he says, making warmth bloom in my chest. “And while I agree it’s a tragedy that outfit is going to waste, I figured one major outing would be enough for us today.”

I frown and open my mouth to complain a little more, but Trace brings his arms forward, dangling two white plastic bags within my reach. I look up into Trace’s golden eyes that are still hovering over me before I pluck the bag out of his right hand.

Trace’s low chuckle and the smell emanating from the bag begin to soothe my annoyance. Both bags smell divine, and after my regular chicken-rice-and-veggies post-practice lunch, I’ll take anything that fits within my nutrition plan that smells like that.

“Sorry I took so long,” he apologizes as he comes around the couch. “Rusty’s was packed.”

I pull out my foam clamshell box of barbecue and smell it like the gremlin I am, and it’s the smell that does it for me.

Trace settles onto the other side of the couch, and we pull out our plastic takeout forks and dig in.

“All is forgiven,” I say around a mouthful of the best Texas barbecue in San Antonio.

I tip my head back, moaning quietly around another mouthful, and I barely catch the corner of Trace’s mouth tip up.

“Well, we’re together now. What’s the plan of attack?” I ask after a few more heavenly bites.

“Keep doing what we’ve been doing,” he says like it’s a no-brainer.

I shoot him an expectant look and wait for an explanation. He sticks his fork in his barbecue and sets his box on the end table beside him, turning to face me.

“It’ll be like,” he pauses, drumming his fingers on his leg, “framing a pitch. We’re already close to a strike. We’re best friends. Now we just need to make everyone see what we want them to see.”

My eyebrows creep higher on my forehead with every word. “Did you just make a softball analogy for me?”

Trace rolls his eyes. “I couldn’t think of a football one off the top of my head, so yes .” We both start laughing. “But what we did at your practice today seemed good enough for your team. So why wouldn’t it be good enough for the rest of the world? ”

My surprised face falls into one that’s a little more serious. “That works for me. It wasn’t even that bad.”

“ That bad ?” Trace echoes. “You thought dating me was going to be bad ?”

I reach over and smack him with the back of my hand. One of the only good things about being six feet tall is that it makes it harder for Trace to lunge out of my range. “You know what I mean!”

He nods, and I know he gets it. Because he’s got to be feeling the same way. Nothing about this morning was awkward. Nothing was way out of our comfort zones. We just slipped into something easy and believable without prior communication, and my team believed it.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pause, pressing my fingers into Trace’s thigh.

“Can I borrow your phone? Mine’s charging.

” Trace wordlessly slips his phone out of his pocket and passes it over.

I search for the official San Antonio Storm page on the picture-sharing app.

My eyebrows are getting their workout in today because they shoot right back up.

I don’t closely follow the team page. I like all the posts and reshare most of them.

But I do know that the follower count I’m looking at is not the same as it was yesterday when I shared the posts about our first practice of the season.

“Have you seen this?” I ask Trace in a thin voice, passing his phone back to him.

“What about it?” he replies, his eyes scanning over the page. He scrolls up and down a little before tapping on a picture. “I assume you’re talking about the post from today?”

I shake my head, finally pushing my dinner off my lap as I scoot over on the couch.

I squish close and look at his phone. The pictures from today are amazing, and judging by the number of likes, it’s probably our most liked post in the history of the team.

I tap the back arrow on the screen, taking him back to the main page, and point at the growing number over the “followers” label.

“ That ,” I say, and Trace looks at me expectantly. “That number has at least doubled since yesterday, Trace.”

“Holy crap,” he says quietly, but a sudden smile stretches across his face. “It’s working!”

Yesterday, I had only partially believed in my plan, even though I was its creator. But to see the early results with my own two eyes? It makes me believe that this might just work.

“It’s still early,” I say, reining in his excitement. “We’ll see how many people actually stick around, but I will agree it’s promising.”

I tap back into the picture of Trace on the field today.

Megan paired it with a nice caption that puts a positive spin on Trace’s appearance at practice without giving away his reasoning for being there, which appears to be the hot topic in the comments section.

I scroll down a few times, passing dozens of comments along the lines of “Why is he at a softball practice?” At least none of them are asking what sport this is, even though a few call it baseball.

“Everyone’s asking why you’re there,” I explain, my voice falling into a timid mumble.

I don’t know why I finally get shy about talking about our situation now , but my chest tightens, and I search for the right words before I say them.

“Should we”—I pause, that tightness growing—“post our own picture? Like, of more than just my hand and your leg?”

Trace tips his head to the side to look at me. “Sure.” He slips his phone out of my hand and swipes to his camera app, flipping it around so we can take a selfie.

I lean in close to put my face next to his. Trace and I aren’t big selfie people. Never have been. The couch cushion makes me slide away, so I put my hand on his bicep to keep me tethered to him long enough to take a picture.

It’s not like I’ve never touched his bicep before. We hug all the time. His arm on my shoulders feels like breathing. But he flexes as he shifts to get us both in frame, and a girlish cry slips out of that box in the back of my mind.

He leans close, putting his face right next to mine, and the scruff that’s grown in over the day scrapes pleasantly over my cheek.

“This is so awkward.” I snort a small laugh, easing the tension I’m feeling.

Trace shifts his phone and smiles. “Relax, Naomi, it’s just a picture.”

I watch our faces in the camera. I look weird. For someone who has stood for countless photoshoots for teams and sponsorships, it’s the common selfie that’s my downfall.

“Relax,” Trace says again. I make a face, and he quickly snaps the photo.

“No! You can’t post that one! Take another one.” I settle in next to him and blow out a breath. “Okay, I’m relaxed. I’m ready.”

I watch Trace grin as he lines up another shot.

“Three,” he warns me, “two…”

I smile, pretending that this is just another promo photo for the Storm. Because it is.

But instead of “one,” Trace turns and kisses my cheek. His stubble tickles, and I jerk my shoulder up, squeezing my eyes shut. The moment is brief, and he pulls away, leaving a cool, wet spot on my face.

“Trace!” I open my eyes and rub at my cheek, even though my brain is busy cataloging every sensation from that kiss. The warmth of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the press of him moving closer .

But Trace is looking down at his phone with a soft smile on his face. “Perfect,” he says as he passes me the phone.

And I have to agree.

Gone is the sterile smile I was holding before, replaced by one that makes my face scrunch in all the right ways. It’s a sweet moment, captured on Trace’s phone. One that looks real and organic.

Like a proper dating couple.

The tightness in my chest melts away to a pleasant burn, filling me with a warmth I haven’t felt in, what? Two? Three years? When was the last time I had a steady boyfriend who kissed me on the cheek like it was nothing?

Trace taps away on the small screen while I’m still trying to reel in everything from that moment.

“Just sent it to you.”

I nod and slide silently back to my corner of the couch. We both pick up our takeout boxes, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened.

“How long are you staying in San Antonio?” I ask before taking another bite—filling my mouth before I start word vomiting my thoughts about what just happened.

“Until next week,” Trace says casually. Absolutely unfazed, and seemingly unaware of the mini meltdown going on in my brain.

“Your first two series are at home, so I booked a stay long enough to go to all of those games. I should be able to make it to all your home games and all the Oklahoma City games until I have to go to camp.”

Dallas’ mandatory training camp starts at the end of July and goes through August, flowing right into the football preseason.

It means he’ll miss the last few season games, as well as the WFL championship tournament, but hopefully, by then, we’ll have done everything we need to to get Millie off Trace’s back and secure the expansion teams for the league.

“Awesome.”