Page 13 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

Nothing compares to game day.

Not off-season clinics, or watching the college championship, or even practice scrimmages against teammates.

And today, I couldn’t ask for a more perfect day. It’s like the entire cosmos came together and said, “Let there be nothing wrong with this day so the San Antonio Storm can have a perfect home opener.”

The sky is a cloudless blue, and a slight breeze prevents the humidity from feeling stifling. I slept like a baby and woke up feeling better rested than I have in months. I even hit more green lights than reds on my drive over to the stadium.

Like I said: a perfect day.

As we gather in the clubhouse, hours before first pitch, it’s like coming home.

The same air we breathe at practice is filled with an unmatched energy—a crackling electricity that has all of us hopping.

The excitement is palpable, even amongst the veterans.

Nine months away is an eternity for most of us who grew up living and breathing softball year-round .

With most of us having second jobs to make ends’ meet, sometimes your passion has to take a back seat.

But I’ve never met a pro softball player who plays solely for the money.

We’re all here because we love it. We love this game, we love these players, and we’re going out there tonight for a crowd who supports us like we’re making seven figures a season.

At least, I hope it’s a crowd.

After I posted the picture of Trace and me together, I turned off my notifications and have hardly looked at my phone for the last two days.

Part of me—the part that knows I am successful in this sport whether or not Trace’s popularity is attached to my name—doesn’t care about follower counts or comments.

But another part—the part that wants my plan to boost the league to work—is itching to see what impact one little post has made.

The league has made it this far on its own, fighting and clawing for everything after the collapse of the first professional softball league that began in the early 2000s, unable to survive the global pandemic.

You could say we’re some of the lucky ones when it comes to women’s sports. At least we had a league all those years ago, even if it fell apart and we had to pick up the pieces in the wake of the worldwide shutdown.

But at least more of us are getting a shot.

Thanks to the rising popularity of college softball—and of the sport in general—across the country, we’re on the cusp of adding more expansion teams. We’re on our way to creating our own history for a new generation of girls.

But it won’t be “Olympic Team or bust” for them.

We’ll give them all the opportunities to play on a professional stage.

It’s exciting to be back. To spend another day living our dreams. And for some of us, that dream is becoming a reality for the first time .

The energy in the clubhouse is a mix of frenetic excitement from the rookies and calm, steadying determination from our oldest veterans.

I’m somewhere in between—no longer bouncing-on-the-toes anxious for my first game but still feeling plenty of pent-up energy that’s ready to be burned off in front of our home crowd.

I’m more anxious about Trace being at the game. Openly, as my boyfriend and not just some random spectator. Is our plan to draw a larger crowd with his presence going to work, or are we doing all of this—jumping through all of these social media hoops—for nothing?

All my thoughts are silenced when Coach Golding steps into the middle of the room, commanding our attention without a word.

“Congratulations on the beginning of another season, ladies,” she begins, spinning slowly to address everyone gathered around her in a circle.

“And before we get to the nitty-gritty of the pregame, I also want to say congrats to our rookies, Haven, Ashtyn, and Monica. We’re happy to have you in the League. ”

After she smiles at our three rookies, Coach’s face falls into a more serious expression, one I’ve become very familiar with over the years. It’s game time.

She reads off our starting positions and batting order.

Unsurprisingly, I’m starting behind the plate and batting third.

After a quick once-over on her notes about the opposing team—the Riverview Renegades—she closes with the same words that have been her final thoughts since the day I started playing for her.

“Play hard and keep your head in it. Step on that field with the mindset that you’re going to win this game, and you’ve already fought half the battle.”

Heads nod around the room. We’ve all been doing this long enough that we know the mental game is sometimes the most difficult part of this sport. Getting back out there after a strikeout or an error is sometimes harder than putting the bat on the ball.

I glance around, watching the players who have become a second family to me. And from the looks in their eyes, I know we’ve got that winning mindset.

The Renegades won’t know what hit them.

Taking in the stadium is something I do once a game, right as we come out of the dugout.

I admire the sky. I take in the beauty of the green grass of the outfield contrasting with the red dirt of the infield.

I give a low whistle of appreciation to the grounds crew as I run an eye over the straight chalk lines.

And once—only once—I take in the crowd.

Running my eyes toward home plate, out to the navy blue backstop, and up toward the fence that separates the fans from the field, I marvel at tonight’s crowd.

It’s our home opener, so I expected a big crowd, but not…

this . Every year, the stands get a little more filled as we expand our reach to new fans, but this…

this sold-out stadium is straight out of a dream.

I’d like to think it was the team’s hard work and good promotion from our front office that made this possible, but I know that a good majority of it is coming from the man sitting directly behind home plate.

He’s not wearing a hat tonight. Not making any moves to hide his identity from the spectators around him.

Watching him smile at fans that have gathered around him while he signs everything that’s thrust at him…I think I miss that old, ratty Alabama hat.

It’s for the good of the league , I remind myself as I pull my gaze away from Trace and admire the filled stadium one more time. For the good of the league.

The crowd melts away as the game gets underway. As the home team, we’re out in the field first, and, unsurprisingly, the first half of the inning starts with three batters coming to the plate and going down with a groundout to first and two strikeouts—a classic three up, three down.

In the bottom of the first inning, the Storm start off the season strong with three runs—two of which I bring in with my first double of the season—before the Renegades record three outs.

Haven starts the second inning with a walk, which isn’t ideal because it puts more pressure on the team to be defensive about the runner—especially when the Renegades substitute in a pinch runner.

Pinch runners are a strategic part of the game, stepping in for players that aren’t as fast on the bases.

The goal is for the faster runner to steal second without relying on a batter’s hit to advance them around the bases.

Having a runner on second is dangerous. It’s called “scoring position” for a reason.

With a base hit, a runner on second is likely to score, even if the batter only makes it to first base.

As the catcher, it’s part of my job to keep opposing runners out of scoring position.

More often than not, a pinch runner is going to attempt to steal second base, and halfway through the next at-bat, I’m not disappointed.

On an outside ball that the batter watches, the runner takes off as soon as Haven releases the pitch.

She sprints to second, head down, laser focused on making it to the base before I can throw her out.

But throw downs always were my favorite part of playing this position.

The pitch from Haven brings me out just wide enough to get a clear shot at the base without having to throw higher to make it over Erica’s head.

Sliding over on one knee, I receive the pitch and transfer it to my other hand on muscle memory alone.

With each one of my movements, the Renegades’ runner is another step closer to being safe.

Transfer, separation, throw.

My body follows through on the throw, rotating me to face the right-handed batter, but my eyes are following the yellow ball as it flies past Haven, dropping down into Baker’s mitt just in time for the Renegades’ runner to slide into the tag.

The umpire raises his arm and punches his fist forward. Out.

In a fraction of a second, I’m on my feet, taking a few steps forward over the plate. Baker raises her mitt, and Ashtyn, the second baseman, who was backing up the throw, shouts, slapping our shortstop on the back.

The roar of the crowd is just background noise, and I point at Baker, who returns the gesture.

Our moment of celebration is short as the Renegades’ pinch runner—now the first out of the inning—jogs back to her dugout.

The ball makes it back into Haven’s mitt, and I turn to walk the few steps to my spot behind the plate.

“That’s my girl!” I hear, crystal clear over the general din of the crowd. I cast my eyes up and meet Trace’s eyes. “ That’s my girl! ” he shouts again, directing his words at me—into me. I smile, hoping he can see it through my mask, but turn and drop back into my crouch without a wave.

But I know Trace understands. I'm on the field. My head needs to be in the game .

I turn my head toward the bench to get the pitch signal. After relaying it to Haven, my hand naturally falls behind my right leg, and in the moments before Erica’s next pitch, I flash the “I love you” sign behind me, knowing Trace—and probably everyone who saw our posts this week—is watching.