Page 15 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

Only three rookies this year , I think as I pack up after our final game of the series. With the small size of the WFL, incoming spots on our team—and the other teams—are extremely limited. But with two new expansion teams?

Imagine how many women would come out of the woodwork to fill those teams. How many graduating seniors would opt for the professional softball route over another career path?

How much could two new professional teams grow the influence of this sport all the way down to the five-year-old girls playing tee ball?

If three sold-out games wasn’t enough to convince me that my plan is working, then the lines of fans asking for photos of Trace and me after each game would do it.

If the two of us can continue pulling in new fans throughout the entire season, we might be well on our way to getting those expansion teams. The only thing to do now is to keep up the charade.

The clubhouse is rowdy after the series sweep, and Deja cranks the music after Coach Golding and her assistants finish their debrief. Any other day, I might stay and soak up the win, but I shower and say my goodbyes quickly because I have someone waiting for me.

Instead of waiting directly outside of the locker room like after practice earlier in the week, I find Trace down the hallway and around the corner. His broad back is to me, and even from a distance, I can see the tension lining his shoulders in the way that he stands.

It’s not hard to find the source of said tension.

Her dark hair has auburn highlights, whereas they were blonde before, but her wide, dark eyes and pert nose give her a face that’s hard to forget.

Too-white teeth dazzle in a smile that’s wider than seems natural, her lips barely moving as she speaks in that fake high-pitched voice that falls away when she’s annoyed.

In short, Millie Irving looks nearly the same as she did the last time I saw her—at the end of January after the Wranglers’ season ended with a divisional championship loss.

“I think you should leave, Millie,” Trace says calmly. But judging by his posture, that calm is a carefully crafted facade.

“It’s always ‘Leave, Millie,’” Millie pouts, and I quicken my steps, needing to get to Trace’s side, needing him to know that he’s not alone. “I just want to talk to you. Clear the air, that’s all.”

I slip my hand into Trace’s as I approach from behind, and instantly, his shoulders drop. His hand squeezes around mine, and I squeeze back, letting him know I’m here and I’ve got this.

Trace, at his core, is a nice guy. Always the accommodating one, making sure everyone is happy and comfortable. He doesn’t like being a jerk .

I have no such compunctions.

“Hey, honey.” I lean into Trace’s space and tilt my head up.

Trace understands the message and barely has to move his head to press a short kiss to my cheek, so close to the corner of my lips that my heart skips a beat.

It’s the kind of casual kiss two people in a settled relationship share, and aside from that little cardiac event, there’s nothing weird about it.

It feels natural. Like it always has been and always should be this way between us. But maybe that’s because while the kiss was real, the feelings aren’t—not that Millie knows that.

“Hey, Sugar,” he drawls, his low voice vibrating in my body as I pull away. “You played amazing today.”

“Thanks.” I smile and keep eye contact with Trace, forcing him to focus on me and not the short woman who’s looking more ticked off with each second we ignore her.

Apparently, Millie is not going to leave Trace alone just because he says he’s taken.

She’s the kind of person who chases what she can’t have until she rips it out of someone else’s hands.

But I’m not going to let her have Trace.

He’s made it more than clear to her that things are over between them.

If she won’t get the message, then I’ll be the enforcer.

“There are still some things we need to work on, but for the beginning of the season, they were pretty alright.” I shrug casually, trying to keep the conversation between us light. “It was a good warmup before we play the Firebirds next week.”

With each word, Trace relaxes into what has become our normal after-game routine, sharing our favorite parts of the game with each other, even though we were both there. We make idle small talk, ignoring Trace’s ex, and I keep track of her out of my periphery.

“I saw that you two are together now.” Millie interrupts, the pitch of her voice dropping, betraying her annoyance, even though the rest of her face remains unchanged.

Her eyes finally flick away from Trace to narrow at me.

The combination of that look and her unmoving smile makes her look like an unhinged doll from an indie horror movie.

I finally turn to face her and meet her gaze. Her eyes flick up, then down, her eyebrows doing a dance of their own as she takes in my wet hair and post-game attire.

It’s true that Millie and I are polar opposites.

She’s small and petite with delicate features, while I stand head and shoulders above her with muscle built from years of lifting and playing sports to round out my curves.

But even with the way she’s looking at me, I can’t find it in me to feel self-conscious.

I’ve worked hard to get to where I’m at.

I’ve earned each and every one of the scars on my arms and bruises on my legs.

While I’m not the most adventurous of my teammates when it comes to makeup, I still dolled up for the game right alongside them.

Playing a sport and being feminine can coexist.

Her little sniff when she meets my eyes again is indicative that she has judged me and found me wanting. Her thoughts are written all over her face: How could Trace go from me to her ?

“Yeah, we are.” I’m not usually the type of person who brags, but for Trace, I’ll do it.

I lean my head on Trace’s shoulder, wrapping my free hand around his elbow and clinging to him, showing him that I’m here and I’m not going to leave him alone with his crazy ex.

If this is an attempt to get Trace back, it’s not going to work.

“It’s been a long time coming, and we’re really happy. ”

I don’t know where those words come from, but I feel their truth settle in next to my heart.

Her face falls from the plastered smile to pursed lip annoyance.

“Look, Millie.” My own fake smile falls away, my face becoming a cold mask, devoid of any of the care I just showed Trace.

“You can leave now, or I can call security, since you’re an unauthorized person in a restricted area.

It would be a shame to make you a persona non grata at two professional sports stadiums.”

Millie’s dark eyes burn into me, but after a minute of me watching her jaw clench, wondering if she’ll actually spew the words I can see her chewing on, she turns on her heel and walks down the hallway.

When she pushes through one of the double doors at the end, I slip my phone out of my pocket and turn my body back toward Trace.

“I’m letting Kevin know we had an incident with a ‘fan,’ and they’ll make sure she gets all the way out of the facilities.” When I’ve sent the text, I slip my phone back into my pocket and slide my arms around Trace’s waist.

“Thank you.” Trace’s hands go to the sides of my head, pulling me close enough for him to plant a loud, wet kiss on my forehead. I pull back, laughing, and am glad to see a smile on Trace’s face, too.

I turn and reposition my arms to guide Trace down the hallway in the direction Millie left. “Now, I’m starving. Let’s go get some food.”

Trace’s warm hand covers mine on his elbow, tightening for the briefest moment before he pats it twice and says, “I’ll never say no to that.”

It’s late as we step out into the parking lot. But having Trace with me—watching my games again—I didn’t realize how much I missed it. For five years, he was my rock in the stands. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have family coming to my games because Trace or his parents were always there.

Since going pro, I’ve gotten used to having a much smaller personal fan section, even though my general fanbase has grown significantly.

Sometimes Erica’s parents come to our games and cheer for the two of us—especially Erica’s dad, who sees me as a kindred spirit after catching for Erica for four years.

Sometimes Luella and her husband or some of my college teammates come to games.

This isn’t the first time Trace has watched me play professionally, either. It’s just the first time he’s come as himself. And it brings me back to our college days, before we both had fanbases beyond the university crowd. Back when things between us weren’t as complicated.

“Want to come over tonight? I’ve got the next episode of The Bachelorette downloaded.” We come to a stop beside his truck, and I release his elbow to lean against the driver’s side door.

Trace’s soft smile is tinged with sadness as he shakes his head. “I’ve got a call with Duke later to talk about that charity event next week.” His smile falls as he looks away. “And I should let him know about…” He trails off and hikes his thumb behind him.

I nod in understanding. Millie showing up here, hours away from where I last heard she was living, is a step more than running into Trace in Dallas.

But it’s also only been a week since we posted anything official.

Maybe we just need more time for the relationship to sink into Millie’s thick skull.

Maybe she thinks that because it’s so new, she’ll still be able to find a crack to squeeze into.

“Hey,” I say, reaching out and placing my hand on his forearm, “if it makes you feel better, I think we were pretty convincing. I have a few more photos I can post, and I can ask Megan if she has any from tonight.”

Trace inhales deeply, setting his hand on top of mine.

“That’s a great idea. I’ll ask Duke if there’s anything else we can do with regards to a restraining order, but I don’t know how far Millie needs to go for us to be able to take legal action against her.

” His thumb strokes the back of my hand, sending a shiver up my arm, even though it’s the middle of June .

Trace notices my shiver and pulls on my hand, gathering me to his chest. I don’t correct him on the cause of my sudden chill—I just enjoy the hug.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, tipping his chin up to rest it on the top of my head.

“Only if you come make me breakfast,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood of the last few minutes I have with Trace tonight.

“It’s a deal.” Trace pulls his head back and looks down at me with a wry smile. “But only if you get out of bed at a decent hour.”

I roll my eyes and playfully push him away. Stepping back to give him room to open his door and climb in, I wave and watch him pull out of the parking lot before I turn to go to my car.