Page 16 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

Monday sees us playing the first of six straight games against the Phoenix Firebirds. In a league this new and this small, it’s hard to really define rivalries, but the Firebirds and the Storm have traded championship titles every year since the WFL’s inception.

After our fantastic opening against the Renegades, I’m excited to face the Firebirds and hopefully extend our win streak for at least a few more games.

With Trace behind me in the stands and my girls by my side on the field, I’m ready to tackle our biggest rival in the league.

Play goes about how you’d expect a meeting of two elite teams to go: ground outs, flyouts, and strikeouts.

No base hits for either team until the bottom of the third when we finally get a runner on.

But even with that opportunity, we leave her stranded on base as we get set to take the field again halfway through the game.

Even as one of the best hitters in the country in college and a solid all-around hitter in my professional years, I still “fail” six out of ten times.

An opponent’s defense gets the better of me during sixty percent of my at-bats.

I strike out. I ground out. I fly out. I get walked.

And even after all that, I’m still considered one of the best hitters on the team—leading the team in doubles and on-base percentage.

Elite hitters—the best hitters we’ve seen in the last twenty years—are still batting .400.

Shaking off the lost opportunity to score and bring the game out of a 0-0 tie, the Storm takes the field, and we set up as the top of the Firebirds’ lineup comes to the plate.

Vanessa Rhodes is one of the best baserunners in the league.

She broke records in her college days for stolen bases—records that still stand at her alma mater in Arizona.

If she makes it on base, there’s almost a one hundred percent chance she’s getting into scoring position without a base hit advancing her.

While I don’t get stolen on much, Vanessa is one of the only players I’ve never been able to throw out at second. Even during Team USA practices when we played together at the last Pan Am games, she always managed to touch the base a fraction of a second before my throw could reach the bag.

As she steps one foot into the back of the left-hand batter’s box, I grin up at her. “Today’s the day, Vanny, I can feel it.”

She smirks down at me, one hand up to signal time to the Blue behind me.

“You haven’t done it once in the four years I’ve known you, Naomi, but good luck.

” As Erica begins her wind up, Vanessa begins to move.

She steps forward in the box and slaps at the outside pitch, sending it foul for a first strike.

Aside from the pitching method, slap bunting is the technique that creates the biggest divide between baseball and softball.

While bunts are rare in Major League Baseball—rarer still to get a base hit with one—they’re a common tool in almost every softball lineup from the pros all the way down to youth travel ball.

During a slap bunt, a left-handed hitter will move forward in the batter’s box during the pitcher’s wind up and then “slap” at the ball, attempting to chop a hard grounder or poke a soft-hit ball over the infielders who pull in for a bunt defense play.

A right-handed hitter can “slap” as well, but it’s the lefties who are on the move for each pitch, creating momentum and giving them an advantage when they put the ball in play.

Vanessa resets in the batter’s box and repeats the process for the next pitch—a ball too far outside of the zone for me to frame into anything close to a strike.

Vanessa fouls off the next three pitches, taking Erica deep into the count, waiting for a pitch she can capitalize on.

And despite our best efforts—mixing speeds with changeups, going inside and outside with curveballs and screwballs—Vanessa manages to get the barrel of her bat on an outside pitch and chops it into the hard-packed dirt, the ball bouncing high and giving her ample time to make it to first base before our third baseman can make the throw.

It’s no surprise when Vanessa makes a break for second only a few pitches later. And despite my earlier taunt, Vanessa beats the throwdown, sliding past the base and grabbing the corner of the bag before Baker, our shortstop, can apply the tag.

When Vanessa makes it home on a double from another Firebird, scoring the first run of the game, she picks up her teammate’s bat and throws me a look over her shoulder. “Maybe next time, Naomi.”

After dropping the second game of the series to Phoenix, we come back with a win on Wednesday afternoon before we fly out to Phoenix to face the Firebirds on their home turf over the weekend.

“Want to run to the store with me?” I ask Trace as he walks me out to my car after the game. Trace deposits my bag in the trunk while I fish through my purse for the scribbled list I made at home that morning. “I have a few things I need to get before packing.”

Trace stops at my car and leans a hip against the driver side door. Tapping his pursed lips with a finger, he hmms . “Going back to my rental to pack my own bags…”

My heart falls a little at the reminder that he’s leaving for Dallas tomorrow after dropping me off at the airport. The Wranglers have a charity event they’re putting on Friday evening, and with Trace obligated to attend, he can’t travel to Phoenix with me for my next set of games.

“...or going grocery shopping with my best friend.” He drops his hand from his mouth, grabbing the handle of my door and yanking it open.

He meets my eyes with a tilted smile as he holds the door for me.

His smile isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

I’ve seen that same smile aimed in my direction for years, but something about it today makes my heart flip like a pancake.

Is it the way his eyes flit from my head to my socks-and-sandals feet?

Or the way he inhales, his mouth stretching just a little bit wider, when I step close to him?

“What a hard decision to make, Naomi.”

I roll my eyes at the sarcasm in his voice as I climb into my car.

Trace rounds the front and yanks open the passenger door.

“You’re really pulling my arm here,” he says as he folds himself into the small front seat, flashing a bright smile in my direction.

I half expect my body to have the same reaction as before, but… nope. It’s ju st a normal smile.

I push aside the wispy thought that earlier wasn’t a fluke. It’s just Trace , I remind myself. With my friend settled into the passenger seat beside me, I back out of the parking lot and make my way to the nearest grocery store.

“Do you want to split up?” I ask Trace as we grab a cart and enter the big box store.

“I think that defeats the purpose of shopping together , doesn’t it?

” He slips my rumpled list out of my hand and leads the way as I push the cart behind him.

We tackle the perishables first, grabbing an easy meal for tomorrow morning since my pantry is devoid of food ahead of a week of away games, before meandering over to the pharmacy side of the store.

Trace turns down another aisle, and I dutifully follow him.

“What’s on this aisle?” I ask, even though I can guess based on what’s around us.

“Tampons,” he says without an ounce of embarrassment.

Trace and I are long past the weird stage about periods in our friendship.

Even though he grew up an only child, he’s never been bothered by Aunt Flo and has even gone out to buy me tampons a couple of times over the years.

He stops to look up and down the shelves for the kind I normally buy, and I take a moment to glance at the paper in his hand to see what’s next on the list. While he squats down to grab the box off a low shelf, I push the cart around him to get a head start toward the shampoo I know is a few aisles over .

“Excuse me,” a sweet voice calls from behind us.

I stop and look back to see Trace spin on the balls of his feet—a surprisingly graceful movement for someone of his size—as an older woman driving one of those scooter carts pulls up behind him.

“Would you be able to grab something off the top shelf for me?” she asks, her focus jumping between Trace near the ground and where I stand a few feet away.

“Yes, ma’am,” is Trace’s immediate reply. He unfolds himself to his full height and shifts the box of tampons to his right hand before reaching up with his left.

“Oh, not that one,” the older woman corrects him when he grabs a purple box, “the one next to it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says quieter this time, a sweet smile on his face, as he replaces the box and grabs the next one. “Is there anything else I can help you with, ma’am?” he asks, gently setting the pink box in the basket of the old woman’s scooter.

The smile the woman shoots at Trace says she would pinch his cheeks if she could reach them.

I only met Trace’s grandma once before she passed away while we were both still in college, but the little old lady looking up at Trace reminds me of her.

Judging by the soft smile on Trace’s face, I can only guess he’s thinking the same thing.

“No, I think this is it.” The woman taps the top of the pink box. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome.” Trace steps to the side, putting his back to the shelving so the woman has enough space to maneuver her scooter around us. When she disappears around the corner, I turn back to Trace.

“Such a gentleman,” I tease him as he takes a step toward me and deposits the box of tampons in the cart.

His now free hand slides around my back as he leans forward and presses a short kiss to my temple.

My heart speeds up for a couple beats before settling back down.

“I have to jump when the opportunity presents itself, since you don’t need my help reaching the tall shelves.

” Trace winks before releasing me, once again taking up his role as the cart navigator, guiding me to the next item on the list.

A few aisles later, Trace stops abruptly, and I almost crash into him. As fast as I’ve ever seen him move, he turns around and pushes the cart backward, forcing me back around the corner. “Turn around,” he orders, his voice low and urgent, forcing the front of the cart to turn in the narrow aisle.

My mouth forms a “wh—” before Trace looks at me, and at the panic in his eyes, I don’t ask questions, I just act.

Flipping around, I push the cart in the opposite direction, keeping pace with Trace as he steps quickly away from the aisle.

His eerie silence as he walks next to me makes my scalp prickle with worry, but Trace’s steps are confident and purposeful, and I pull from some of his calm as I follow him to the front of the store, passing open checkout lanes until we reach the far side.

I stop in front of a self-checkout, and Trace starts pulling things out of the cart, scanning them and bagging them. With every beep of an item, the tension dissipates from his shoulders. When the last item is bagged, he steps aside, giving me space to pay for my groceries.

“Millie is here,” Trace says quietly, stepping closer to me so his voice doesn’t carry to the other shoppers.

Fear like I’ve never known races down my spine and fills my limbs. My hands feel numb as I try to finish paying for my groceries faster, but I’m at the mercy of the kiosk.

Is this how Trace has felt every time Millie has shown up over the last month and I just haven’t realized it?

I turn to look at Trace, and if I didn’t know him as well as I do, I probably would miss the tightness at the corners of his mouth and eyes, the nearly-gone-but-still- subtly-there tension in his shoulders, the careful way he never turns completely around but watches behind us.

How he’s keeping a calm and level head in this situation amazes me because running into Millie at the stadium…fine, whatever, my games are publicly announced and open-to-the-public events. Running into us here ? At the grocery store by my home? A whole different level of creepy.

“Are you sure it was her?” I ask, turning back to the kiosk to finish paying. Without realizing it, my hand starts shaking as I try to slide my wallet back in my purse. Trace’s large hand wraps around it and guides it into its pocket before intertwining his fingers with mine.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Trace says, pulling me forward with one hand while I push the cart with the other. “Let’s get back to your place, and then we can figure things out.”

As we walk to my car, the fear in my bones seeps away, being replaced by irritation. Duke’s words from the first day I learned of Millie’s antics come back to me. Before, it affected just you. Now it involves the whole team.

Well, guess what, Millie? Now it involves me . And I’m ready to go to war for Trace.