Page 21 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

Our next series in Oklahoma City is a little bit like coming home. But maybe that’s just the massive fan section right behind home plate that’s cheering for both teams.

This is the first time this year—and ever, technically—that Erica will be facing off against her sister Alyssa in an actual game setting. With Erica being the oldest and Alyssa being the youngest—a brother and six years separating them—they’ve never had the opportunity to play in the same league.

Until now.

The Torres family fills the seats, almost taking up a whole section.

It looks like Erica and Alyssa’s parents brought everyone to the game.

Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, maybe even more distantly related than that, but one thing’s for sure: they are loud, and the whole stadium knows who they’re here for.

Me, on the other hand? My family doesn’t come. They never have. And I expect they never will. After so many years, you get used to it. And even if they did come…

No. It doesn’t matter .

Besides, Trace is here tonight, sitting in the front row on the first base side, next to Luella and Archie, who are both sporting Storm t-shirts.

But every time my eyes find him in the crowd, my heart speeds up a little bit, happy to know he’s here for me.

We manage to score two runs in the first, and we’re feeling good when we take the field for the bottom of the inning. That feel-good feeling doesn’t last long when the Mayhem start racking up the hits off our ace pitcher.

Erica’s frustration begins to leak into her movements when her sister hits a two-run triple off her in the second inning. I motion to the umpire for time and jog out to the circle, giving her a little breather.

“Hey, how you doing?” I ask, covering the lower half of my face with my mitt—standard practice when conducting a visit to the circle.

“I’ve been better.” Erica mirrors my glove positioning but doesn’t look at me as she kicks a bit of displaced dirt back into the line she’s been carving in the circle with her drag foot.

“Did you know that crocodiles can gallop?”

Erica laughs, looking up at me. “No, I did not.”

Visits to the circle aren’t always about tactics. Sometimes, like right now, they’re a way for me to pull my pitcher out of her head or give her a moment to collect herself.

“Well, now you do.”

The ump calls for time to resume, and I back up a step, knocking Erica on her shoulder with my mitt. “Trust yourself. You’ve got this.”

Erica absolutely has it. And so does every Mayhem batter in the lineup.

Coach Golding pulls Erica in the middle of the third inning.

I don’t know what is in this Oklahoma water, but the Mayhem have Erica’s number.

She gives up three home runs in as many innings, and even though she hits her spots all night, she can’t get the ladies on the other team to miss for swinging strikes.

Coach brings in Lexi Pendley, our main relief pitcher, and while the change in pace helps—Lexi throws a little more heat and moves balls up and down in the zone more than side to side—it only takes once through the Mayhem’s line up for them to come calling with another slew of hits.

We’re trailing by seven by the top of the sixth, having barely managed to hang on and prevent a run-rule ending, and after we squeak in another run during our at-bat, Coach pulls Lexi to give Haven, our rookie pitcher, some time in the circle to finish out the game.

We have to hold the Mayhem to fewer than two runs to get another chance to rally in the top of the seventh. Even though it’s just one game—just one series in just one season—I want to win.

It’s a whole team battle as we fight for outs. The first is a hard hit to our second baseman, who gets the force out at first. But then the next batter pokes a ball into shallow left field just behind our third baseman for a base hit. The next flies out to right field.

With two outs, the next Mayhem batter hits a hard shot back up the middle. Haven manages to knock it down on reflex but bobbles on the way up, giving the batter enough time to make it to first base.

I turn to the home plate umpire and call for time. When he signals the stoppage, I jog out to the circle to check on Haven.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, adjusting her facemask. “It hit me right on the glove, so no damage there.” She offers me a small smile.

“One more out, Haven. We can do this.”

She nods and adjusts her facemask once more, then takes a calming breath and rolls her shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

I jog back to my spot .

And Alyssa Torres comes to the plate—a smile on her face, but laser focused on what she’s here to do.

I should have expected it. We all knew the scouting reports when it came to Alyssa. And even though she’s had a “mediocre” night with only one hit for extra bases, we all know that she can knock a ball over the fence from anywhere over the plate. Inside, outside, high, low, it doesn’t matter.

So when her hips fire and she makes contact on an inside pitch that most hitters would have left for a close ball, I know it’s out of the park. Deja chases it down to the wall, but it sails into the bleachers beyond, a lucky fan coming up with the home run ball as a souvenir.

Cheers go up from the home dugout as the Mayhem players empty to meet Alyssa at home plate.

I jog out to Haven as my usual spot is overtaken by green uniforms. My teammates stand around, almost stunned, as Alyssa rounds the bases.

When she steps on home plate, her teammates congratulate her, and the umpire calls the game. The Mayhem win.

As the Mayhem continue to celebrate on the field, my teammates and I head back to the dugout.

While the rest of the team cleans up our equipment, Erica gets pulled aside by a sideline reporter for an interview with her sister Alyssa, and I’m thankful the eyes aren’t on me tonight.

Tonight, they’re on the duo who should really be getting the spotlight—a veteran Team USA member who still holds strikeout records with her college team and conference, and the rising star who earned a national championship ring every year she played college ball—instead of the one who’s only a hit with the media because she’s dating a big football star.

Luella catches my attention as the team files down the first base line, heading back to the locker room for our post-game meeting.

I step to the side, letting my teammates pass.

A few young fans are leaning over the railing, their softballs and markers extended for me to sign.

I scribble my name across the yellow leather, offering smiles to each of them and posing for selfies.

When I get to the end of the line, Luella leans down over the fence with her own softball and marker. Tears spring to my eyes, and I fight to keep them tucked in until I have a private moment.

“You did great, kiddo,” she says, reaching down to grasp my hand as I pass her softball back up to her. “Archie and I are thinking of staying for the whole weekend to watch you play.”

“I can get you more tickets, if you want.”

Luella releases my hand and waves away my offer. “Don’t worry about it, Naomi. Archie and I can look after ourselves. And if our ticket purchases can support you in some way, we’re happy to do it.”

Keeping my tears in becomes an almost astronomical feat as I look up at her. “Thank you, Lou.”

Luella smiles down at me, and her husband Archie approaches from behind her. “Great game, Naomi,” he says, placing an arm around his wife.

“Thanks, Archie.” I try to discreetly wipe at a tear that’s threatening to break free. “Where’s Trace?”

“He said he’ll meet you by the clubhouse.” Archie narrows his eyes at me, and with a kind smile, he says, “You’re dipping your back shoulder a little when you swing.”

Luella swats at his chest in reprimand, and the laugh that bubbles out of me is unexpected. “I’ll keep an eye on it, Archie.”

“Arch!” Luella chuckles along with me. “We don’t want to keep you, sweetie.” I glance down the way the team left, realizing I’m falling far behind.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.” I wave up at them. “And thanks again for the advice, Archie. ”

Luella and Archie wave as I turn and follow in the direction my team went at a jog, catching up with them before they leave the stadium proper.

Trace is exactly where Archie said he’d be: waiting outside of the clubhouse, passing out high fives and handshakes and back pats to my coaches and teammates as they enter the room. His comforting smile falters when he sees me at the back of the line of women entering the locker room.

When I get close enough, he moves. I drop my bag and wrap my arms around Trace’s waist, burying my head in his shoulder.

His head tucks next to mine as he holds me tightly.

Breathing in, I sink into the lingering scent of the cologne he put on this morning mixed with remnants of sunscreen and sweat. I feel his chest expand as he inhales.

“You smell so good,” he mumbles into my neck.

I pull back, my nose scrunching in mock disgust. But I can’t hold it for long before a laugh breaks free. “You know that’s super gross, right? I’ve been out in the sun and dirt for hours .”

Trace pulls me back into the hug and inhales another lungful. “You smell like hard work.” He leans his head back to look me in the eye. “You played great tonight.” He presses a short kiss to my forehead before releasing me.

I grab my bag and hurry into the clubhouse, where the entire team and coaching staff is waiting for me.

“Now that Naomi has joined us,” Coach Golding says, shooting a wry smile in my direction, “Let’s talk about the game.”