Page 22 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
I slip over to my seat, where Erica’s waiting with a smug grin on her face.
I bump her knee with mine as I sit and unlace my cleats, listening to Coach go over the areas of tonight’s game that we struggled with and things we need to improve on in tomorrow’s game.
Coach Monique and Coach London also give us breakdowns on their areas of expertise before Coach Golding steps up again and ends our meeting with a rundown of the things that went well tonight.
We finish with a cheer and then all retreat to our cubbies to get out of our gear and hit the showers.
As we file out of the clubhouse after our post-game meeting, Trace falls in line with me, slipping his hand into my free one, and escorts me to the team bus. I’m greedy for the handful of minutes I get to be with him between the clubhouse doors and the team bus before I’m whisked off to the hotel.
I know more than one of my teammates are looking out the tinted windows of the bus as I say goodbye to Trace, but we don’t give them anything to gossip about as he wraps me in another tight hug before releasing me to be with the team.
“You two are no fun,” Erica huffs when I plop down across from her and stretch out as much as I can in the limited space the seat offers. “Would it kill you to kiss a little bit?”
I don’t deign to respond.
Walking out of the clubhouse after our third straight loss in Oklahoma City is brutal.
In a league this small with elite players from around the country, it’s anyone’s game when we step on the field.
At any point in our short season, any team can beat any other team, and the league standings are fluid until the last game of the season.
But this week, the Mayhem had our number and came calling.
As Coach reminded us before leaving, it’s one series.
It doesn’t change how we’re going to play the rest of the season.
Trace is waiting for me outside the facility doors when the team begins the walk to the bus that will take us back to the hotel. I make my way to the edge of the group so I can stop to talk to him for a few moments.
“Hey,” he says in a low voice that fills me with warmth.
He wraps his arms around me and lets me tuck my face into the space between his neck and shoulder.
It’s the same way he would greet me after bad games in college, or on days where I struck out on every at-bat and felt like I didn’t contribute to my team’s win.
He just holds me. He doesn’t say anything to excuse how we played or to tell me that the Mayhem didn’t earn their win tonight. Because we played hard. Fought for every run we scored. Played a clean game.
The Mayhem just played better.
“That was rough,” I mumble into his shoulder, inhaling deeply and not even trying to disguise the fact that I’m smelling his cologne.
Trace tips his head to the side, resting his cheek on the top of my head. “You said it, not me.” He chuckles, and I sink further into him and the calming vibrations from his body.
“The worst part is, I can’t even be mad about it.”
Trace hums, and I sigh. I feel him shift and something brush across the top of my head before I lean back to look at him.
“You can always be mad about it. You just can’t let it get to you.”
I had a club coach when I was young who used to say, “Get mad, then get better.” It was his way of telling us to take our disappointment from a game and to use that as a focus to work harder, to play smarter, and to push ourselves to become the best players we could be.
I take another deep breath and nod. You didn’t stay in this league by taking the losses lightly.
You had to get back out there and continually improve, or else someone else with more talent, more discipline, more desire would come along and take your spot.
And that wasn’t going to happen to me today.
“I’ve got to get back to the team. They’ll be waiting for me on the bus.
” A quick glance over my shoulder tells me that the team has gone on without me.
I pull away, letting his hand slide down my arm until his fingers interlock with mine.
But instead of a quick squeeze and a release, like has become our standard parting goodbye, his fingers tighten on mine, trapping my hand in his.
Without acknowledging my words, he pulls me in the opposite direction of where the team bus will be waiting for me.
“Trace,” I exhale, exhausted from three days of punishing games and two weeks on the road, “I’ve got to go. I have a plane to catch tonight. Practice tomorrow.”
Trace grins, still walking backward, pulling me away from the waiting bus. “ Optional practice.”
I wrinkle my nose at him but follow, too tired to fight with him tonight.
While he’s technically right—Coach Golding has given us the option of abbreviated practices over the next few days or time off to celebrate Independence Day with our friends and families—I was planning on going to every practice.
Our next games aren’t going to win themselves, and after a weekend like this one, I’m not going to sit around and stew. I’m going to get mad and get better.
This late, the parking lot is nearly empty, so it’s easy to see his truck parked a few rows away.
“Don’t worry,” he says, reaching for my bag. “I worked it out with your coach.”
“But what if I want to practice?” I raise my eyebrow but let him take the handle of my rolling bag. He pulls it around his body with ease before finally turning to walk forward, still holding my hand tightly .
“Like I said, I had a nice talk with Jillian.”
He offers no other reason, like that’s the exact explanation I’m looking for, but it only makes me more confused.
“Jillian? Since when are you on a first name basis with Coach Golding?”
He shrugs my question away, avoiding looking down at me until we get to his truck. He tosses my bag in the back with one arm before pulling me around to the passenger side. “Trace,” I say, refusing to climb in when he opens the door for me.
“Sugar,” he says, looking me directly in the eyes, the corner of his mouth tipping up slightly, “get your butt in the truck."