Page 23 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
Trace drives in the opposite direction of the airport. Every question I ask is met with a variation of “you’ll see,” some accompanied by a quick wink, some with a put-on sigh, and all of them with the barest hint of a smile on his face.
We stop at a hotel on the east side of the city, and with that same pleased face, Trace helps me out of the car and passes me a filled duffle bag.
“What is this, your drug money?” I joke as my friend retrieves my gear bag from the back of his truck and carries it and his own bag to the front doors of the hotel.
When we get under the lighting of the drop-off zone, I can finally see that the duffle bag is one of mine—an old gray one with an embroidered crimson A and the easily recognizable elephant.
Trace looks at me with a goofy smile but ignores my question.
I follow him inside and wait patiently as he checks in with the front desk.
I have to roll my lips into my mouth to keep from laughing when the two front desk employees recognize Trace and try and fail to contain their awe.
While this hotel is nicer than the one the team booked for our stay in Oklahoma City, I know it’s vastly different from the kind Trace and the Wranglers stay at during their season.
After selfies, signatures, and getting passed the room keys like the duffle bag hanging off my shoulder is full of drug money, Trace and I quietly make our way up to the room he’s booked for us.
I enter first, then hold the door for Trace to maneuver my softball gear bag inside before closing and locking the door. Trace carefully sets our bags in a corner before turning to me and spreading his arms wide, a smile to match on his face.
“Surprise,” he says, his white teeth glinting in the low light of the hotel room.
I laugh, moving to one of the queen beds and setting my duffle on the pristine white sheets.
“I sort of figured that when you didn’t follow the bus to the airport.
” Part of me wants to throw open my bag and dig through it until I can figure out what Trace’s plan is, but another part of me—the part that’s exhausted and ready to fall asleep on her feet—just wants to find some pajamas and get in this comfy-looking bed.
“Any chance you’re going to tell me where you’re taking me?” I ask as I unzip the top of the duffle, finding an old, oversized Crimson Tide shirt and a pair of matching shorts—a set I swiped from Trace when we were in college—right on top.
Trace sits on the other queen bed and kicks off his tennis shoes, leaning back on his hands while he looks at me with that same, over-wide smile. “Not tonight.”
“Well, if that’s all I’m going to get from you”—I lift the shirt and shorts—“I’m going to get changed and go to bed.”
Trace stands as I maneuver around the edge of my bed, moving toward his own bag as I slip into the spacious bathroom and get changed into my pajamas.
By the time I’ve finished, Trace is in a matching set of Crimson Tide athletic wear and plugging my phone charger and phone into the wall by the side table.
“Be ready to go at six tomorrow morning.” Trace looks over his shoulder as I put my bag on the floor and climb into the cool sheets.
I groan and smoosh my face into the pillow, protesting the early call time.
“I’ve got an alarm set for you.” He smiles as he taps my phone, then climbs into his own bed a few feet away.
I shift enough to lean over and verify that there’s an alarm waiting for me for 5:30 am, then retreat back into the comfortable embrace of the comforter.
“And you’ll tell me where we’re going tomorrow?” I ask, smothering a yawn that distorts the words.
“Yes, Naomi, I’ll tell you where we’re going tomorrow.”
I yawn again, letting it fall into a sleepy smile as Trace turns out the lights. “Goodnight, Trace,” I say into the darkness.
“Goodnight, Sugar.”
Sleep takes me quicker than Erica’s fastball.
I’m ready before six, much to Trace’s delight.
While I hadn’t checked last night, my duffle bag is indeed full of my own clothes—clothes I know I didn’t pack before leaving San Antonio—and a brand new set of my regular toiletries.
For the first time in a week and a half, I get dressed into something other than my Storm-branded gear, choosing a flowy, light green tank top and cut off denim shorts from the mystery options in the duffle .
When I come out of the bathroom, freshly-showered and barefaced, I don’t have the chance to ask Trace if he packed a spare set of my usual makeup as well before he sticks his hand into a side pocket on my duffle on his way past me to the bathroom, pulling out a zippered bag where I find my usual products in unopened packages.
I shake my head as he shuts the door to the bathroom. He thought of everything , I think, answering my own question of who packed this mystery bag.
By the time Trace comes out of the bathroom, I have everything from the room packed back into our bags and waiting by the door.
He scrubs his towel over his sandy hair one more time before tossing the damp towel on the nearest bed.
Gesturing with one hand while finger-combing his hair with the other, he asks, “Shall we?”
Trace doesn’t immediately tell me where we’re going, much to my frustration, but by the time we pass the “Welcome to Arkansas” sign two and a half hours later, I have a pretty good idea.
“Mama invited us down for the Fourth,” Trace says without preamble, even though I haven’t asked about our destination in over an hour.
“And since I know for a fact”—Trace continues—“though my sources shall remain unnamed”— Oh Erica, you little devil —“that you were going to spend the Great American Holiday in your air conditioned apartment binging The Bachelorette ”—Trace’s patronizing look would give a third generation Southern belle a run for her money—“I had to stage an intervention.”
I laugh, the air feeling lighter with every mile we put between us and the stadium and last night’s loss.
“So dramatic.” I roll my eyes and pop another gummy worm into my mouth.
Not only did Trace pack a bag of my clothes for this trip, he also surprised me with a bag of my favorite car snacks—gummy worms and peanut M&Ms. “You know,” I say, speaking around the treat in my mouth, “you didn’t need to kidnap me.
All you needed to do was ask—I’d upend any plans to spend the weekend with your mama. ”
Trace reaches a long arm across the console and snatches a gummy worm out of the bag on my lap.
“But where’s the fun in that?” he drawls.
His accent is becoming a little more pronounced with every hour we drive, like the proximity to his hometown is reversing all the years he’s spent away since graduating.
He looks over at me as he puts one end of the gummy worm in his mouth and pulls on it until it breaks in half.
He offers me back the other half, and I shake my head, needing to look away from him for a minute.
When did just looking at my best friend turn into something I couldn’t do without feeling my skin heat?
I pop my own gummy worm into my mouth and reach forward to change the radio station to distract myself.
I don’t particularly care for the country music that spills from the speakers, but Trace bounces his head along to the new music, and I pull my hand back instead of continuing to scan for a genre of music I like.
I was doubtful about completing the ten-and-a-half hour-with-no-stops drive to Tuscaloosa in one day, but with ample breaks, good snacks, and the best company, the all-day drive was so much more bearable than even the shortest flight.
We finally pull up to the Davenports’ around eight that night, and the sight of Trace’s childhood home coming into view as we round the bend in the road, passing well-maintained homes with manicured lawns, is like the weight of the world lifting off my shoulders.
The red-brick house that’s more of a home to me than my own childhood home looks the same as it did the first time Trace brought me here during our freshman year, when I didn’t want to spend my time off school over a long weekend travelling back home to Colorado.
White pillars on the front porch match the shutters on the windows, green shrubs line the front of the house, and towering trees dot the sides of the property.
The lawn looks like it’s a day overdue for a trim, but overall, it’s all the same. My home away from home.
The front door opens and shuts as Trace and I get out of his truck. He slips around back to grab our bags, and I close the door, ready to greet my second favorite person in the world.
“Naomi!” Marilyn Davenport exclaims as she hurries down the stairs from the porch to wrap me up in the biggest hug.
Shoulder-length blonde hair, the same shade as Trace’s but with highlights of silver running through it, brushes my cheek as she pulls me down to her, throwing her arms around my body.
“It’s so good to see you, sugar!” She rocks from side to side, and tears I didn’t know were hiding so close to the surface threaten to leak out of the corners of my eyes.
“It’s good to see you, too, Marilyn.”
She rubs a hand up and down my shoulder blades, a move so familiar that it puts me in real danger of full-on crying, before moving her hands to my shoulders and pushing me away to get a good look at me.
“You look like you’re doing well, Naomi.” The corners of her eyes crinkle as she beams at me, her brown eyes bouncing all around my face. “Emmett and I have been watching all of your games that have been broadcast so far.”
Her words fill me with so much pride, it spills out of me in the biggest smile.
Trace wasn’t the only one who used to come to my college games.
Marilyn and Emmett sat through their fair share when Trace couldn’t make it, just so I would have someone in the stands.
Sometimes, all three of them would come together and cheer for me like I was actually a part of their little family, like it didn’t matter that I was only Trace’s friend from school.
Marilyn practically became the proud mama I never had.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I may be from Colorado, but my time in the South has changed me.
“Don’t you ma’am me!” Marilyn squeezes my shoulders once more, then drops her hands to place them on her hips.
“You’re family! And I know you’ve been coming around here for years, so it already feels like you’re the daughter I never had”—Marilyn’s laugh is light, even though it makes my heart squeeze in my chest—“but that doesn’t change the fact that you need a proper welcome. ”
Trace’s heavy arm settles over my shoulders, and Marilyn’s eyes go to him. I turn into his chest, snaking my arm around his back, and try to hold in my tears, but a sniffle and two tears escape.
“Mama, are you making my girl cry?” I feel Trace’s lips brush the top of my head as he pulls me all the way into his arms.
“I’m fine,” I croak, reaching up to wipe away the few escapees.
I pointedly ignore the way my heart jumps at Trace’s endearment.
It’s been doing that a lot lately, and with my softball schedule, it’s been easy enough to push it to the back of my mind.
But now that I’m back here in Tuscaloosa…
with his family…for my time off…I don’t know if I’ll be able to rein my heart in.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.” Marilyn clasps her hands in front of her chest, a sympathetic look blanketing her face.
“No, really, I’m fine.” My voice doesn’t exactly sound fine—it sounds like I’m trying to swallow a brick—but I manage to take a deep enough breath to bring it back from the brink.
“I’m just…” One more deep breath settles my body as I take in everything—Marilyn, the house, Trace. “I’m just really happy to be home.”