Page 25 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

Marilyn is in the kitchen, peeling potatoes out of a ten-pound bag, when I come back downstairs after showering and getting ready for the day.

With only a smile, she passes me another peeler and second bag of potatoes, and I get to work.

We work to the quiet sounds from the open kitchen window of Trace mowing the front lawn, and I enjoy the quiet time with busy hands.

It’s so starkly different from my time on and off the field, where someone’s always calling out the number of outs or the play or blasting music from a Bluetooth speaker.

The small, repetitive motions give my brain some much needed time to relax and not think about what’s coming beyond the next stroke of the peeler.

I don’t think Trace realized how much I needed this break when he faux kidnapped me in Oklahoma City.

I don’t think I realized how much I needed it.

Between leading a team and making sure Trace’s ex stays away, posting more on social media than I have in the last two years combined, and worrying about my part in my sister’s upcoming wedding, I didn’t realize how much the stress was getting to me.

But coming here, being able to lift all of that weight like a barbell and leave it back home in Texas, I feel free .

Free to do what I want, go where I want, be with who I want.

When Marilyn finishes her bag of potatoes, she pulls out a cutting board and knife and starts making quick work of her naked spuds. That’s when she finally breaks her silence.

“So how have you been, sugar?”

I smile when she uses the same endearment as Trace.

“Good,” I say before realizing that good is too generic for Marilyn.

“The team is doing well so far, but we have a long way to go before the end of the season. We have a good shot at the championship again this year, so that pressure is always there.”

“And what about outside of ball?” The rhythmic snap of the knife against the cutting board complements the schick of my peeler.

Marilyn doesn't look up from her hands, but I know she’s listening intently to every word I have to say.

Probably because this is her subtle way of asking about me and Trace.

I give her the side eye, and her little grin confirms my suspicions.

“Trace and I are good, if that’s what you want to know.

If you want to know all the little details, you’ll have to ask him.

” Nothing like throwing my bestie under the bus with his mom a little bit.

“I’m honestly surprised he didn’t call to tell you about us sooner. ”

“Oh, honey, he called me the day you finally said yes to a date.” Marilyn’s small smile grows wider, but softer. “I’m happy for you two.” Her smile takes on a teasing edge when she finally turns her head to look at me. “And I’m glad you finally saw some sense and snatched him up.”

I gape at her, mirroring her teasing, but the heat in my face is very real, and I certainly can’t hide it with this complexion. Me seeing sense?

We’re quiet for another few minutes while I finish peeling and dig around the kitchen to find a second knife and cutting board.

When I return to the counter and begin chopping my share of potatoes into small cubes for the salad, Marilyn speaks up again.

“Trace said something about your sister getting married in a couple of weeks?”

What small corner of peace I found that morning shatters.

Look, I’m not dreading going to the wedding.

Honestly, the wedding is the easiest part about the whole thing.

I’m dreading the whole family part of it.

Seeing my “perfect” little sister and wondering if things will be as tense as the last time we saw each other.

Having to interact with my mother, who makes it no secret that I am not the favored child in the family.

Making small talk with the rest of my extended family who would rather live at the North Pole than come watch me play a game in Texas.

“Um, yeah,” I mumble, putting all of my focus into the potatoes in front of me. “We leave for Colorado in two weeks.”

How can it be that soon? I think, my hands mindlessly going through the chopping motions.

It’s honestly a miracle that one of my fingers doesn’t join the potatoes with how far away my brain is.

It feels like just the other day, Jenna was asking me to be a bridesmaid.

And definitely not in a “the time has gone so fast” kind of way, more like a “how can I only have two more weeks to mentally prepare for this?” kind of way.

Marilyn scrapes the potatoes from her cutting board into a large stockpot and rinses her things and hands in the sink. After drying her hands on a hand towel she hangs over the handle of the oven, she places one on my left shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

“Everything will be fine, sugar.”

Heavy steps interrupt the quiet moment, and Trace’s head pops in between mine and Marilyn’s. He plants a loud kiss on my cheek, and Marilyn snickers at the surprised look on my face .

“You almost done?” he asks, snatching a cube of raw potato and tossing it into his mouth.

“I’d be done sooner if you didn’t interrupt,” I chide, moving my hands a little faster.

“Mama, could you bear to part with Naomi for the rest of the day if you finish up the cooking before I get out of the shower?” The look Trace gives his mom is probably one he’s been practicing since he was four years old—head tilted down with big, wide eyes and a bottom lip sticking out just enough to complete the begging look.

Marilyn rolls her eyes and pushes Trace out of the kitchen. “Fine, fine. Take my helper. But go shower . You stink worse than your room as a teenager.”

Trace kisses his mother lightly on the cheek before repeating the same thing on mine.

He disappears up the stairs, leaving me and Marilyn to finish with the potatoes.

She lets the subject of Jenna’s wedding drop, and even though our conversation meanders through plenty of other topics, my easy-going morning has gained an uncomfortable edge.

The macaroni noodles are boiling away in a second stockpot by the time Trace comes down after showering.

He loops his arm through mine, pulling me away from where I was leaning against the island, chatting away with Marilyn.

She laughs when I pretend to futilely pull against him but tells us to “Be on your best behavior!” as Trace pulls me out the front door.

“Finally!” he exclaims, leading me by the arm to his truck. “I get you all to myself.” He winks at me as he opens my door.

“What do you call yesterday, then?” I tease, climbing in the truck.

“One cannot have too much alone time with you,” he says after starting the car and threading his fingers through mine over the middle console. “Now, where to? ”

“This was all your idea.” I squeeze his hand in mine. “I’m just the passenger princess.” I lean my elbow on the console and bat my eyelashes at him.

He looks at me and pauses, almost doing a double take, before he throws the truck in reverse and backs out of the driveway.

“Let it be known that I gave you the option to pick.” He looks over at me with a wicked grin, one that historically meant I was in for shenanigans to the n th degree, and I can’t help but throw my head back and laugh.

It feels like I’ve gone back in time six years.

Driving around my old stomping grounds with my best friend, softball games existing on the horizon, no immediate worries or responsibilities.

Even the prickly thoughts about my sister and parents melt away as I continue to be a “passenger princess” and let Trace take me for a drive.

Trace drives down residential roads, and we admire all the ways the city is decked out for the Fourth.

The streets won’t be lined with chairs until tomorrow, but reds, whites, and blues litter the street lights and front yards.

He drives across the river and through the nearly deserted streets of the university.

Come fall, these roads and sidewalks will be packed with the next generation of Crimson Tide, but now, during the week of the Fourth, they’re quiet.

We drive past the football stadium, reminiscing about all the games we attended there. The way Trace made a name for himself on that field. We drive across campus and past Rhoads Stadium, where I did the same.

After we’ve had our fill of nostalgia, Trace finds his way to our favorite off-campus drive-in that we used to frequent on the weekends. He slips his old Alabama cap on his head as we get out of the car.

Everywhere else, it’s a decent disguise.

Throw on a pair of sunglasses, and unless you were super familiar with the Dallas Wranglers, you probably wouldn’t know it was him.

But here, it’s better than camouflage during hunting season.

Down here, you don’t look twice at a guy wearing something related to the Crimson Tide.

You just nod, “Roll Tide,” and move along.

As we sit down at an outdoor table underneath a red and white umbrella, my phone buzzes with a call. My brow furrows when Duke Pryor’s name flashes on my screen.

“Hello?” I answer. I tip my phone away from my mouth and whisper to Trace, who’s looking over the menu, even though we’ve already ordered, “Why is Duke calling me?”

His eyes flick up to me just as Duke’s voice comes through my phone. “Is Trace with you?”

I roll my eyes, getting a confused chuckle out of Trace. “I’m doing great, Duke, thanks for asking. How are you?”

Duke’s sigh through the phone sounds like it takes five years off his life. “Hi, Naomi,” he corrects. “I’m doing well. Now, is Trace with you?”

“Did you try calling him?” I roll my lips over my teeth when I look at Trace because his confusion is replaced with amusement at my messing with his agent.

“I’ve been calling him for a week, and he’s not answering. Is he with you?”

I pull my phone away from my ear, pressing it against my chest to talk to Trace. “Why haven’t you been answering Duke’s calls?”

Understanding dawns on Trace’s face, and he laughs as he shakes his head. “I forgot my phone in Dallas when I drove up to Oklahoma City.”

“Who forgets their phone?” I tease, and Trace just shakes his head.

“Naomi.” Duke’s faint voice sounds tired, irritated, and absolutely done with my shenanigans. I put my phone back up to my ear. “Is Trace with you? ”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Duke.” I pause to draw out the tension. “Yes, he’s with me. Here.” I pass Trace my phone. He proceeds to rehash our conversation with Duke. Yes, he’s okay. No, he’s not ignoring Duke. He just forgot his phone in Dallas.

Our food is brought out by an employee, and I ignore Trace’s conversation with Duke—he’ll tell me all about it once he’s off the phone anyway—and dig into my fries and strawberry shake.

“What was that about?” I ask, stuffing another fry into my mouth as Trace hangs up and slides my phone across the table to me.

Trace wipes a hand down his face before swiping a fry out of my container, even though his are right in front of him.

“Duke’s fielded more calls from Millie over the last few weeks.

He wanted to touch base to see if she’s made contact with us again.

Since San Antonio,” he clarifies, looking away and taking a bite of his own burger.

“And?” I prompt. “Have you had any more run-ins with Millie that you haven’t told me about?”

Trace shakes his head. “Haven’t heard from her at all, actually.”

Tension I didn’t realize was hiding between my shoulder blades loosens, my elbows hitting the table as my shoulders drop.

I had hoped that our encounter with Millie at the stadium in San Antonio had been enough to drive her away, but that had shattered when we narrowly escaped running into her at the grocery store.

Even though we had avoided that encounter, I didn’t realize I was still metaphorically looking over my shoulder…

even though it wasn’t my shoulder to look over.

“It looks like our plan is working,” Trace says around a mouthful.

“Millie’s finally leaving me alone, and I’ve never seen your games so full.

” He smiles at me, a cute, closed-mouth smile with chipmunked cheeks, and it makes me laugh.

I slap a hand over my mouth when a few of the closest patrons look over, which causes Trace to choke a little and force a swallow to laugh along with me.

“It’s not over till the fat lady sings,” I declare, pointing a fry at my friend.

“I will not rest in my girlfriend duties until we get the green light on those teams and I can be sure the Millie situation is handled.” I punctuate my sentence by chomping on the fry I’ve been waving, and Trace’s face goes from amused to downright luminous.

His brilliant smile lights me up all the way to my toes.

His eyes sparkle with amusement, and this—this place, this person —feels so right.

And then I have to go and ruin it.

“I hope your future wife likes me.” The thought slips out of me before my mental filter can snatch it and stuff it in the box it belongs in.

Trace’s smile dims, and the high I’ve been feeling bleeds away.

Stupid—how can I be so stupid? I had meant it as a joke—because of course it won’t be me , we’re just friends—that after all this blows over, he’ll eventually find another girl and settle down, and she’ll have to deal with having me around because I won’t just give up my best friend to anybody.

But the easy moment between us is gone, the reminder that we’re in a fake relationship, a sudden reality check.

Trace moves a hand to cover mine that’s now motionless on the table. The thought to look away flashes through my mind, but I don’t want him to think I’m hiding anything. So I hold his eye contact as he smiles, the expression not quite reaching his eyes, and says, “I’m sure she’ll love you.”