Page 28 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

I check my phone for text updates before I slip it into the pocket of my team-branded joggers after passing through the security screening at the small airport outside of the city.

I don’t have any, which makes sense because the game isn’t until this afternoon, but I can’t help but worry about the outcome of the games I’m missing this weekend.

We’re holding onto a slim lead over the Phoenix Firebirds in the standings, and we need to win this weekend to maintain it going into the last few weeks of the season.

While me not being there won’t make or break the team—we win as a team and we lose as a team—I’d much rather be part of a winning weekend against Phoenix than be a bridesmaid in my younger sister’s wedding.

But instead of practicing on the field with my teammates, I’m in this dinky little airport waiting for the privately chartered flight Trace booked for the two of us.

It’s a little excessive, if you ask me, but as I grab my clothing bag and my oversized softball bag off the screening tables, I’m not mad about not having to check my gear for a commercial flight .

Trace’s steps sound behind me on the tile as we navigate toward the waiting area that’s dominated by a glass wall that looks out over the runway.

There are a few other people in the room, but they’re all tucked away in their own corners, waiting for whatever other flights leave from this airport.

I drop my bags in front of a row of chairs and plop down, melting into them like a bag of chocolate left out in the summer sun.

The flight might be cushy, but airport chairs are still crappy.

Trace lines up his suitcase and hanging garment bag with mine and takes the seat next to me, resting his arm over the back of the chair I’m lounging in. He looks from my bags to me, then back to the bags before poking my oversized gear bag with the toe of his tennis shoe.

“Why did you bring that, anyway? Isn’t your next series at home?”

I sigh and sit up from my slouch, knocking his foot away gently with the side of mine. “It is.”

Trace waits patiently for the rest of my answer.

“I brought it in case things go south and I end up hitchhiking to the nearest field. Some random slowpitch team would love me as a pickup player.”

“I don’t think slowpitch uses a catcher like you, Sugar.” He winks at me, and I return it with a pout. “Besides,” he continues, “it won’t be that bad.”

I give Trace a look that says oh yes, it will be . He stares back with an equally telling look. Finally, I give in with an over dramatic sigh.

“It’s like my security blanket or something. Like, if I have my bag, it’s proof that I’m a professional athlete. I’m not a failure.”

I stare at the navy blue material, rust-colored dirt from the field clinging to it so deeply that it would need to be blasted by a power washer to ever get clean .

“You’re not a failure,” Trace says softly, his hand drifting from the back of the bench to my shoulder, his thumb rubbing in a smooth circle.

“I know.” I mean, of course, I know. I have three gold medals on my wall at home that say I’m not.

I have a good career with a team I love that says I’m not.

But deep down, there’s a part of me that only rears its ugly head when faced with my parents, the part of me that doubts if the last twenty years of my life—the work I’ve put in over those years—is really worth it.

“On second thought, maybe I should have brought my medals.” I scrunch up my nose and look at Trace, who isn’t impressed by my sudden onset of imposter syndrome.

“On third thought, that probably would have been worse. I’d have had to listen to Mom snip all weekend that they’re not ‘ real gold medals .’”

Trace’s soft thumb becomes the weight of his whole hand. He curls his arm in, pulling me into his chest and forcing me to face him with my body. “Naomi, you are not a failure. And what your parents think about your accomplishments can’t do anything to dull the fact that you are accomplished .”

Trace’s sincerity eases my worries, and a half-smile crops up on my face. “You say that like I’m a Jane Austen heroine who is in want of a husband.”

Trace’s growing small smile is a match to mine.

“ It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. ” He tips his head closer to mine.

“Therefore,” he says, his voice dropping about an octave, “I am the man for the job, apparently.”

His teasing smile makes my breath catch, and he leans in, invading all of my senses.

It’s cliché to say we become the only two people in the room, but with his mouth right there and the intimate way he’s looking at me, there could be a stampede of water buffalos behind me and I wouldn’t notice them.

For that moment, our friendship morphs into something more, and the thought that maybe this thing between us could be real overpowers everything else in my brain.

And as I drift closer and press my lips lightly to his, the kiss reverberates through me.

Why not?

Pulling back, I search Trace’s face for anything that would indicate he’s thinking the same thing I am, but the only things I see are his raised eyebrows and parted lips. I look away from him, back to my security blanket bag, and we both relax into the bench to wait for our flight.

Why not?

Aspen, Colorado is gorgeous in the summer.

Everything is so green, and even though it’s midday, the cooler summer temperatures are a welcome reprieve from the Devil’s Armpit—aka Texas in August. The first few minutes off the plane are almost enchanting enough to make me forget why I’m here in the first place.

That is, until I catch a glimpse of the snowless ski runs.

It makes sense for my younger sister to get married at a ski resort.

After all, she met her fiancé, Ryker Ames, during her first Olympic qualifying season when he was also trying to claim his own Olympic berth.

After they both medaled in Beijing, they got engaged, and my parents couldn’t be prouder of their perfect little girl and the man she’s bringing into the family.

But the road to this wedding hasn’t been without its hardships.

I’ve been on the outskirts of the wedding planning, watching the group chats I’ve been invited to from the sidelines—practically an afterthought for my sister’s own wedding party—and I’m still aware of how difficult my mom has made Jenna’s life over the last year.

I can hear Mom’s complaints now: “I wish you had gotten married in the winter, Jenna. We could have spent our downtime skiing.”

But that’s precisely why Jenna’s wedding is scheduled for the middle of August. She and her soon-to-be husband will be spending the winter competing and vying for a spot on Team USA for next year’s Olympics in Italy. And that’s something I can, if not relate to, at least respect.

Trace rolls my bag over to where I’m standing, and I shake myself out of my thoughts. Regardless of how much I agree with Jenna’s choice of wedding timing, today, the goal is to avoid my family as much as possible.

The Uber ride to the resort lodge is short but tense.

Imaginary encounters with my parents and sister run through my head as I watch the passing landscape out the window.

Everything from being welcomed with open arms to pretending that I don’t exist is on the table, even though some options are more likely than others.

I breathe a little easier when Trace reaches across the empty middle seat of the SUV and slips my hand into his. “We’re a team,” he told me as we disembarked from the plane. “Whatever you need to do this weekend, we’ll do it together.”

The five-star resort hotel looks charming on the outside as we pull up and unload our bags, a perfect match to the resort town that’s surrounded on all sides by green trees and picturesque mountains.

The shops lining the streets all give “quaint mountain town” vibes, even though I know this city is a popular destination for big name celebrities and high-profile socialites.

While the exterior of the hotel could step right out of a Swiss town in the Alps, the interior is another thing altogether.

Clean, modern lines dominate the interior décor, and the bright white lights exude none of the warm coziness you’d expect.

Every inch of the space looks and feels like a luxury five-star hotel…

probably because it is a luxury five-star hotel.

Nothing but the best for Mommy’s favorite girl, after all.

But I’m not here for cozy, whimsical relaxation. I’m here for a wedding, avoiding my family as much as possible, and getting the heck out of Dodge before I can be sucked into whatever drama my mom wants to stir up.

The front desk staff don’t even bat an eye when they recognize Trace without needing to see his ID.

I’ve never been on the road with him during his season—and even if I had, the professional teams keep things locked down on road trips—but this hotel feels like a place a multi-millionaire—like one of Trace’s teammates—books for an off-season vacation.

I thank the front desk employee as I swipe the room key off the counter, and I’m seconds away from celebrating our family-free arrival when I hear my name from across the lobby. A chill races up my spine, and I stiffen, standing back up, my gear bag forgotten on the ground at my feet.

“Naomi.”

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth before finding a polite smile somewhere deep within and turning around to greet my mother .