Page 33 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

It’s late when we make it back to the hotel, but at least everyone makes it on their own two feet.

Although Trace offered to carry anyone who needed it, no one took him up on the offer.

I would have liked to see it—purely for scientific reasons—but the closest he got was being asked to carry Melissa’s heels so she could walk barefoot.

Everyone parts ways in the lobby, and thankfully, we’re not met with our overbearing chaperone, who I’m sure would have sent all of us off to our rooms with a disappointed look and a verbal lashing.

While everyone else stumbles their way to their doors, missing their key card slots a few times before successfully opening their doors, Trace and I are both sober when we walk into our hotel room.

Trace strips off his shirt before I can find a set of pajamas in my bag, and I get a glimpse of a Tegaderm patch just below his left collarbone.

“When did you get a new tattoo?” I ask, moving toward him.

Trace turns that side of his body away from me, blocking my line of sight.

Every time I get closer and try to peek around him, he moves too quickly for me to see what new ink he’s sporting.

It’s not like it’s his first tattoo, so I don’t know why he’s being so secretive about it.

No, that first piece of body art was courtesy of me during our freshman year of college—an inside joke tattooed on the inside of his right bicep.

“Yesterday,” Trace answers, placing a hand over the spot on his chest. “But it’s not healed yet. You can’t see it until I take the Tegaderm off.”

I continue to dance around him, trying to get a peek at what sort of tattoo he would hide from me.

Trace laughs at my antics, but I manage to juke him, getting a little too close, and he puts our little game to an end by wrapping his arms around me, pinning me to his bare chest, my arms dangling harmlessly at my sides.

It puts our faces almost touching, and the moment goes from playful to meaningful in less than a heartbeat.

I feel the warm puffs of Trace’s breath against my lips, the faintest reminder of what it felt like to kiss him back in Alabama. He presses his lips together, and they’re all I can see—his perfect cupid’s bow and full lower lip, surrounded by blond stubble, becomes my entire world.

I’m not imagining things when I notice Trace looking at my lips the way a dying man in the desert looks at water.

The inches between us become nearly unbearable.

Why don’t we just let ourselves kiss? Crossing a span of three inches would be hardly a thought.

But I can’t guarantee that a kiss would mean the same thing to Trace as it would to me.

We still haven’t talked about what happened in Tuscaloosa, like communicating about it would be putting more definition on something neither of us is ready to accept.

Kissing now would just be a surefire way to get our signals crossed, and that would likely be the doom of our weekend ruse.

Trace moves, and I suck in a breath, instantly intoxicated by his scent, wishing I could bathe in it. But the gentle pressure against my lips never comes. Instead, he presses a peck to the end of my nose and releases me, his hand going up to cover whatever is tattooed across his left pectoral.

The lighthearted moment is gone, replaced by the remnants of uncertainty, and I dance away, quickly pulling my bedtime things out of my bag. Trace turns back to his own bag, and we wordlessly finish getting ready for bed.

If I’d been expecting the continuation of that slice of weirdness after getting dressed in pajamas, I’d have been wrong.

Trace tucks himself into his own bed before I exit the bathroom, his phone in hand and a goofy smile on his face.

He chuckles, then taps a few times on the phone’s screen before shifting it out of the way to look at me.

“I just sent you a funny video.”

My phone buzzes where I left it on my bed.

Everything’s back to normal .

I climb into my own bed and, after plugging my phone in to charge, pull up my text thread with Trace. I tap on the link and watch the thirty second video of dogs being ridiculous before my phone buzzes again—this time with a text from Erica.

My brain suddenly remembers that the Storm had a game today. With everything on my plate, I hadn’t even remembered to text Erica to wish her luck or keep up with the live game updates on my phone.

ERICA

Crushed the Firebirds tonight!

It wasn’t the same without you 3

I want to respond and ask her about all of the nitty gritty details, but one glance at Trace across the three-foot gap between our beds has me pausing.

“We won tonight,” I tell him, watching carefully for his reaction .

He smiles and sets his phone down on the side table, giving me his full attention. “That’s great!” But then that smile morphs into suspicion. “How do you know?”

I wiggle my phone at him. “Erica told me.”

“Don’t ask her for the breakdown. Just be happy about the win and leave it at that.”

“But—”

“Your sister needs your focus this weekend,” Trace says seriously. “Your team is going to do fine without you for a few days. Scarlett has things in hand. Don’t cheapen her contributions to the team because you’re comparing, Naomi.”

I sigh, glancing back at my phone. “When did you get to be so wise?”

“I’ve always been this way, Sugar.” Trace’s words come slower than before, and his eyes droop, despite his efforts to keep them open to continue talking to me.

“Put that away and go to sleep,” he mumbles.

“They’ll be there when we get back to Texas.

Take the opportunity to rest and enjoy your time off. ”

Trace’s last words are barely more than a whisper, and I don’t want to argue with him. Not now.

“Okay,” I whisper back, tucking my phone next to my purse on the side table. “Goodnight, Trace.” I flip the lamp off and shift around my bed, trying to get comfortable in the dark. Trace’s breaths deepen, and I should let the rhythmic sound lull me into unconsciousness.

But I can’t sleep. I don’t like taking time off during the season. I work hard and spend nine months of the year training for a three-month opportunity to play the sport I love. I don’t want to miss any of it.

I know Scarlett is a good catcher, but she’s not me .

Erica’s “we” haunts me, too. “We” won, but “I” didn’t.

I know softball is a team sport, and we win and lose games together, but I enjoy being part of the team.

I like competing and contributing to our wins.

Sitting on the sidelines and taking a break is not how I worked my way to the position I’m in now.

I should be happy about the win, but a pit of discontent begins to grow inside. The if only s start taking over. If only I had said no to Jenna. If only I had been there. If only , if only, if only…

“Put it out of your head, Naomi,” Trace’s voice comes crystal clear in the dark. I shift again, flipping back to face his bed, even though I can’t see him. “All that fidgeting is going to wear a hole in your sheets.” I can hear the smile in his voice, even if I’m losing him to sleep again.

I roll onto my back and force my eyes shut. I focus on Trace’s breathing and sync mine to his. In a matter of moments, I feel the exhaustion of the day take hold of my arms and legs, and I feel myself beginning to drift.

“Go to sleep, love.” Trace’s whisper in the dark is the last thing I hear before I sink into oblivion.

I wake before Trace in the morning, but my rustlings wake him.

Trace stretches. “What’s on your mom’s agenda for today?” He walks over to the laminated card I left on the dresser yesterday after Christa, the wedding planner, dropped it off. He picks it up and reads it, giving me a good view of his body while he stretches the sleep away .

While his looks might have been one of the things that first drew me to him all those years ago, they’re certainly not what kept me around.

But now, I can’t help but imagine what that body would feel like if I really was given girlfriend access to it. It’s one of those thoughts that shouldn’t stay long, especially with our current situation, but gets lodged deep in your brain and becomes fodder for daydreams.

“I think it's just the rehearsal dinner tonight.”

Trace flips the card over, looking for any more information on the back, of which there is none. “That’s it?”

I nod, swinging my legs over the side of my bed.

“I guess we can see what the rest of the wedding party is doing,” Trace says as he sets the card back on the dresser and turns to me, reaching both arms above his head.

His shirt lifts, giving me a good view of the bottom half of his abs, as well as the dusting of hair that covers it, leading down into his waistband.

I stand up. Now is not the time to be running away with my thoughts.

“Nah,” I say, coming back to my conversation with Trace.

“I have a better idea.” I walk to where both of my bags are waiting on the floor and crouch down, shielding Trace’s view of them with my body.

I hear the creak of his steps as he comes up behind me, putting a hand on my shoulder, like he’s trying to lean over to see what I’m doing.

Having found what I’ve been digging for, I stand and spin, pressing the front of my body to Trace’s since he doesn’t move back to give me room.

Swinging my arms out to my sides and bringing the findings of my secret rummage in front of the lower half of my face, I hold up two mitts—my catcher’s mitt and my old fielder’s glove I haven’t used in years but still keep in my gear bag for moments like these .

Trace sighs and rolls his eyes, exasperated with me, but he smiles as he takes my fielder’s mitt, leaning his face close to mine. “What happened to taking a break?”

“This is a break. Don’t worry.” I pat his chest with my free hand. “I’ll go easy on you.”