Page 34 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

The spark of competition lights in Trace’s eyes as he pulls away from me, taking my old mitt with him. I take the disbelieving shake of his head as he stares down at my extra mitt as a “yes” and dive back down to my bags to get clothes for the day.

Thanks to last night’s walk around town, I know there’s a park two blocks away, which is where I lead Trace after we’ve both dressed and had breakfast. The open, grassy area is devoid of a backstop or bases, but I didn’t bring Trace out here to help me with a full workout. Like I told him, this is a break.

Gray clouds fill the sky overhead, warning us of the impending rain, but it doesn’t look like the sky’s about to burst open at any minute.

If anything, the cool air is a relief after a month of long practices and games in full gear under a blazing Texan sun, and I suck in a deep breath of the pine-smelling mountain air as Trace walks a few feet away from me.

There’s not much I miss from my years growing up in Colorado, but that’s one of them.

We start with some easy throws to loosen up, Trace gradually taking more and more steps back to increase the distance.

It’s been a long time since I’ve played catch just to play catch and not as part of a workout or practice warmup. The lazy throws are like a balm to my shoulder.

“Do you think that was Millie? Last night?” The question I’ve been holding all morning after replaying last night’s events through my head pops out in between the snaps of the yellow ball in our gloves .

Trace purses his lips, allowing a couple throws back and forth between answering. “No,” he says, but there’s a cautious note to his voice. “But I wouldn’t put it past her, not after everything in San Antonio.”

“She’s been kind of quiet recently. Do you think she’s finally backing off?”

“You’re right.” Trace pauses, his face growing tight. “And that’s what worries me.” He repositions his grip on the softball a few times before throwing it back to me. “But let’s not worry about that right now. We have enough going on this weekend.”

Trace’s smile comes back, but it’s a little tighter than before.

We continue playing catch in silence for a few minutes, and I’m enjoying the cool air, the familiar rhythm of the snap of the ball, and the tightness of not having thrown for a couple days working its way out of my shoulder.

But my peace—especially in the vicinity of my parents—only lasts so long.

My pocket starts vibrating, and I ignore it until it stops, only for my phone to immediately start vibrating again. I dig it out of my pocket, unsurprised to find my mom calling.

“Hi, Mom.” I tuck my mitt underneath my arm and push back the few flyaways that have already come out of my ponytail.

“Naomi, where are you?” Mom’s accusatory voice cuts through the speaker of my phone, and even Trace cringes as he steps within hearing range.

“I’m at the park.”

“What are you doing there? We need you here!”

Maybe at one point in my life, I would have apologized and hurried back, quick to try to curry my mom’s favor, but after so many years of attempting with so little to show for it, I’ve learned how to stand up for myself and my actions against my mom.

“I’m playing catch with Trace. What do you need me for?” I try to keep my voice even, but a hint of frustration leaks out with my question.

Mom’s exaggerated sigh grinds on my nerves. “Things!” she says, “Rooms to set up. Tables to decorate.”

“But isn’t that what the wedding planner and her staff are for?”

Look, I’m not saying that my sass is intentional, but it’s more than frustrating to be given an agenda, be told to show up for the things on said agenda, and then be chewed out for not attending something I didn’t even know about.

“There’s too much to be done. Christa needs all of our help. All the other bridesmaids are here. The groomsmen, too. Why do you think Jenna asked you to arrive so early?”

I bite back my retort. So many years away, and so little has changed. I still can’t do anything right in Mom’s eyes.

“Look, we can be back at the hotel in like ten minutes.”

“Make it quicker than that. Your sister’s wedding depends on it.”

Mom hangs up, and I drop my phone to the grass. Tipping my head back to the sky, I let out a frustrated growl. Trace bends down to scoop up my phone and drops it into the pocket of my shorts as I take the mitt from where he’s also tucked it into his armpit.

“I’m guessing you heard all of that?” I ask him.

He nods grimly. “We better get going before something else hits the fan and we have an even bigger mess to clean up.”

Trace slips his left hand into my right, allowing me to carry the two mitts and softball with my left. We start our walk back to the hotel, but once we reach the sidewalk, Trace pulls back on my hand, slowing my steamrolling pace .

“How about we hit up the town after helping this morning? Explore some of the things we didn’t get to see yesterday?” Trace asks, slowing to a leisurely stroll, forcing me to match his pace via his firm grip on my hand.

“I’m already in hot enough water just by existing. No need to add more fuel to those flames,” I lament. Trace squeezes my hand, and his warm grip is a comfort. Even though I know I’m walking into a den of vipers, I can do anything as long as Trace is at my side.