Page 4 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

Trace and I eat in silence. Mostly because I’m starving, but also because what do you say after your best friend’s agent tells you to go on a fake date with him?

After the purring of Duke’s Jaguar fades, I’m finally hit by the full reality of Duke’s suggestion…and Trace’s response.

I don’t want to push the subject either because I was struck speechless with Duke’s suggestion.

Mulling it over in my own mind while the two of us devour the fajitas, I’m still not sure what I would do if asked my opinion on the matter.

Of course, if there’s anything I can do to help Trace, I’ll do it.

Trace is my best friend, the one who is always there for me through thick or thin.

So if this is his thin moment, I’m there—one hundred percent.

If Erica was ever in a similar jam, I wouldn’t think twice. But it’s different when you’re pretending to be a teammate’s partner for a few minutes to ditch a creepy guy in a bar. What Duke was proposing could range anywhere from one date to months of a fake relationship.

It’s bad enough that Erica was teasing me about dating Trace earlier this week.

Is it fate? Karma? Whatever it is, it’s annoying that it’s even on the table.

I’ll admit that I had a crush on him at one point in my life—I was eighteen; of course I had a crush on the cute guy who sat next to me in my first college class—but all those feelings are long gone.

But they were replaced by a friendship that’s strong enough to weather anything…

Including, I realize, going on a couple of fake dates to get rid of his clingy ex-girlfriend.

When we finish, Trace gets up and takes the dirty dishes to the sink.

He starts washing them by hand instead of putting them in the dishwasher, his body language making it very clear that he doesn’t want to talk about Duke’s suggestion right now.

Leaving him in the kitchen, I retrieve my bags and heft them up the stairs and to the guest room Trace sets aside for me when I stay here.

While there are plenty of guest rooms in his house, this one is the closest to the master bedroom; therefore, Trace likes to use it as his backup closet.

Dumping my bags in front of the closet, I open the doors and pull out one of Trace’s many Dallas Wranglers t-shirts from years past, quickly exchanging my stiff, black t-shirt I picked up at the college tournament for the soft gray fabric.

I eye the comfy-looking shorts, debating for only a moment before I grab a pair, making sure to tie the waist tightly so they won’t fall off my butt.

Stealing Trace’s clothes is something I’ve been doing since college, and I’m not going to stop anytime soon.

What’s a girl to do when men’s oversize clothes are so much comfier than women’s?

Moving to the window that overlooks the backyard, I throw open the drapes, letting in the bright afternoon sunlight.

Trace’s outdoor basketball court is tucked along one side of his property, separated from the house by a large swath of grass and an oversized patio with a hot tub and a recessed fire pit .

All three get their fair share of use during the year—by Trace and by me, whenever I come over to visit, which is usually every few weekends.

My mind wanders back to the conversation with Duke from earlier as I take in the backyard.

Trace had been pretty quick to shut Duke down when he suggested Trace date—er, fake date—me.

But then again, I had been quick to shut Erica down earlier this week.

It’s not like it was the first time someone suggested to either of us that we should date each other, but…

it’s just not like that between me and Trace.

He was my first friend when I moved to Alabama right out of high school.

And with the friendship we have…why would I mess it up by dating him?

Inevitably, the relationship would run its course, and we would part ways.

But what isn’t inevitable is parting ways as friends.

And I would rather keep Trace as a friend than try to see if there was a spark between us, only to have it blow up in my face.

It’s not like I have a loving family to go back to should I need a place to hide and lick my wounds.

The backyard looks the same as it always does at first glance, but the longer I stand at the window, the more apparent it is that that concrete pad is new, and I’ve never seen that net before…

Finally recognizing it for what it is, I go to my bag and pull out my batting helmet, gloves, and bat before hurrying down the stairs. I have to cross back through the kitchen and dining area to get to the back door, and when I storm through, Trace looks up from the soapy water in the sink.

I’m sure he can put together where I’m headed with my gear. He turns off the faucet and follows me out the back door. Though he tries to catch up and stop me, I’m a woman on a mission. He sighs when we finally stop in front of the batting cage that definitely wasn’t here the last time I was.

The black netting hangs on a metal frame that’s cemented into the pad.

A stretch of green artificial turf lines the inside of the cage, familiar markings for a batter’s box and pitching circle painted in crisp white.

A square protective screen is slid out of the way against the back netting of the cage.

“I was going to bring you out later and show you,” Trace says behind me, resignation filling his voice.

“It was supposed to be done earlier this year so you could use it in the off-season, but I underestimated how far in advance most private contractors get booked out.” His self-deprecating laugh makes me turn around and throw my arms around him.

“It doesn’t matter; this is amazing!”

“Come on, I’ll get the pitching machine set up so you can take some cuts.”

While Trace goes to grab the pitching machine out of his sports shed, I duck under the black netting and pull the screen into place on the turf-covered concrete.

Trace returns with the pitching rubber and home plate as he rolls out the extension cord for the machine.

I place the white rubber pieces on their markings before going to help lift the net for Trace.

He hoists the pitching machine into the batting cage with ease, and I grab the bucket of balls he left outside the netting, tucking them behind the screen before going to put my gloves and helmet on.

Trace starts up the pitching machine, and I do a quick series of dynamic stretches to warm up my body while we wait for the machine to get up to speed. I step back out of the batter’s box while Trace pitches a few balls, fine-tuning the machine to a casual speed. When he’s ready, I step in .

Hitting in the batting cage is repetitive and relaxing. I feel loose, especially with the speed turned down and none of Erica’s wild spins to make the ball break to one side or the other. Ball after ball is sent to the back of the net in picture-perfect line drives.

I’m one of the best hitters on my team because of the thousands of hours I’ve put in at batting cages just like this one from the time I was a kid.

My parents wouldn’t stand for anything less than the best from me, so that’s how it was from the time I decided softball was going to be my sport.

After two decades, my swing is muscle memory, and I let it take over as I allow my mind to wander.

And, of course, it wanders back to the kitchen just a few hours ago.

Trace’s short voice and abrupt delivery was…unexpected. While he’s always been the guy who knows what he wants, he’s amiable in how he goes about it. He’s the guy everybody likes, the peacemaker, the “let’s figure this out together” kind of guy.

Not exactly the one to put his foot down so forcefully.

I foul off the next pitch and frown.

“What’s on your mind?” Trace asks, slipping another ball into the machine. I catch the top half of the ball, sending it to the back of the cage in disappointing bounces.

“Duke’s suggestion.” Another crack, another grounder.

“Naomi—” Trace’s voice is tired.

“Why did you tell Duke no? If there’s something I can do to help you out of this jam with Millie, you know I’m there.”

He sighs and rubs a hand down his face as he drops another ball into the machine. The ball comes off my bat in a hard bounce, caught and sent awry by the protective net in front of Trace.

“Because I didn’t want Duke to pressure you into something on the spot. It’s not the first time he’s suggested something like that to me about a dozen different situations. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to say yes without having the time to think it through.”

Another ball, another grounder. The bucket must be getting close to empty, but Trace feeds the balls into the machine at a steady pace, waiting for me to reset between each swing.

I press my mouth closed, focusing on the feel of the bat path as I mull over Trace’s words.

It’s been hours since Duke left, and I think I’ve had enough time to think things through.

“If it helps you get out of the situation with Millie, why wouldn’t we?” The next pitch leaves my bat in a low line drive.

“We don’t have to,” he says, dropping his arm down to his side, breaking the steady stream of pitches.

I set the tip of the bat on the turf and lean onto it, my opposite hand coming to rest on my hip.

“How hard can it be, Trace? We’ll go out on the town together, maybe hold hands a little.

” Trace makes a face, and I laugh. It’s enough to pull us out of the standoff, and I reset to wait for the next pitch.

“Do you have something against my hands, Trace? I promise I wash them after using the bathroom.”

Trace shakes his head and reaches down to adjust the speed dial.

He lifts the ball for me to see, and I load my lower body as he lowers the ball to the machine.

The next pitch comes faster, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

“I don’t have anything against your hands.

But it feels like we’ll just be at the mercy of cosmic timing.

Do we just go out and hope Millie sees us? ”

I laugh, and on the next pitch, I find my rhythm again, the confused jumble of my thoughts finally organizing into a logical progression. I send the ball to the back of the batting cage in a hard-hit arc.

“Social media. You can post something. ‘Get the word out there,’ as it were. Unless you also blocked Millie on all of your social media platforms, she’ll see it there.” Because it has to be public. If it’s not, Millie won’t ever believe it, and that’s the whole point of the ruse, isn’t it?

The first grain of unease worms into me. I’ll have to publicly announce that I’m dating the Dallas Dreamboat. While it might be enough to get Millie’s attention, it will certainly be enough to get everyone’s attention. Millie’s…my team’s…my family’s…the entire Wranglers’ fan base.

Trace’s brow furrows, and I half expect him to crank the speed again, turning our relaxing afternoon into a full-blown workout. “I forgot about social media.”

I step out of the batter’s box as Trace sends the next pitch, the ball whacking harmlessly into the net behind me. “You, Mr. Dallas Dreamboat , forgot about social media? Have you also forgotten about all of the fan edits of your itty bitty warm up shorts?”

Trace gives me a warning look, his neck tingeing pink. “No, I have not forgotten.”

I keep going, loving how flustered he’s getting.“Would it kill you to wear longer shorts? What would your mother say?”

That breaks through Trace’s grumpy mask, and his deep laugh fills the air around us.

I step back into the box and wait for another pitch.

“She says the same thing, actually,” he says as he inserts the ball into the pitching machine, a smile back on his face.

We both fall quiet as I finish the last few balls in the bucket.

I set down my bat and start collecting the balls that are scattered around the cage, depositing them back in the bucket behind the net. Trace and I meet at the bucket with the last few, and I look at him, standing a couple feet away.

“It’s not like anything will change between us. A few ‘dates’ and a couple pictures of us together, and Millie should finally back off.” But even though I sound confident that this will work, Trace doesn’t look so sure.

“I’ll have to think about it. I’ll give Duke some pushback, give us some time to think things over and make sure this will solve the problem. I know the timing isn’t great, with your season starting in a few days, and I don’t want to make things more difficult for you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Trace gestures to the bucket of balls. “You want to do another bucket?”

“Nah.” I wave away his gesture, peeling my batting gloves off my hands. He flips the switch on the machine, and it slowly winds down. “Do you have any of that peanut butter protein ice cream in your freezer?”

His eyes light up. “You know it. And I have the latest episodes of The Bachelorette downloaded.”

Faster than I ever did in any of my lower levels of competition, I get the batting cage straightened up and put my gear back in my bag in my room.

When I come back down the stairs, Trace has a bowl of peanut butter heaven waiting for me on the coffee table in the TV room and my favorite fluffy blanket draped over the arm of the couch.

I snuggle into the corner of the couch, tucking the heavenly soft blanket around me—even though it’s summer—as Trace pulls up where we left off in our buddy watch of this season of The Bachelorette .

We watch in a peaceful silence for a few minutes, each of us slowly savoring our frozen treat.

It feels…normal. No awkwardness from our discussion about whether we’ll “date” each other.

“You know what would really round out this weekend?” I ask, sliding another spoonful of the creamy peanut butter ice cream into my mouth.

“Mmm?” Trace hums, his mouth also full .

“Brunch at Luella’s.”

He swallows and smiles. “That sounds like a perfect send off.”