Page 48 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)

“Batting first for the San Antonio Storm and playing in centerfield, number ten: Deja Malone!” Deja is the first to slap hands around the circle of Storm players and run out to line up along the chalk of the first base foul line.

“Batting second and starting at first base, number nineteen: Harley Scott!” The cheering from the stands crescendos and Harley repeats Deja’s hand slaps and jogs out to do her little handshake with Deja before joining her on the line.

Knowing I’m next, I take a deep breath and wait for the P.A. to call my name.

“Batting third and playing behind the plate at catcher, number twenty-nine: Naomi Baer!” A loud cheer erupts from right above our dugout as I go around the circle, hitting my teammates’ palms, then I jog out to where Deja and Harley are waiting for me.

Each player on the team has a handshake for the rest of their teammates that we do as the lineup is announced before a game.

I bump the sides of my fists against Deja’s, then we turn and bump our hips together.

I move down to Harley and we smack hands, then lean back in a dab.

I step to the side to my spot in the line and turn around as Baker Owens, our shortstop, is announced next.

Glancing back toward the dugout, I see the origin of the cheer that went up when my name was announced, and my heart stops. Decked out from head to toe in Storm sky blue and navy are Marilyn and Emmett. Luella and Archie. Jenna and Ryker.

Harley steps in front of me, and I barely register doing our handshake before my eyes go back to the group of people, standing and clapping, their eyes all on me.

I scan their faces, taking in the pride and support I find there, and when I get to the end of the line of my friends and family, my heart resumes beating.

Because Trace is standing there, wearing a navy blue jersey with my number on it.

I feel a physical pang of something in my heart, seeing him here with my jersey.

While him wearing number twenty-nine is no surprise—it’s the number he wears for the Wranglers—seeing him in my team’s colors makes me want to scale the fence and claim his mouth.

Like he’s claiming me with my number on his chest and my name on his back.

With the biggest grin I’ve ever seen, he points to the numbers on his chest and puts a hand over his heart, right over his new tattoo. A silent message just for me before he resumes clapping for the next player.

As my teammates are announced and I complete each handshake on muscle memory alone, Trace cheers and hollers for each and every one, but his eyes never leave mine.

It’s not until after the Firebirds have been introduced and the P.A.

announces the national anthem that I look away, when we turn around to face the flag that’s flying above the scoreboard beyond the centerfield wall.

As I listen to the national anthem with my hand on my heart, my brain begins to work again, and the ramifications of Trace’s presence finally hit me .

Fifty thousand dollars .

That’s what he told Deja the fine was for missing a day of training camp. He’ll have to pay a fifty thousand dollar fine to watch me play this game. If that doesn’t add to the pressure to perform tonight, I don’t know what will.

When the national anthem ends, the Firebirds take the field, and the Storm head to the dugout.

I meet Trace’s eyes once more as I jog back, and my face warms when he blows me a kiss.

I return it before disappearing down into the dugout, heading to my gear bag to retrieve my helmet and batting gloves.

Jamie Maxwell, the league commissioner, throws the ceremonial first pitch, and then we are on our way to the first seven innings of a potential twenty-one-inning showdown.

Deja gets us on the bases early with a slap bunt that drops in shallow left-center.

Harley battles in the batter’s box, taking the Firebird pitcher into a full count and allowing Deja to steal second on a low changeup that the catcher has to frame out of the dirt.

She stays alive by fouling off a handful of pitches but then succumbs to the same changeup that has her swinging way out in front of the pitch.

I step out of the on-deck circle, knocking fists with Harley as she hustles back to the dugout, and cross to the right side of the plate.

With one foot in the batter’s box, I set my hands on the grip of my bat, staring at the company logo running the length of the barrel to center myself.

Inhaling, I look past the barrel to where I can see Trace and my family.

Exhaling, I swing the bat forward and step into the box.

I turn my head to the pitcher and set up, my hands back and high, settling into my legs. This stance feels as natural as breathing, the adrenaline pumping through my veins as familiar as Trace’s smile, the pressure of performing at such a high level as addicting as a drug .

When I was a freshman in high school, I invited the boy I liked to come to one of my games when my team qualified for the state championship tournament.

I worried about it the whole day, and when he actually showed up, I couldn’t believe it.

The nerves hit me like a truck, and every move I made had a question attached.

Did he see that? Does he know I messed up there?

What if I strike out? What does he think of the tag I missed?

I ended up playing one of the worst games of my life.

Strikeouts. Passed balls. Overthrows. I took the full brunt of a set of metal cleats to the inside of my thigh when I was out of position for a tag at home plate, which left a mottled bruise that covered my whole inner thigh and lasted nearly a month.

We didn’t make it far in the tournament that year.

But Trace’s presence isn’t like that. He’s seen me play before, and he knows I can handle the pressure. He’s more than just a crush; he’s more than some guy I want to impress because I liked the way he smiled at me in chemistry class. He’s my best friend. My biggest cheerleader. My rock. My love.

Knowing he’s there behind me, rooting for me—cheering for my success—calms the racing blood in my veins.

I patiently wait for the right pitch. I watch the balls and foul off the strikes.

Until I’m sitting with a 2-2 count, and their left-handed pitcher leaves a curveball a little too close to the outside corner of the plate.

As soon as the ball hits my bat, I know it’s gone.

The sharp crack is sweet music to my ears, and I track the yellow ball to the right field fence as I run down the first base line.

As it sails over the red padding on the wall, the Firebird right fielder hopelessly chasing it down, half the stadium erupts in a wild cheer.

My team pours out of the dugout as I round the bases, a grin on my face.

I didn’t need a home run; I needed a base hit to bring Deja home.

And that’s what makes this one sweeter. As I cross home plate, our second run scored of the game, my teammates smack me on the helmet and back and butt.

Erica grabs the facemask on my helmet and yells in my face, my grin becoming a full smile.

Above the dugout, my family is on their feet, pumping their fists in the air and shouting my name—Trace, the loudest of them all. It might not be the game-winner, but it’s a game-starter. A momentum-builder.

And build on that momentum, we do.

We score two more runs before the Firebirds come back with a rally in the fifth inning, tying the score before we can shut down their bats with a pitching change. We manage to shut them out in the sixth and seventh innings while we score another run to win the game.

After we shake hands with the Firebirds, we loudly celebrate as we empty out the visiting team dugout of our team’s gear.

Coach Golding leads us out of the dugout, back toward the clubhouse where we’ll break down our game.

Just because it’s one of the final games of the season doesn’t mean we can’t learn from it.

Coach Monique and Coach London herd us from behind like two parents minding their wandering toddlers.

Dragging my gear bag onto the crunchy dirt of the edge of the field, I look around for my special group of fans. I catch glimpses of Trace’s parents talking to Luella and Archie and Jenna talking animatedly to someone sitting in the row above her, but Trace is nowhere to be seen.

As we pass the portion of the wall where young fans are extending half-signed softballs and permanent markers, several of us slow down and add to the collection of signatures. But no matter how slow I go or how many softballs I sign, Trace never appears.