Page 50 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
“We better win tonight,” Erica says as we jog off the field after our final warmup before the Firebirds take the field to begin the game.
“It would be nice to go home with the trophy tonight instead of playing another game tomorrow,” I agree as we hustle down into the dugout. I sit on the end of the bench and start unclipping my catcher’s gear.
“I mean, that’s great and all,” Erica says, placing her glove on the shelf behind her as she sits to my left, “but if we win tonight, we save Trace fifty grand.”
I snort a laugh and pull off my chest protector, placing it on top of my shin guards. “I guess if you put it that way, it does. But tonight is about us, not Trace.” Even though my cheeks heat thinking about the man sitting above me, ready to cheer for me no matter the outcome of tonight’s game.
Erica raises her arms, like she’s spreading out a news headline on an imaginary newspaper. “Hero girlfriend saves millionaire boyfriend from paying petty fine for missing training camp. ”
That has us both cracking up as I finish discarding my last piece of gear on my pile next to the bench.
I grab my batting gloves, helmet, and bat and head toward the dugout’s exit, where Deja and Harley are already waiting.
“Then let’s go out there and be heroes,” I say over my shoulder to a sparkling grin from Erica.
I pull on my helmet and pinch my bat in my armpit as I do up the Velcro on my batting gloves. I adjust the play card around my left forearm as I climb the steps to the field and join Deja and Harley at the on-deck circle.
Deja’s usual spunk is muted tonight, replaced with a playful competitiveness, and she greets me with a smirk.
“A little bird told me that you made out with a certain someone outside of the locker room last night.” She raises her eyebrows, and her white teeth sparkle against her dark skin as her smirk splits into a wide smile.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t deny it. Trace and I didn’t make any effort to find a private spot to have our reunion yesterday, and thanks to being lost in him, I have no idea how many people came and went and saw us kissing like teenagers in the middle of the hallway.
“Last time I checked, Deja, it wasn’t against the law to kiss my boyfriend.”
“From what I heard, it was a little more than just a quick kiss.”
“Deja, are you really going to blame her for being all over Trace when you wanted to do the same thing like two months ago?” Harley’s usually sweet voice has a teasing edge to it. I raise my hand and she high-fives it.
“You guys never let me have any fun,” Deja pouts while Harley and I smile. Turning toward the field, we watch as the P.A. announces the ceremonial first pitch. After it’s thrown, I step down onto the top step of the dugout while Deja walks to the batter’s box and Harley takes the on-deck circle .
Deja’s patience at the plate benefits us early as she draws a walk and takes first base. Harley singles to right field, and Deja’s speed allows her to advance all the way to third base by the time I’m coming up to the plate.
This first-and-third situation is ideal for the Storm this early in the game, and Coach Golding gives me the sign to fake bunt.
As the Firebird’s pitcher goes into her windup, I rotate my hips forward, bringing my bat in front of me like I’m going to bunt the ball.
Their defenders begin moving into their bunt defense positions, but I pull back before the ball can cross the plate and take the pitch, even though it’s called a strike.
But putting the infielders slightly out of position gives Harley the opportunity to steal second base.
With no outs and both our runners in scoring position, Coach gives me the go-ahead to swing away. I patiently wait for my perfect pitch, fouling off the ones that are close, but not quite right, until I finally get my barrel on an inside ball and bury a line drive to the left center fence.
Deja makes it home easily, and Harley rounds third as Coach windmills her home.
I turn the corner at first base to watch as Vanessa Rhodes, the Firebirds’ left fielder, receives the ball off the fence, turns, and launches the ball toward home plate in an effort to get Harley out.
Once the throw sails over the cutoff player, I take off toward second base.
I look over my shoulder as I near second in time to see Harley dive into home, sliding just under the catcher’s tag. The umpire’s outstretched arms indicate she’s safe, and she jumps to her feet, celebrating the run with Deja as they make their way back to the dugout.
I find Erica’s screaming face out of the many in the dugout and celebrate my double with her. Then I look up, and even though I can’t hear his voice over the roar of the rest of the fans, I can read Trace’s lips as he points both hands in my direction: “THAT’S MY GIRL!”
The Firebirds’ pitcher records two strikeouts before I score on another base hit, but shortly after I come into the dugout, we ground out to an infielder and the top half of the inning ends. We’re riding high as we take the field for the first time with a three-run lead.
But our lead doesn’t last long. The Firebirds tie the score in the third inning when Lexi, our starting pitcher today, gives up a three-run homer, and then claim the lead when a string of small hits allows them to score another run. After that, it’s a fight to the finish.
We don’t give up any more homeruns, and the Firebirds hold us to mostly singles. They take full “home field advantage” when we finally score two runs in the top of the seventh, giving us the lead again, but one we’ll have to defend to the last pitch.
Erica steps into the circle during the seventh inning, having replaced Lexi in the fourth inning. By the time we get our second out, the bases are loaded, and any base hit could end the game in the Firebirds’ favor.
I debate calling time to give Erica a moment to collect herself before this last batter, but when she steps onto the pitching rubber, determination in her eyes, I relay the pitch signal and let her go.
On a 2-1 count, the Firebirds’ batter makes contact with the ball, a high chop that heads directly for Erica.
All she has to do is field the ball and throw it to any base for an out, but their leadoffs give the baserunners a few extra fractions of a second head start, the high bouncing ball even more time for them to advance.
Erica steps under the ball, fields it cleanly, and flips it over to Harley at first base for the final out of the game.
The crowd loses their minds, and my teammates on the bench and field converge on the pitcher’s circle.
I beat them all to Erica, lifting her up as she jumps into my arms and screams into my ear.
The rest of the team slams into us, toppling us over, and continues to dogpile on as the stragglers from the outfield and the bench reach the mass of teeming bodies.
A representative of the league walks onto the field, carrying the waist-high trophy, and our dogpile disassembles just enough for it to be passed into Erica’s hands.
She hoists it above her head, and each player on the team raises their hands high, indicating to each other and the crowd watching us that the San Antonio Storm is number one.
Champions.
The Firebirds and their coaches vacate the field as league employees come out of the woodwork to hand all the Storm players and coaches shirts and hats declaring us this year’s Women’s Fastpitch League Champions.
Another subset of people carry tables full of smaller trophies onto the field, followed by people with cameras and recording devices.
Several of my teammates—myself included—are pulled aside for quick interviews, mainly revolving around the question, “How does it feel to come out on top as champions despite how the regular season ended?” Erica, Coach Golding, and I all have the same answer: it feels good .
While half of the fans in the stadium start exiting, the other half stay to watch each member of the team get presented a miniature version of the trophy that will sit in a display case at the Storm’s front offices in San Antonio.
The constant applause begins to fade as even our fans decide to call it a night.
As the team is herded toward the outfield, I wave goodbye to my sister and her husband, Luella and Archie, and Marilyn and Emmett.
Trace blows me a kiss but stays put, saying his own goodbyes to his parents before they head toward the exit.
We’re gathered for team pictures, and after what feels like an unreal eternity, we trickle back toward the dugout, picking up our gloves and gear on the way.
It’s no surprise that I’m the last one in the dugout, since I had to traipse all the way back to home plate for my catcher’s mask and mitt that I had thrown off the second we won the game.
The smile on my face feels like a permanent addition I’m going to need chiseled off by the time I’m lugging my bag up the stairs. When I find Trace waiting for me a few steps away, I wheel my bag over to him and drop it at his feet.
His hands find my waist as I slide my hands up his arms, and our lips meet in a perfect kiss.
“I’m so proud of you, Naomi. Tonight was incredible. You were incredible.”
“Thank you.” My cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling so much, but it’s a small price to pay.
Trace runs a hand over one of my braids, smoothing away the flyaways that were pulled out by my helmets. “What are your plans for the rest of the night?” His eyes darken as they drop to my lips, then come back up.
“My plans?” My smile finally smooths away as my forehead furrows.
“What about yours? Are you going back to California tonight? If you stay, won’t you get fined for another day?
” My hands grip his biceps tighter with every word, and I’m afraid that if I let go of him now, he’ll teleport back to training camp in the blink of an eye .
“Naomi, tonight isn’t about me. We’ll worry about those things in the morning after we’ve had the chance to celebrate everything.”
“Everything?” I ask. My hands relax the slightest bit, and one side of my mouth hitches up into a half-smile.
“You. Tonight’s win. The fact that you didn’t run away when I said I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”
I pull back with a laugh.
“I’m serious, Naomi.” Trace pulls me back to him, pressing his forehead to mine. “Every day for the rest of my life, I want you to be mine. I love you.” He presses a short kiss to my forehead. “So, so much.”
“Well,” I say, tilting my head up to meet his eyes. “I think I’m quite amenable to that arrangement.” Trace laughs, but his face softens. “Because I love you so, so much, too.”
With a smile, Trace meets me in one more long, languid kiss, not bothered by the lingering fans who might be watching. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s celebrate.”
Trace bends down to pick up the handle of my gear bag, and we leave the stadium, taking the first steps of the rest of our lives, hand-in-hand.