Page 8 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
I do ice my arm.
But not because Trace told me to. I do it because I’m passionate about arm care and shoulder health. The quickest way to mess up your softball career is to mess up your arm, and I’m not planning on doing that any time soon.
Tomorrow’s practice comes too quickly, and while I’m simultaneously over the moon to be back on the field with my team, full practices are also exhausting, even for someone who maintains pretty good shape year-round. The early summer heat plus the extra physical exertion is a draining combination.
But I’m back on that field with a smile on my face the next day because I’m living my dream.
At least one of them. While playing professionally is definitely up there on Young Naomi’s list of aspirations, I’ve yet to achieve the dream.
The Olympic softball dream.
But when you’re not in control over whether softball is part of the summer Olympic program, you’re not really in control of your dream.
And the one shot I could have had was before I was invited to try out for Team USA.
The 2020 Tokyo Olympics got postponed a year, and they competed with the team selected the previous year, so even though I was on the road to being a national team member by the time they actually competed in the Olympics, it wasn’t my shot to take.
Thus, everyone’s first question is, “How do you have gold medals?”
My answer is simple: the Olympics aren’t the only international competition USA Softball competes in. My medals are from the Pan American Games and the World Championships. But not an Olympic gold medal.
A fact my mother likes to remind me of frequently.
Because, somehow, my gold medals are worth less than theirs. Like the lack of those five interlocking rings turns them into fool’s gold. A cheap copy.
Did I forget to mention that every other member of my family is an Olympic gold medalist?
They are, just not for summer sports. I come from a long line of Winter Olympians.
My mom’s parents were cross-country skiers.
My mom and dad competed in the eighties in the slalom events and ski jumping, and both won gold medals before they retired and got married.
When I came along, it was assumed that I would also be a winter sport athlete, until I sucked at every winter sport they made me try.
When Jenna, my younger sister, was born a few years later practically riding a snowboard, Mom stopped pushing me into skiing because she had a new protégé. After that, I found softball.
And my parents, even though they disliked that I wasn’t following “the family,” couldn’t stand to see one of their kids be less than the best, so I had all the coaches.
Batting, fielding, catching. Nothing but the best coaches money could hire.
But they spent all their time with Jenna.
I was practically raised around the idea that whatever I did, I had to be the best at it, but without any parental support to speak of.
But at least I wasn’t freezing my butt off on the slopes of a mountain.
The older I got, the more I realized how toxic they were, and even though I continued to push myself to be the best, it wasn’t for them anymore.
It wasn’t to get their approval and hope that one day, with enough accolades, they might look at me the same way they did Jenna.
I chased my dreams to spite them.
To show them that when I do get that elusive Olympic Gold, it won’t be because of anything they did. It will be because I worked hard and I earned it.
Every practice begins with a warmup: some dynamic stretching, throwing, and dailies—partner fielding drills that focus on glove control.
I pair with Scarlett, our other catcher, so we can throw in some position-specific blocking drills, too.
As teammates finish and begin heading toward the dugout for a water break, Deja Malone, one of the outfielders, makes a loud choking sound and gasps out, “Oh. My. Land.”
A few of us look up, trying to figure out what the Texas native is freaking out about, but she paces back and forth a few times before disappearing into the dugout. A quick glance around the field shows nothing out of the ordinary, so I shake off her outburst and finish my drills with Scarlett.
If it were any practice other than one of the three we get as a full team prior to our first game, I might rubberneck a little more, try to figure out what got Deja flustered.
But we don’t have the luxury of long preseasons like the professional baseball or football leagues.
While we hold team practices throughout April and May, with the college offseason taking precedence, we never get the whole team.
Some of our would-be rookies are still playing with their college teams, some of our veterans have coaching positions at colleges around the country, and only a fraction of us live in San Antonio year-round.
Some have other full-time jobs they work when they’re not spending the summer flying around, playing softball.
The league is small, and even though most of us have sponsorships that cover our gear and pay for the time off to do a few public skills clinics with the team throughout the off-season, not everyone can live off the small salary we get from the team and endorsements.
I definitely consider myself on the lucky end—thanks to my time on the national team, I make enough with sponsorships and off-season skills camps and clinics that I don’t have a “day job” when I’m not on the field.
When most people hear I’m a professional athlete, they assume Trace’s level of pay.
Big houses in nice neighborhoods and plenty of discretionary income for a myriad of luxuries.
In reality, I make about as much as your average minor league baseball player, which is much less than people realize.
But most people don’t like to hear that we’re just like them, claiming it “ruins the image” they have of professional athletes.
Coach Monique claps, shaking more than a few of us out of our confusion, and curtly reminds the ladies still on the field to finish their warmup.
Scarlett and I tuck our chins back down and finish our reps, not wanting to make a mistake and have to start the set over. When we’re done, we make our way to the dugout, hustling down the steps to the bench where our gear is waiting for us.
“Am I dreaming? ‘Cause if I am, don’t wake me up,” I hear Deja say to another outfielder as I dig through my oversized bag to pull out my protective gear.
I flip around, sitting on the bench to strap on my shin guards, when another pair of cleats, toe protector stained red, scrapes across the concrete and comes to stop in front of me.
“How’s it going with your boyfriend ?” Erica asks quietly enough for her voice to be hidden under the sounds movement as everyone enters the dugout to take a water break out of the Texas sun. She bumps my covered knee when I don’t look up, instead choosing to strap my other shin guard on.
While I had shared the concepts of my plan yesterday, I hadn’t updated her after my phone call with Trace.
And even on that call, though Trace agreed, our execution is still up in the air.
I know Trace will figure something out—he assured me of that yesterday—but with his schedule, I’m sure he won’t plan anything until our opening day this weekend.
He’s quite the fan of dramatic entrances.
Still, I don’t want to be too premature about the moony woo-woo eyes for my best friend, especially in front of Erica. She’s been pestering me to date Trace for years , and I know she’s one heart-eyes moment away from telling me to stop faking it with him.
Pulling on my chest protector, I try not to indulge Erica. I tug my twin red braids out from where they’re caught in my gear before looking back at her playful smile. “Things are going fine.”
She rolls her eyes, tucking her mitt into her armpit and reaching up to adjust her visor, flashing her sky blue nails that match our practice uniforms. “ Please ,” she exaggerates, her voice rising loud enough to be heard by our nearby teammates, “you don’t just get a new boyfriend and say things are only fine . ”
Heads turn, and I mentally calculate how many overthrows in the bullpen it would take to get back at her for this.
She smirks as she bends down to fish a ball out of the ball bucket.
My face turns red as Scarlett makes her way toward us, her white catcher’s gear the yin to my navy blue yang.
Her eyes bounce between me, the tomato face, and Erica, the sparkly-eyed she-devil.
“When did you start dating someone, Naomi?” Scarlett’s eyes take on some of the devilish sparkle to match Erica’s. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
Okay, so I haven’t dated in a while, but everyone doesn't need to make it sound like I’m a nun or something.
I open my mouth to tell Scarlett who knows what when Deja loudly makes her way down into the dugout, stealing the attention away from me. The tightness in my chest loosens as everyone’s focus goes to our overdramatic left fielder.
Normally, I’m not one to hide things from my teammates, most of whom I’ve known for over four years, if not more, but my friendship with Trace has always been something I’ve kept fairly private. Erica is one of the only ones I’ve introduced to Trace since I got drafted.
Even though my girls aren’t foreign to rubbing shoulders with other famous athletes—I know two off the top of my head who are married to baseball players—Trace has always sort of been…mine.
Not mine mine, but my secret friend that I don’t have to share with anyone else.