Page 11

Chapter Eleven

Jake

July 1st

I toss my keys onto the counter, kick off my shoes, and grab a water from the fridge.

My body’s still buzzing from tonight’s win over Arizona, but my brain?

It’s somewhere else.

Someone else.

I lean against the counter, take a long pull from the bottle, and scrub a hand over my face.

Images flash behind my eyes—Tahlia sitting in those stands earlier, elbows propped on her knees casually, hair catching the sun.

Not posing for a social media click.

Just watching our practice as if I mattered.

And somehow, without even trying, that small moment made me play the best damn game of my life.

Four-for-four at the plate, a pair of doubles, a stolen base, and a diving catch that’ll probably lead tonight’s highlight reel.

I grab my water, still standing in the kitchen, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Mom .

I answer.

“Hey, Mama.”

“So, you do still remember your mama after showing out like that?”

I smirk.

“Just barely. I take it y’all watched the game?”

“Caught the whole thing. Your daddy rewound that catch in centerfield like ten times.”

In the background, I hear him call out, “Tell him I could’ve made that play blindfolded.”

“Hi, Dad.”

Mom huffs.

“Hang on—let me put this thing on speaker before your father blows out a vocal cord hollering like he’s calling cattle.”

There’s a beat of shuffling, a muttered “Tina, I wasn’t hollerin’” and then his voice comes through, louder now.

“You ran like you had something to prove,” Dad says.

“What’d they do, tell you scouts from the Hall of Fame were in the stands?”

I chuckle, sinking onto the edge of my bed.

“Nah, just figured I’d remind folks I still know how to show out when it counts.”

I twist the cap off my water and take a long drink before asking, “How’s everything at the ranch?”

“Hot,” Mom says.

“Dry. Your father’s still fussing about the fence line. But the longhorns are happy, and we’ve got a new calf with attitude.”

I laugh, walking toward my room.

“You should name it after him. Seems fair.”

“You better be careful or you’ll come home to a steer named Jake,” Dad responds with a chuckle.

As I toe off my sneakers and flop onto the bed, she adds, “And before I forget—who was the young lady in the stands behind third base?”

I pause.

“What?”

"Your sister texted us a picture of you at practice yesterday. Looked like she was watching you pretty closely.

“Caption said, ' Does Reynolds have a new good luck charm?'”

I groan and rub a hand over my face. “Of course she did.”

"That young lady is beautiful," Mom says gently. "And she didn't look like some sideline chaser. Just… calm. Like she wasn't there for attention.

"

“She wasn’t. I invited her mom.”

“Oh, really? What’s her name?”

"Her name is Tahlia, Mom.

”

She hums like she’s locking it away for later.

“And what is she to you?”

I let the silence sit for a second.

"I don't know yet. But… It's different."

Dad speaks up again.

“She didn’t seem to flinch when the cameras panned over her. That’s rare.”

“She’s not like anybody else I’ve ever met,” I say quietly.

Mom doesn’t push.

Just smiles through the phone.

“Will we get a chance to meet her when we visit?”

I plug my phone into the charger on my nightstand and lie back against the pillows.

“It’s possible. Can’t wait to see y’all in a couple weeks.”

“We’re counting the days,” she says, then softens her voice.

“Night, Sugar Bear. Get some rest.”

“Love you, Mama,” I say.

“Love you too.”

The call ends as I shake my head, chuckling to myself.

I love my parents and the family business, but it wasn’t for me.

I always wanted to play baseball or at least be involved in sports.

I'm glad I am living option A.

I haven’t even been off the phone for two minutes, and it begins buzzing when I plug it into the charger. DMs are stacked like unpaid parking tickets.

Damn. I know I didn't sleep with half these girls.

I may have entertained the notion.

I thumb through a few for the routine of it all.

But it’s only more of the same—half-dressed to no dress at all selfies, I miss you messages, and offers to celebrate the win properly.

Two months ago, I would’ve eaten this shit up.

Now?

Gone.

All traces of my past sordid affairs are sent to the trash files on my phone.

Somewhere internally, tucked in a small corner at the back of my mind, is a mini version of me yelling ‘noooooooooo.’ He’ll just have to live with it.

Because, as hard as it is for me to admit—even to myself—I don’t want any of them.

I want the girl next door.

The one who pretended not to watch me practice, yet whose eyes never missed a single move.

I strip off my clothes, tossing them into the basket as I head into the bathroom.

The hot spray of the shower beats down on me, steam rising around my shoulders, soothing muscles still tense from nine innings of intensity.

I close my eyes, letting the heat seep deep into tired limbs—but even now, it doesn't erase her image.

The calm, unguarded expression she wore as her gaze followed every pitch, every swing, every sprint across the grass. The way she didn’t have to yell or wave or wear my jersey—just being there, was enough to electrify every nerve in my body.

When did it shift? When did the chase—the teasing and poking at boundaries—turn into this quiet, relentless craving? It's not just that she's gorgeous; it's something deeper and stronger.

It's how she's unafraid to push back, to call me out on my bullshit.

Instead of irritating me, her sarcasm pushes me to be sharper and better.

She makes me want things I never wanted before: stability, depth, and a real connection, not just some fleeting rush.

It terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.

I cut the shower, towel off, and pull on a pair of sweats.

Exhaustion settles into my bones now, dragging me toward the comfort of my bed.

My sheets are cool as I slide beneath them, adjusting my pillow with a tired sigh.

Yet, sleep doesn't come easily.

Instead, my mind circles back to her—the quiet fire behind those deep brown eyes, the soft curve of her lips when she tries to hold back a smile. The rare moments when her guard slips just enough to reveal something tender beneath all that steel and sharp wit.

The thought slips in quietly— what would it feel like to really let her in? to share more than just walls, coffee, and playful jabs? What would it be like to feel her laughter vibrate against my chest, to watch her smile up at me, unguarded and real, with no walls or sarcasm between us?

Yeah. I’m in trouble. Deep, undeniable trouble.

I close my eyes at last, feeling my heartbeat slow as I drift off. The memory of her face—the face of a girl who's gotten closer than anyone has in years—is the last clear image in my mind as sleep takes me.

God help me when I finally get her under my skin for real.

Wednesday Morning

July 2nd

I’m awake before my alarm.

Not even sure I actually slept.

Dawn cuts through the blinds, evident on the far wall.

I lie here for a while, staring at the ceiling, already thinking about Arizona.

Day game.

Big energy.

Full crowd.

My body’s loose, but my brain’s already running plays.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch, spine popping as I raise my arms overhead.

Hamstrings, back, shoulders—everything still humming from yesterday’s win.

I hold the stretch until my breath slows, then start my light band routine in the living room, rolling out my shoulders and working through the tightness in my lower back.

Nothing intense.

Just enough to get my muscles talking.

By the time I'm finished, my stomach's growling.

I head to the kitchen and grab one of the prepped meals from the fridge—spinach and egg white scramble with roasted sweet potatoes.

My nutritionist loads the week’s meals into the fridge on Sundays, and my shopper keeps everything fresh.

I don't have to think. Just eat, train, and show up.

I fork in the first bite, barely tasting it, when my phone buzzes.

Luke (Trainer): Nice work yesterday, Gold Glove. Try not to break a rib diving today—we’re low on tape.

I snort into my coffee. Smartass.

Still, he’s right. The way I played last night felt different. Lighter. Locked in.

Another buzz.

Troy (Agent): Twitter's in a tizzy this morning.

Who’s the woman you were talking to yesterday?

I frown and swipe the image open.

It's a still shot from media day—I leaned in, talking to Tahlia just before we opened the stadium to the press. She's got that half-smile, eyes tilted toward mine, like she's pretending not to be amused.

I stare at the image a second too long.

How she looked when she peeked through the peephole and saw me standing there Thursday night.

Or how she ducked her chin to hide her smile when I handed her that coffee.

How, without even trying, she’s thrown my whole routine off balance.

And damn if I don’t like it.

I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over her name.

Fuck it.

Me: Morning, counselor.

Me: Did you sleep okay?

I keep eating, waiting. The rest of the eggs disappear before my screen lights up.

Tahlia: Since my neighbor isn’t auditioning for Pornhub this week, I slept like a baby.

I snort, nearly choke on the last bite of sweet potato.

Me: Harsh.

Me: I haven’t had anyone over in a while, you know.

There’s a pause. I wait.

Tahlia: Voluntary celibacy? Shocking.

I grin, typing back fast.

Me: Not voluntary.

Me: Selective.

Tahlia: Oh? Enlighten me.

I lean back in my chair, smiling like an idiot.

Me: Been a little preoccupied.

Me: I'll tell you about her sometime.

My heart beats harder than it should.

Tahlia: Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your game instead of attempting to flirt?

Me: Attempting?

Wow.

Tough crowd.

I'm over here giving MVP-level effort, and you're calling it a warm-up act.

Tahlia: I have a meeting soon.

Later, Slugger.

Me: Later, counselor.

Don’t miss me too much.

Phone down.

Mood?

Through the damn roof.

I rinse off my plate, toss back the rest of my coffee, and move to the bedroom.

By 9 a.

m.

, I'm suited up—black joggers, a Terrors hoodie, sneakers, and sunglasses on.

Keys. Phone. Protein bar for the ride. Check.

I slide into the driver’s seat of my Silverado, the engine already warm from the early summer heat. The windows are down, the country radio is on low, and air drifts through the cab.

I roll toward the stadium. Traffic is light this morning, and the sun glints off the hood. Life feels… good.

Simple.

Like maybe I’m finally not screwing things up for once.

By 9:30, I’m pulling into the player lot. Gate lifts. I flash my badge and cruise into my usual spot.

Out of the truck, gear bag slung over my shoulder, I head into the facility. Familiar concrete underfoot. Familiar echo of cleats hitting tile.

The clubhouse smells like menthol, fresh tape, coffee, and something fried that shouldn't be here.

First stop: the trainer’s room.

Quick check-in.

Trey gives me a once-over and tosses me a pack of electrolyte gummies.

“Stay upright today,” he says.

“No promises.”

I down a few, grab a water, and keep moving.

The locker room is loud when I walk in.

The boys are already chirping—bets flying about today’s hits, Griff yelling about someone stealing his sunflower seeds again.

I head for my locker, sliding into my cleats when Max Murphy drops onto the bench beside me.

He bumps my shoulder.

“You’re grinning like you hit for the cycle last night.”

I smirk, adjusting my cap.

“Winning’s contagious.”

Kelton James snickers from across the aisle.

“Or maybe somebody’s playing catch with a new friend?”

A few guys wolf whistle.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, but I can’t hide the grin.

Diesel Donovan leans around his locker, eyebrows raised.

“Is it serious?”

I shrug, tone quieter now.

“Don’t know yet. The fundraiser was our first actual date.”

He arches a brow.

“And?”

“And I haven’t even kissed her,” I say, dragging my glove from the shelf.

“But yeah… it feels different.”

That earns me a long pause.

Then Kelton lets out a low whistle.

“Damn. You mean to tell me Jake Reynolds is playing the long game?”

Murph chuckles, shaking his head.

“Somebody write this down. Man’s out here giving interviews and not even rounding first.”

I smirk, tugging on my jersey.

“She’s worth the wait.”

That shuts them up.

For about five seconds.

Then Griff yells from across the room, “Holy shit, you’re in love!”

I shake my head and laugh.

“I can’t be in love… can I?”

Diesel snorts.

“Maybe it’s just infatuation.”

“Same thing with better lighting,” Kelton adds.

Murph leans back on the bench, arms folded.

“Nah. Infatuation fades when you get what you want. Love sticks around when shit gets messy.”

I go quiet for a second, rolling that over.

“Then maybe I don’t know what it is yet,” I mutter.

“Just know I haven’t felt it like this before.”

No one says anything after that.

Just cleats on tile, lockers clanking, the low hum of music spilling from someone’s speaker.

It’s not awkward.

It’s real.

And it hangs there, heavy but solid.

Like maybe they get it.

Even if I don't. At least not yet.

Coach sticks his head in. “Line up, ladies! Let’s go!”

We grab our gloves and jog toward the field for the final tosses before the national anthem. The sun's already beating down, warm and relentless.

I roll my shoulders and fire off a few throws with Murph in the shallow center.

The rhythm is familiar, clean, and automatic.

The crowd's filing in. Vendors shouting. A kid in the front row waves a homemade sign with my number on it.

We wrap up our ball tosses, our gloves popping with that sharp, clean snap, then head back to the dugout. The energy's climbing, and the rhythm of game day is settling into place.

I tap the top of the dugout railing as I step over it—habit, ritual, whatever you want to call it.

Guys line up along the edge, caps off, heads tipped toward the flag as the national anthem is performed.

When it’s over, it’s go time.

The announcer’s voice booms over the stadium:

“Leading off, centerfield, number seventeen—Jake Reynolds!”

The crowd roars to life with cheers coming from all around.

It’s a packed stadium for an afternoon game.

I jog out, glove tucked under my arm, quick wave toward the stands.

And that’s when I see her.

Tahlia.

Five rows up behind third base.

Wearing a black Terrors shirt with my number across the back—like she’s claiming her territory.

And I’m not mad at it.

Joi’s beside her, already yelling something that looks like “Don’t suck!” and fist-pumping like she’s the one leading off.

Tahlia just watches.

Not arms crossed.

Not half-distracted.

All in.

Clapping.

Smiling.

Eyes locked on me.

My heart stutters, mid-stride.

I tip my cap.

She tilts her head, amused.

Goddamn, she’s beautiful.

“Yo,” Kelton mutters as he jogs past me toward the left.

"There she is.”

I don’t take my eyes off her. “Yeah.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Better not fuck up today.”

I smirk. “Not planning on it.”

It’s the bottom of the fourth, and I'm having the game of my career.

I already went yard in the first—fastball down and in, and I sent it screaming left-center. Second pitch of the game. Quick hands, smooth swing. Gone.

The crowd lost their minds.

But all I saw was her.

Tahlia, on her feet behind third, hollering like she’d waited her whole life to see that ball clear the wall. Hands cupped around her mouth, yelling something I couldn’t hear but definitely felt. I pointed at her as I rounded second, grinning like an idiot, and touched third right in front of her section—eyes on her, not my coach. She was clapping so hard I thought she might throw her shoulder out.

Top of the second—diving catch at the warning track.

Top of the third—sliding snag to cut off a double and throw the runner out at second.

The crowd loved it. Sure. But it wasn't their approval I was chasing.

It was hers.

She hasn’t looked away since the anthem.

No phone. No pretending. No posing.

She’s locked in. Just like me.

And now I'm back in the box, tapping my cleats and adjusting my grip. My focus is sharp, my breath steady, and the bat balanced between my palms.

The pitcher winds up.

His first pitch comes in hot and high, leading to ball one. The second pitch is slower but not quite inside the box, a curveball to the outside, leading to ball two. I feel like the pitcher may be going for the intentional walk.

Here comes the third pitch. It’s an inside heater and gives me ball three.

He's working me carefully now. Doesn't want to leave anything fat.

I step back in and crowd the plate, flashing him a grin I know he hates.

The fourth pitch is out of his hand.

I don’t see the spin. There is no spin. Just velocity.

A four-seam fastball riding in, up, and tight. I don’t have time to move out of its path.

Crack .

That’s not the bat, it’s me.

The sound is sickening—like a branch splintering under pressure. My ribs absorb it with no give.

The bat slips from my hands and hits the dirt with a hollow thud.

Pain explodes through my side, immediate and unforgiving.

I stagger back, grabbing my ribs. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Just white-hot pain cutting clean through me.

The crowd gasps, then silence. Like someone hit mute on a full stadium.

And through that eerie, ringing silence, I hear her voice.

“JAKE!”

It’s sharp, raw with emotion, and a hint of terror.

It cuts through the brain fog like a blade.

My knees give out, and I hit the dirt, black creeping in at the edges of everything.

Medics sprint toward me, shouting, gloves on, bags in hand—but I can't focus on them.

All I can hear is her.

Not the crowd. Not the coaches. Not my teammates closing in.

Just her.

Her voice.

Her.