“For the record,” she says, still not looking up, “I don’t care.”
The door chimes as I push it open, stepping back into the late-afternoon sunlight.
My phone buzzes immediately. It’s no doubt Dante, waiting for confirmation of my humiliation.
I ignore it.
Instead, I glance back through the window, where Ava is already back at her desk, pencil in hand, sketching something I can’t see from here.
She doesn’t look up.
But I’m smiling anyway.
Twenty minutes later, I walk back into the locker room, and Marcus takes one look at my face and starts laughing.
“She destroyed you, didn’t she?”
“Obliterated,” I admit, tossing my keys onto the bench. “I didn’t even get past‘hello’before she figured out it was a bet.”
Dante whistles low. “Damn. She’s good.”
“She’s terrifying.” I grin, pulling out my phone. “And I’m definitely going back.”
Carlos pauses mid-towel dry. “Why?”
“Because…” I say, already typing out a reminder to swing by Ink District next week, “… she’s the first person in years who didn’t give a damn about my fastball.”
Marcus shakes his head, smirking. “You’re an idiot, Steele.”
“Yeah,” I say, still smiling. “Probably.”
But I’m already planning my next move.
Chapter Four
Ava
The metal bleachers are cold against my jeans, even through the denim. I should have brought a jacket, but Dad texted me twenty minutes ago saying practice would wrap up soon, and I figured I could survive the chill long enough to grab dinner with him.
Below me, the field is a symphony of controlled chaos. Players run drills, their cleats churning up dirt in perfect synchronization. The crack of bats echoes across the stadium, sharp and satisfying. A coach, not my father, shouts instructions I can’t quite make out from up here.
I’m scrolling through design requests on my tablet when I hear footsteps on the bleachers.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I glance up, and there he is. Reece Steele, in full practice gear, his dark hair damp with sweat, a cocky grin already spreading across his face.
“Didn’t expect to be here,” I say, returning my attention to the tablet. “But here we are.”
“Here we are,” he echoes, climbing up to sit two rows below me, close enough to talk without shouting, far enough to maintain plausible deniability. “Change your mind about the tattoo?”
“Nope.”
“About giving me your number?”
“Also no.”
He laughs, low and warm. “Then you’re here because?” And he draws the word out and gives me a smirk.
