Unknown:You pitched well tonight.
My heart stops.
Me:Ava?
Ava:Don’t make me regret texting you.
Me:Too late. Already smug about it.
Ava:Of course you are.
Me:Were you there?
Three minutes pass before she responds.
Ava:No. But I watched. Hard not to when every TV in the city is showing it.
Me:And?
Ava: And nothing. Just wanted you to know someone noticed.
Me:Just someone?
Ava:Don’t push, Steele.
Me:Fine. But for the record, I knew you were watching.
Ava:Cocky.
Me:Accurate.
The dots appear and disappear twice.
Ava:Goodnight, Reece.
Me:Night, Ava.
She doesn’t text again. But the fact she texted at all is a good sign, and I’ll take it.
I lie in bed staring at my phone, reading those messages over and over until I fall asleep with a smile on my face for the first time in a week.
Next time, I’ll pitch again. Harder, faster, better.
Because if pitching is the only language she’ll let me speak right now, then I’ll make damn sure every single throw says exactly what I can’t.
I’m not giving up.
Not on this.
Not onher.
Chapter Seven
Ava
It’s been three days since I texted Reece after his game, and I’ve regretted it approximately seven thousand times, maybe more. I stopped counting around Thursday.
The problem with sending ayou-pitched-welltext to someone you’re actively trying to avoid is that it opens a door you specifically nailed shut. And Reece Steele, I’m learning, is excellent at finding open doors.
