“Family tradition. My dad played minor league, never made it to the majors. I was determined to finish what he started.” His expression shifts, something complicated crossing his face. “Then he died when I was sixteen, and suddenly it wasn’t about tradition anymore. It was about proving I could do it. Be someone.”
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
He shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Long time ago. But yeah, baseball stopped being fun somewhere around my junior year of college. Became an obligation. A debt I had to repay.”
“And now?”
“Now?” His eyes meet mine. “Now I’m remembering why I loved it in the first place.”
The weight of his gaze makes my chest tighten. This is dangerous territory. Soft confessions, meaningful looks, and the kind of vulnerability I specifically asked him not to bring into this.
“Reece…”
“I know. Staying casual.” He sits back, the moment breaking. “But you asked, and I answered. That real enough for you?”
“It’s a start.”
Before he can say anything else, a server appears beside the table, setting down a small dish of olives and warm bread, the smell of garlic and herbs cutting through the tension I’m feeling.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks, pen poised.
Reece glances at me, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Probably safer if we eat before we keep oversharing.”
I snort despite myself. “Agreed.”
I order a creamy seafood pasta. Reece goes straight for a large meat-lovers pizza, no hesitation, and adds a salad to share. The server moves on, leaving the bread and tension between us.
Reece reaches for a piece, then pauses, eyes flicking to me. “You should have some too.”
“Oh?” I arch a brow.
“Garlic bread,” he says seriously. “That way, you won’t think I’m revolting when I kiss you later.”
I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Bold of you to assume I’m going to kiss you.”
He doesn’t laugh back.
Instead, he leans in just enough that his voice drops, his gaze steady and intent. “I’m not assuming.”
My pulse stutters.
“I’m telling you.”
The air between us shifts. It feels charged, and suddenly the garlic bread is the least dangerous thing on the table.
Reece breaks eye contact, and the conversation shifts to safer topics, like his teammates’ ridiculous superstitions, my most challenging tattoo designs, and the absolutely unhinged thing Mack did last week involving a dare and a mascot costume.
By the time dessert comes, I’ve laughed more than I have in months, and the knot of anxiety in my chest has loosened considerably.
We’re sharing tiramisu when Reece’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his jaw tightens.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Lena.” He silences the phone without reading the message. “Third time today.”
“What does she want?”
“Attention. Drama. Pick your poison.” He sets the phone face down on the table. “She’s been texting more since the photos.”
