“And off the mound?”
“Off the mound, I’m performing. Being whoever people need me to be.” His hand lingers near my face. “Except with you. With you, I’m just… me.”
The vulnerability in his voice cracks something open in my chest. This is the softer side no one else sees, the part of him not on display for cameras or crowds.
“Reece…”
“I know… too real, too fast.” But he doesn’t pull away. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I should tell him to stop. Protect us both from whatever heartbreak is waiting down this road.
Instead, I lean forward and kiss him.
He responds immediately, hands framing my face, kissing me slowly and thoroughly. There’s no rush, no desperation, just connection, pure and simple.
When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine.
“Still waiting for the other shoe?” he whispers.
“Always.”
“I’ll keep proving you wrong.”
“You can try.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
Two weeks intowhatever this is, Reece texts me at dawn.
Reece:I have a game tonight.
Me:I’m aware. It’s all over the city.
Reece:Come.
Me:To the stadium? Where my dad coaches? Are you insane?
Reece:You’ve been to games before.
Me:Not since we started… this.
Reece:Exactly. Come tonight. I’ll pitch better knowing you’re watching.
Me:Cocky.
Reece:Accurate. Box 214. I left your name at will-call.
Me:Reece.
Reece:Please?
Thepleasedoes me in.
I show up an hour before first pitch, cap pulled low, sunglasses firmly in place. Box 214 is blessedly empty except for one other couple more interested in each other than the field.
Reece takes the mound in the first inning, and my heart does something stupid in my chest. He looks lethal out there, all controlled power and devastating precision. Every pitch is art, and I can’t look away.
In the fifth inning, after striking out his third batter, he glances toward my section. It’s quick, barely noticeable, but I see it.
