Reece
The first sign of trouble is a tweet.
Dante sends it at six forty-three in the morning with seven fire emojis and the word ‘bro’ repeated four times in a row, which, from him, counts as a formal notification. I’m three sips into my first coffee when my phone lights up the kitchen counter, and I make the mistake of reading it before I’m caffeinated enough to handle bad news with any kind of grace.
The account isSportsBeat. Eighty thousand followers. A bio that readsFirst in MLB gossip, last in accuracy, and a pinned post featuring a pixelated image of me from when, exactly? Three weeks ago, maybe four. I’m leaving Ink District after a session, turned away from the camera at an angle that doesn’t confirm anything but doesn’t deny anything either. Ava’s studio door is visible behind me. My car is nowhere to be seen in the shot.
The caption reads…
Wildcats’ ace pitcher, Reece Steele, has been spotted multiple times at an Ink District Studio near Wildcat Stadium. Sources close to the situation suggest the visits aren’t about the ink. Who’s the mystery woman?
#Wildcats #ReeceSteel30 #WhoIsShe
Sources close to the situation apparently verify the story.
I set my coffee down very carefully.
I arrive at the stadium forty minutes early, which is saying something because I’m never early for anything unless a mound is involved. By the time the rest of the team starts filing into the locker room, I’ve already been through my warmup routine, fielded eleven texts from teammates, and declined two calls from a number I don’t recognize. It’s either a reporter or a scam, and at this particular moment, the distinction feels academic.
Martinez spots me from across the room and grins as if he’s won something. “Steele. Big day for your social media presence.”
“Fascinating.”
“Mystery woman.” He makes air quotes with his fingers. “Very dramatic. Very telenovela.”
“Happy to discuss it after you work on your changeup.”
“My changeup is excellent.”
“Your changeup got shelled in the third inning last Tuesday.”
He sits down, slightly less smug.
Mack comes in behind him, takes one look at my face, and chooses the seat next to mine. He doesn’t say anything, which is why Mack is the closest thing I have to a best friend. He has a genuinely excellent instinct for when words are helpful and when shutting up is the superior strategy.
Carlos drops onto the bench across from us and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “Okay, soSportsBeatposted the photo this morning.”
“I’m aware,” I say.
“And then Lena commented on it.”
I look at him.
“I’m not stirring anything. I’m just saying…”
“What did she comment?”
Carlos pulls out his phone. Scrolls, then reads aloud in the deadpan tone of a man reporting a weather forecast,“Some things are obvious once you know what to look for. There is a winking face emoji.”
The silence in my immediate area takes on a particular quality.
“She’s fishing,” Mack says, not looking up from his phone.
“She’s feeding,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
And here’s the thing about Lena Hart—she is smart. I spent fourteen months with her and underestimated her intelligence for about twelve of them, which was my first mistake and, for a while, my largest. She doesn’t post impulsively. Every caption is calculated, every emoji deliberate, every so-called throwback photo selected because it serves a purpose in the current moment. She sawSportsBeat’spost and commented within four minutes. She’s been watching for it. Possibly waiting for it. Possibly—and this is the part my stomach doesn’t love—responsible for the source feeding information to them in the first place.
I close the app and shove my phone into my locker.
