Resting Pitch Face (Pitch Please #1)

Chapter 1

Daphne

There wasn’t enough espresso in the tri-state area to make this morning tolerable.

I was already two shots deep, one eyelash away from a breakdown, and still clutching my notecards like they were the last lifeboat on the Titanic. The greenroom buzzed with pre-show nerves and fake smiles, but I was immune. Jaded, even.

And frankly?

Over it.

Good Morning MLS. High-profile, nationally broadcast. Big deal. I’d covered two World Cups, a scandal involving someone’s wife and someone else’s transfer clause, and I was currently being asked to talk about—check notes—an “aging soccer dinosaur.”

Kieren freaking Walker.

And not in the fun, Silver Fox, still-has-it kind of way. No. The script literally used the phrase dinosaur. I nearly snorted my coffee when I read it.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

“Hey, Daph,” my producer had chirped over comms fifteen minutes ago, too chipper for my liking. “Can you sneak in a little something about Kieren Walker? You know, get the fandom frothing. Just mention him when you talk Storm defense.”

Right. Kieren Walker.

West Michigan Storm’s infamous defender. Tattooed menace. Media nightmare. Man who ghosted the children’s cancer benefit I was covering last year, punched a teammate during preseason, and once told my colleague—and I quote—“I don’t talk to microphones.”

Naturally, I was told not to “stir the pot.”

So obviously, I brought a spoon and a flamethrower.

I tucked my hair behind my ear, scanned the teleprompter one more time, and mentally revised the segment into something less PR fluff and more… honest journalism with a splash of sass.

Let them call me difficult. I preferred “dangerously caffeinated and devastatingly accurate.”

My name was already trending from that time I compared a team’s midfield to lukewarm oatmeal. What was one more storm?

“Thirty seconds!” someone called.

I straightened my blazer, flashed a razor-sharp smile at the mirror, and thought of all the players who could’ve shown up. And of all the ones who didn’t.

Walker had fans, sure. That mysterious, broody, scarred kind of hot. But I wasn’t in the mood for broody.

I was in the mood for blood.

“Just hype up the season,” they said. “Don’t stir the pot.”

But they put me on air with a live mic and a vendetta.

And that, bestie?

That was their first mistake.

The lights hit like a sucker punch—bright, hot, and immediate. My lips curved into the kind of smile that made PR teams nervous.

I was live.

The camera panned, the countdown ticked down in my earpiece, and the host launched into his welcome with that practiced, syrupy enthusiasm that screamed network anchor. I nodded politely, legs crossed, hands folded over my notecards like a good little soccer correspondent.

But beneath the surface?

I was primed and loaded.

“And now,” the host said, turning to me with a grin, “we’re joined by Daphne Sommers, who somehow manages to keep the league honest and fashionable. Good morning, Daph.”

“Morning,” I replied, tone sweet enough to rot teeth. “Glad to be here.”

“Let’s get into it.” He chuckled, flipping his own notes. “Any bold predictions for this season?”

He asked it like a joke. Lighthearted. Casual.

I didn’t blink.

“Sure,” I said, tilting my head just slightly. “That Kieren Walker will retire before passing the ball.”

The laugh that burst from the crew behind the camera was immediate and loud. I caught the makeup artist nearly choke on her drink.

I just smiled.

The host gave a mock gasp. “Ouch! Harsh words for West Michigan’s finest.”

“Please,” I said, waving a hand. “He’s got all the finesse of a rampaging bull and the humility of a Bond villain. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” He was grinning now. “All right then—what are your thoughts on the Storm’s title chances this year?”

I smirked, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be dramatic.

“They’ll do fine,” I said. “You know, once their defensive fossil gets over his god complex.”

Another ripple of laughter. Someone behind the camera actually snorted. The host clutched his chest like I’d physically wounded him.

“Wow. You’ve been saving that one, huh?”

“Like a bottle of top-shelf whiskey,” I replied smoothly. “Only with a longer shelf life than Kieren Walker’s last press conference.”

I saw the red light on the camera blink off as the segment cut to commercial, but the host was still laughing.

“Okay, okay,” the host chuckled, smoothing his notes. “Let’s shift gears before Walker storms in here with a cease and desist. Who should fans be watching this season?”

I lifted my coffee cup like it was a crystal ball. “There’s a lot of fresh talent this year. I’d keep an eye on Alejandro Cruz—kid’s got gold in his feet and ice in his veins. Also, Brody Reid is finally getting the midfield minutes he deserves.”

“Solid picks,” the host agreed, nodding. “But I know our viewers are going to ask—any final thoughts on Walker?”

I gave him a look over the rim of my cup. “You sure you want another sound bite?”

“I mean… we’re already in the deep end.”

“All right,” I said, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “He’s the most overrated player in the league and possibly the grumpiest. I’m just waiting for him to throw hands during a post-game interview.”

There was a beat of stunned silence—then a bark of laughter from the audio tech off-screen.

I didn’t flinch. Just smiled and took another sip of lukewarm coffee like I hadn’t just lobbed a grenade at the West Michigan Storm’s golden boy.

The host gave an exaggerated wince. “Again… I would never want to go toe to toe with you.”

“You’ll never have to. Only if you start calling yourself ‘a god among men’ in third person.”

The screen froze on my smile mid-sip, coffee halfway to my lips. A cheerful jingle played us out.

The moment the camera light blinked off, the room exhaled.

In the control booth, my producer—Tom, bless his eternally tense soul—arched a single eyebrow at me like he was doing the world’s slowest mental math.

“Too much?” I asked, popping off my mic.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, “Spicy.”

I grinned. “But accurate?”

He exhaled through his nose, the sound of a man who already knew we were in for inbox hell. “You might trend.”

“Well,” I said, standing and brushing imaginary lint off my blazer, “so will he.”

And I meant it.

Because if Kieren Walker hadn’t noticed me before?

He was about to. You didn’t ditch cancer kids without any explanation. It wasn’t… it wasn’t done.

The second I stepped off the set, I kicked off my heels like they’d personally wronged me.

Circulation returned to my feet with a vengeance—tingling, stabbing pins and needles—and I hissed out a breath, rotating my ankles one at a time like I was auditioning for a very angry, very tired ballet.

Regret? Nope. Not a shred.

People might call it a hit piece. Maybe it was. But Kieren Walker had it coming.

He ditched a charity event for pediatric cancer patients.

Not just any charity event—I was covering it, spotlighting those kids, those families.

They practiced their lines to thank him.

Made him handmade cards. One girl shaved her head early just to be able to show her henna tattoo of the Storm logo and his number when he showed up.

Except he didn’t.

No call. No message. Just… didn’t show.

And when I asked about it a week later? His agent said he was “unavailable for comment.”

He ghosted cancer kids.

But none of that mattered to anyone because the man had cheekbones sharp enough to slice through steel and a left-footed clearance that made national highlight reels. Women fawned over his jawline. Men praised his discipline. Coaches gave him leeway. Fans made excuses.

He could be absolute trash as a person and somehow still win the public relations lottery—and that pissed me off more than I cared to admit.

I needed air. And sugar.

The Honey & Hearth Café was the kind of place that smelled like cinnamon year-round and felt like a hug the second you stepped inside.

Mismatched chairs surrounded small round tables, each topped with crocheted doilies and tiny glass vases holding whatever wildflowers were in season.

The walls were a warm honey-yellow, lined with black-and-white photos of local families, some dating back decades—including one of my grandfather grinning beside Mr. Albright, both of them holding up fishing poles like prized swords.

A chalkboard menu hung above the counter in swooping handwriting, promising fresh danish, seasonal pies, and tea steeped just the way you liked it.

The café sat tucked between a used bookstore and an antique shop, its awning faded but charming, like everything in this part of town. A bell jingled as I pushed through the door.

“Daphne!” Mrs. Albright lit up behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “We just pulled out the fresh batch of strawberry danish.”

“You always know what I need before I do.” I smiled, breath finally slowing. “One of those, and a tea—earl grey if you’ve got it.”

“Of course, honey.”

Mr. Albright waved from the kitchen doorway. “Tell your mama I still owe her a rematch in cards.”

“I will,” I said with a laugh. “Though she swears you cheat.”

“Only when I’m losing.”

I sank into the old floral chair by the window, wrapped my fingers around the warm ceramic mug, and let the scent of fresh pastry and old stories fill my lungs.

For a moment, the world stopped spinning.

And that was enough.

I was halfway through my danish, crumbs scattered across my napkin like confetti, when my phone buzzed.

Nora.

I didn’t even need to open the message to know what it was about.

?? DAPH.

You detonated that interview. Like full-on live TV mic drop.

I snorted into my tea, already smiling.

I spoke facts.

A little honesty never hurt anyone.

Girl. You said he’s the grumpiest player in the league.

And that you’re just waiting for him to throw hands in a post-game interview.

Where’s the lie?