Curveballs & Kisses (Diamond Warriors)

Chapter One

Reece Steele

Pitcher

The thing about opening season at home is that the entire city goes wild.

Fifty-two thousand people crammed into Wildcat Stadium on a cool March night, and every single one of them is riding that first-game-of-the-season high. They scream themselves hoarse, wave rally towels, and wait for me to do what I’ve done for the past three seasons—dominate.

I roll my shoulder, feeling the familiar pull of muscle and tendon as I stand on the mound. The evening air has a crisp edge to it, the kind that makes your breath visible between pitches. The stadium lights blaze against the darkening sky, and the scoreboard reads…

Wildcats 2

Tahoe Blues 2

Bottom of the 7th

Tied game. Two outs. Runners on second and third.

The crowd is a living thing, roaring, churning, desperate. Every eye in the stadium is locked on me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get off on it just a little.

“Come on, Steele!” someone bellows from behind home plate. “Strike this punk out!”

I tug the brim of my cap lower, hiding my smirk. Punk. The batter stepping up to the plate is Marcus Webb, six-foot-four, built like a tank, batting .312 last season. He hit two home runs off me in last year’s playoffs.

He thinks he has my number.

He’s about to learn otherwise.

I catch the sign from Garrett, our catcher. Fastball, high and inside. I shake him off. Garrett frowns behind his mask, then flashes another sign. Curveball, low and away.

Better.

I wind up, feeling every part of my body align like a machine calibrated for one purpose—making that ball do exactly what I want. The roar of the crowd fades to white noise. Webb’s cocky stance narrows to a single point of focus. My fingers find the seams, grip perfectly, and I let it fly.

The ball drops out of the strike zone like it’s fallen off a cliff.

Webb swings through empty air.

“Strike one!”

The stadium erupts. I don’t react. Don’t pump my fist or showboat.

Just catch the return throw from Garrett and get back into position.

That’s the thing that drives batters crazy—I never give them anything.

No emotion, no tells, nothing but cold efficiency and the unspoken promise that the next pitch will be worse.

Webb steps out of the box, adjusts his batting gloves, trying to reset. I can practically see the gears turning in his head.

What’s he throwing next? Same pitch? Different location?

Good. Let him think.

Garrett calls for a slider. I nod this time. Webb settles back into his stance, bat cocked, weight balanced. He’s guessing fastball. They always guess fastball.

I throw the slider.

It starts middle-in, and Webb’s eyes light up, thinking he has it. But the ball breaks six inches to the right at the last possible second, painting the outside corner.

“Strike two!”

Now the crowd is chanting. The sound starts in the bleachers and rolls through the stadium like thunder.

“STEELE FU-RY! STEELE FU-RY! STEELE FU-RY!”

I allow myself a breath.

Let the moment sit.

This is the part I used to love, with the entire stadium holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next. The power trip of it all. Knowing that for these few seconds, nothing in the world matters except my arm and the ball.

Lately, though? It’s starting to feel like going through the motions. Same game, different day. Same roar, different crowd. Even the rush is becoming predictable. But I bury the thought and focus on Webb.

He’s crowding the plate now, trying to take away the outside corner. Smart, but it won’t matter. Garrett goes through the signs slowly, deliberately drawing out the tension. Finally, fastball, high and tight.

Perfect.

I bring the heat, ninety-eight miles per hour, right where I want it. Webb has to bail out, nearly falling backward to avoid getting drilled. The ball smacks into Garrett’s glove with a sound like a gunshot.

The umpire hesitates, then punches the air. “Strike three!”

The stadium loses its mind.

I walk off the mound as my teammates rush out to meet me, hands slapping my back, voices yelling “Congratulations,” I barely hear. I give them the requisite fist bumps and nods, playing my part, but my eyes are already scanning the dugout. Cold towel. Water. Seven more outs to get.

“Yo, Steele!” Rodriguez, our shortstop, jogs up beside me, grinning like an idiot. “Opening night and you’re already in the zone. Webb looked like he wanted to cry.”

“He’ll get over it,” I say, grabbing a Gatorade from the cooler.

“Dude, you’re ice cold.” Rodriguez laughs. “How do you not get pumped after a strikeout like that? It’s game one!”

I shrug. “It’s just another out.”

It isn’t false modesty. It really does feel routine now.

Strike out the side, get the win, do it again in five days.

Rinse and repeat for six months straight.

Don’t get me wrong, I love baseball. Love the craft of it, the precision, but somewhere along the way, the thrill has dulled to something closer to autopilot.

Maybe I need a challenge that doesn’t involve over sixty feet of open air and a catcher’s mitt at the end of it.

Or maybe I need to get laid.

We win 5-2.

By the time I finish my post-game interview, giving the usual sound bites about ‘team effort’ and ‘taking it one game at a time,’ the stadium is emptying. I can hear the diehards still lingering in the concourse, their voices carrying through the tunnel as I head toward the players’ lot.

“Steele’s gonna have an insane season.”

“Think he’ll finally get Smith Warren?”

“He better. Guy’s a machine.”

I push through the side exit into the cool night air, and the noise from inside the stadium fades to a dull hum.

The players’ parking lot is already half empty, most of the guys long gone.

I prefer it this way. I can slip out after the crowd thins, avoiding the autograph seekers and the women who hang around the exit hoping to catch someone’s attention.

Not that I mind the attention, usually, but I’m not in the mood tonight.

I’m halfway to my car when I see her.

She’s across the street, outside a storefront with dark windows and a half-rolled security gate. Ink District Studio, the sign reads in bold, edgy lettering. It’s a tattoo shop, by the looks of it. The woman is locking up, her back to me as she wrestles with the gate mechanism.

I wouldn’t have noticed her at all except for two things.

One, she’s gorgeous in that effortless way that makes you look twice, with long dark hair pulled into a messy knot, black leather jacket over a dark tank top, and ripped jeans that fit like they’re painted on.

Ink covers one bare shoulder where her jacket has slipped, trailing down her arm in intricate patterns I can’t quite make out from this distance.

Two, she glances back toward the stadium and rolls her eyes.

Not a smile. Not a wistful look like she wishes she’d caught the game. She rolls her eyes as though the whole thing is a nuisance, then goes back to fighting with the gate.

I stop walking.

That doesn’t happen. Women don’t look at Wildcat Stadium on opening night and act annoyed. They don’t hear fifty thousand people chanting my name and respond with visible disinterest. It’s against the natural order of things.

I must be staring, because she suddenly turns her head and catches me looking.

For a second, we lock eyes across the empty street.

The stadium lights cast everything in harsh white, making the shadows sharper.

I can’t read her expression from this distance, but I know she’s clocked me, the Wildcats cap, the duffel bag slung over my shoulder, the way I’m clearly coming from the stadium.

Her reaction?

She raises one eyebrow, distinctly unimpressed, and turns back to her gate.

What the hell?

I should keep walking. I have no reason to care what some random woman thinks of me, the game, or anything else. But my feet are already carrying me across the street before I can talk myself out of it.

“Need a hand with that?” I call out as I approach.

She doesn’t even turn around. “Nope.”

“Looks stuck.”

“It’s not stuck. It’s old.” She yanks the gate down another foot with a screech of metal on metal. “And I’ve got it.”

Up close, she’s even more striking with sharp cheekbones, a full mouth set in a line of concentration, and eyes that are some impossible shade between green and gold. The tattoo on her shoulder is a phoenix, rendered in blacks and grays so detailed that I can see individual feathers.

She finally gets the gate all the way down and locks it into place, then straightens up and looks at me properly for the first time.

“Can I help you with something?” Her tone makes it clear she has no intention of helping me with anything.

“Just being neighborly,” I say, flashing the smile that usually gets me exactly what I want. “Big game tonight. Figured everyone would be in a good mood.”

“That would require me caring about baseball.” She slings a leather bag over her shoulder and starts walking down the sidewalk, away from me.

I blink, then follow. “You’re kidding.”

“Why would I be kidding?”

“You work right across from Wildcat Stadium.”

“I work right across from a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I’m interested in all of them.” She keeps walking, not even glancing back.

This is truly fascinating. I can’t remember the last time someone has been this aggressively uninterested in engaging with me.

“So, the crowd noise doesn’t bother you?” I ask, catching up to walk beside her.

“I have noise-canceling headphones.”

“And the traffic?”

“I leave before the stadium lets out. Usually.” She shoots me a look that makes it clear I’m the reason she’s been delayed tonight. “Did you need something specific, or are you just practicing your small talk?”

“I’m Reece,” I say, extending a hand.

She glances at my hand as if it might bite her, then sighs and shakes it briefly. Her grip is firm, her palm marked with small scars, probably from her work. “Ava.”

“Nice to meet you, Ava.”

“Is it?” She pulls her hand back and keeps walking.

I should be annoyed. Any other person would be annoyed. Instead, I’m grinning like an idiot.

“You really don’t know who I am,” I say. It isn’t a question.

“Should I?”

“I’m number thirty. Starting pitcher. The guy who just won the game that everyone in the stadium was losing their minds over.”

Ava stops walking and turns to face me fully. I expect recognition to dawn, maybe even an apology for being rude to someone semi-famous.

Instead, she says, “Okay. And?”

“And… nothing. Just making conversation.”

“Congratulations on your game, Reece,” she says, as if she’s congratulating someone on successfully using a microwave. “Have a good night.” She turns and keeps walking, disappearing around the corner before I can come up with a response.

I stand there in the empty street, duffel bag hanging from one shoulder, and realize I’m still smiling.

What the hell just happened?

By the time I get home to my downtown penthouse that costs more than most people make in five years, I still can’t shake the image of her dismissive eyebrow raise.

I drop my bag by the door, grab a beer from the refrigerator, and collapse onto the couch. My phone is already blowing up with the usual post-game messages, congratulations from friends, thirsty texts from women I’ve hooked up with once or twice, and memes from teammates about Webb’s strikeout.

I scroll through them all without responding.

You really don’t know who I am.

Should I?

It was meant as a flex, not in a douchey way, just stating a fact. I’m Reece Steele. I’ve been on the cover of Sports Illustrated twice. There are endorsement deals with Nike and Gatorade, plastering my face everywhere. My name is on the back of half the jerseys in the stadium tonight.

And she doesn’t give a single shit.

It’s… refreshing? Annoying? Both?

I take a long pull from my beer and stare at the city lights outside my floor-to-ceiling windows.

The high of the win has already faded, replaced by the familiar restlessness that’s been dogging me for months.

Another game, another victory, another night alone in an apartment that feels more like a hotel room than a home.

Maybe that’s the problem. Everything has gotten too easy. Too predictable.

I need something I can’t strike out in three pitches.

And for some reason, my brain keeps circling back to a tattoo artist with an unimpressed eyebrow and zero interest in my baseball career.

Dangerous, a voice in my head warns. You don’t need complications right now.

No. I definitely don’t.

But damn if I’m not already wondering when I’ll see her again.