Chapter Four
Ava
The metal bleachers are cold against my jeans, even through the denim. I should have brought a jacket, but Dad texted me twenty minutes ago saying practice would wrap up soon, and I figured I could survive the chill long enough to grab dinner with him.
Below me, the field is a symphony of controlled chaos. Players run drills, their cleats churning up dirt in perfect synchronization. The crack of bats echoes across the stadium, sharp and satisfying. A coach, not my father, shouts instructions I can’t quite make out from up here.
I’m scrolling through design requests on my tablet when I hear footsteps on the bleachers.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I glance up, and there he is. Reece Steele, in full practice gear, his dark hair damp with sweat, a cocky grin already spreading across his face.
“Didn’t expect to be here,” I say, returning my attention to the tablet. “But here we are.”
“Here we are,” he echoes, climbing up to sit two rows below me, close enough to talk without shouting, far enough to maintain plausible deniability. “Change your mind about the tattoo?”
“Nope.”
“About giving me your number?”
“Also no.”
He laughs, low and warm. “Then you’re here because?” And he draws the word out and gives me a smirk.
I set the tablet down, meeting his gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Because I wanted to watch grown men throw balls at each other?”
“Hey, we also catch them sometimes.”
“Riveting.”
His grin widens. “You know, most people who show up to watch practice are here for someone specific. Girlfriend. Spouse. Overeager fan who somehow got past security.”
“And you think I’m here for you?”
“Am I wrong?”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “Incredibly wrong.”
“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest in mock pain. “You’re brutal, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
“By who? Every guy who’s ever tried to ask you out?”
“By every guy who assumed I’d be impressed by his job title.”
He tilts his head, studying me with those sharp green eyes, the kind of eyes used to reading pitches, tracking movement, calculating outcomes before they happen. “You don’t strike me as someone who’s impressed by much.”
“I’m impressed by talent,” I say. “Real talent. The kind you work for, not the kind you’re born with.”
“Ooh, nature versus nurture. Deep.” He shifts, turning to face me more fully. “For the record, I work my ass off.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to believe or disbelieve you.” I pick up the tablet again and scroll through a consultation request for a floral half-sleeve. “We had one conversation. You walked into my shop on a dare, tried to charm me into breaking my rules, and left empty-handed.”
“We’ve had two conversations, and I prefer ‘made a memorable first impression.’ ”
“Two conversations? Clearly, you made an impression,” I allow. “The second time we spoke, but the first? Not ringing any bells, and whether it was memorable remains to be seen.”
He laughs again, and I hate how much I don’t hate the sound. It’s genuine, not the practiced, camera-ready laugh I’ve seen athletes use during interviews. This one has rough edges and warmth underneath.
“So, if you’re not here for me…” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “… who are you here for?”
“None of your business.”
“Come on. Give me something.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m curious.”
“About me?”
“About everything.” He gestures toward the field. “You show up unannounced, sit in the bleachers looking at your tablet instead of watching practice, and you’re not here for me. So, who? Secret boyfriend on the team? Long-lost brother? Bookie collecting debts?”
I bite back a smile. “You have a very active imagination.”
“Goes with the territory. Pitching is ninety percent mental.”
“What’s the other ten percent?”
“Raw, unfiltered talent.” He winks, and I roll my eyes.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re still talking to me.”
“Because you won’t leave.”
“I could leave,” he says, standing and brushing dirt off his practice pants. “But then you’d be disappointed.”
“I’d survive.”
“Would you, though?” He climbs up two more rows, closing the distance between us until he’s sitting right beside me, close enough I can smell the faint scent of grass, sweat, and something clean underneath, probably whatever expensive cologne athletes get sent for free. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”
I turn to face him, and suddenly the space between us feels smaller than it did a second ago. His eyes are brighter up close, flecked with gold around the edges. There’s a small scar above his left eyebrow, barely visible unless you’re looking for it.
“I’m tolerating you,” I say softly. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” His voice drops lower, matching mine. “Because from where I’m sitting, you haven’t told me to leave. You could’ve shut this conversation down five minutes ago, but you didn’t.”
“Maybe I’m being polite.”
“You don’t seem the polite type.”
“Maybe I’m full of surprises.”
“Maybe…” he murmurs, his gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before flicking back up, “… you’re more interested than you’re letting on.”
The air between us shifts. It charges, crackles, and hums with something dangerous and electric. My pulse kicks up, and I’m suddenly very aware of how little space separates us. How easy it would be to close the gap. How satisfying it might feel to wipe the smirk off his face with—
“Ava!”
The voice booms across the field, and I freeze.
Reece’s head snaps toward the sound, and I watch his expression shift from confident to confused as my father strides across the grass toward the bleachers.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Dad calls, waving one hand. “Practice ran late. You hungry?”
“Starving,” I call back, standing and grabbing my tablet.
Reece stands, too, but slower and more mechanical. His eyes dart between my father and me, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head.
“Coach Bishop,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.
“Steele.” Dad reaches the bottom of the bleachers, his expression shifting from warm to wary in half a second. “What are you doing up there?”
“I…” Reece glances at me, then back at Dad. “I was talking to—”
“My daughter,” Dad finishes, his tone flat.
Oh, this is delicious.
Reece’s face goes through about six different emotions in three seconds—shock, realization, horror, panic, resignation, and finally something close to grim acceptance.
“Your daughter,” he repeats slowly.
“Ava,” I say helpfully, extending my hand with a sweet smile. “We met yesterday. You came into my shop?”
He stares at my hand for a second before shaking it, his grip firm despite the obvious discomfort radiating off him. “Right. Yeah. The tattoo shop.”
“He wanted me to ink him,” I tell Dad, still smiling. “I said no.”
Dad’s eyes narrow, and Reece takes a small step back.
“She has a no-athletes policy,” Reece adds quickly. “Very firm boundaries. Extremely professional.”
“Good,” Dad says, his voice dropping an octave. “She’s smart.”
The silence stretches for a beat too long, awkward and thick.
“Well,” I say brightly, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “We should get going. Dad promised me a home-cooked meal, and I’m cashing in before he changes his mind.”
Dad doesn’t move. He’s still staring at Reece, his jaw set in a way I recognize from a thousand dinner-table lectures about responsibility, choices, and consequences.
“Steele,” he says finally. “Hit the showers. Practice is over.”
“Yes, sir.” Reece nods once, then glances at me. “Nice seeing you again.”
“You too,” I say, and I mean it, even if I shouldn’t.
He jogs down the bleachers, his shoulders tense, and I watch him disappear toward the locker rooms before turning to my father.
Dad’s still staring after him.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re always thinking about something.” He starts walking toward the parking lot, and I fall into step beside him. “Reece Steele is off-limits.”
“I don’t remember asking for permission.”
“Ava.”
“Dad.”
We reach his truck, and he unlocks the doors with a heavy sigh. “He’s a good kid. Great arm. But he’s also cocky, reckless, and has terrible taste in women.”
“Thanks for the glowing review.”
“I’m serious.” He climbs into the driver’s seat, and I slide into the passenger side. “Stay away from him.”
“Funny,” I say, buckling my seat belt. “He walked into my shop, not the other way around.”
“And you turned him down.”
“I did.”
“Keep it up.”
I don’t answer.
Because the truth is, I don’t know if I can.
Reece Steele, #30, the Wildcats’ ace pitcher, the guy my father has probably given a dozen speeches about focus and discipline, looked at me the way people look at art they want to own. Hungry. Curious. Captivated.
And I looked back the same way.
This is a bad idea.
The worst idea.
My father merges onto the highway, and I pull out my phone, scrolling through the shop’s Instagram without really seeing it.
“You’re quiet,” Dad says after a few minutes.
“I’m hungry.”
“Liar.”
I glance at him. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing.” He sighs again, softer this time. “I want you to be careful. Reece is talented, but he’s also trouble. The kind of guy who looks at rules and sees suggestions.”
“Sounds familiar,” I murmur.
Dad shoots me a look. “You’re nothing—”
“Dad. Relax.” I tuck my phone away, leaning my head against the window. “I’m not interested.”
“Good.”
But the words taste sour on my tongue.
Because I am interested.
And from the look on Reece’s face when he realized who I was, he’s interested too.
Which means we’re both in trouble.