Chapter Six
Reece
The text comes in at two in the morning.
I’m on my third lap through my apartment, barefoot on hardwood, because lying down means closing my eyes, and closing my eyes means thinking. My shoulder aches from the hundred pitches I threw in my building’s gym an hour ago.
Didn’t help.
Nothing helps.
My phone lights up the dark room.
Ava: We need to talk.
Four words. They’re the universal precursor to someone ending something before it even starts.
I should wait, play it cool, text back in the morning when I’ve had coffee, and can pretend I wasn’t pacing my apartment thinking about her.
Instead, I type.
Reece: When?
The dots appear immediately. She’s awake too.
Ava: Tomorrow. My studio. 3 pm. Don’t be late.
Me: I’m never late.
Ava: You’re a liar.
Me: Only about things that don’t matter.
The dots appear and disappear three times.
Ava: 3 pm, Steele.
She doesn’t text again.
And I don’t sleep.
The next day crawls by, with morning workout, team meeting, and lunch I don’t taste. By the time I’m walking toward Ink District Studio, my shoulders are knotted so tight I can barely turn my head.
The bell chimes when I push through the door. The shop smells the same, like antiseptic and ink, with something floral underneath. Ava is sitting at her station, sketching something intricate on her iPad. She doesn’t look up.
“Lock the door.”
I flip the deadbolt. “Little early for secret meetings.”
“Not a secret.” She sets the iPad down, finally meeting my eyes. “A conversation.”
She’s wearing black jeans and a tank top, hair pulled back in a messy knot. No makeup. She looks exhausted and absolutely stunning, and I’m so screwed it’s not even funny.
“Okay.” I lean against the door, crossing my arms. “Talk.”
Ava stands, putting the chair between us. Armor. “Last night was a mistake.”
“Didn’t feel like a mistake.”
“Reece.” My name comes out sharp. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I push off the door, taking one step forward. She doesn’t back up, but her jaw tightens. “You kissed me back, Ava. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
“I know what I did.” Her eyes flash. “And I’m telling you it can’t happen again.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my father’s star pitcher. You’re the face of the Wildcats. And every sports reporter in the city would eat this alive.” She ticks the reasons off on her fingers. “Most importantly, I don’t date athletes. This would end badly for both of us.”
“You done?”
Her nostrils flare. “For now.”
“Good.” I take another step. “My turn.”
“Reece.”
“I don’t care about reporters. I don’t care about headlines.” Another step. The chair is the only thing between us now. “Your dad’s scarier than any media circus, and I’m still here.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Probably not.” I grip the back of the chair.
“But here’s the thing, Ava. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I walked into this shop.
And after last night?” I shake my head. “I’m not walking away because it’s complicated.
Life’s complicated. This…” I gesture between us, “… is the first thing that’s felt simple in years. ”
Her expression cracks for half a second. I see it, the want, the hesitation, the fear. Then she locks it down.
“It’s not simple for me.”
“Then make it simple. Say yes.”
“To what? Sneaking around? Lying to my father?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ve watched what happens when athletes get distracted. When they start making choices with the wrong head.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” She tilts her head, studying me. “You barely know me.”
“I know you’re sarcastic and stubborn. Everyone says you’re brilliant with a tattoo gun. I know you refused to ink me because you have principles.” I lean forward. “And when you kissed me back, you meant it. That’s enough to start.”
“Starting is easy. It’s the ending that destroys people.”
“Who destroyed you?”
The question lands harder than I intended.
Ava’s eyes go cold. “None of your business.”
“Fair enough.” I straighten. “But for the record, I’m not him. Whoever he was, whatever he did, I’m not him.”
“You don’t know what you are yet, Reece. That’s the problem.” She moves around the chair, closing the distance. Her voice drops. “You’re twenty-seven. You’re at the top of your game. You have endorsements, groupies, and an ex who still texts you at midnight.”
“How do you know about Lena?”
“Because I have Instagram. Because she posts about you constantly.” Ava crosses her arms. “You think I don’t see what your life looks like? The fame, the attention, the options?”
“None of them are you.”
“Right now, maybe. But in six months? A year?” She shakes her head. “I won’t be the girl who wrecked your focus. I won’t be the reason Coach Bishop questions your commitment. And I sure as hell won’t be another cautionary tale.”
The words hang between us, sharp and final.
I could argue, push back, and tell her she’s wrong about all of it.
Instead, I nod slowly. “Okay.”
She blinks. “Okay?”
“You’ve made your position clear… I respect it.” I head for the door, my hand on the knob, before I turn back. “But for what it’s worth, you’re not giving me enough credit. And you’re not giving yourself enough either.”
“Reece.”
“See you around, Ava.”
I’m out the door before she can say anything else.
I make it three blocks before I have to stop walking. My hands are shaking, and I shove them in my pockets before staring at the street, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache.
She’s wrong about me, us, all of it.
But she’s also terrified, and I can’t fight fear with logic.
So I do the only thing I know how to do when my head won’t shut up.
I go to the field.
The stadium is empty at this time of day. The staff has gone home, and maintenance won’t be here until tonight. I grab my bag from the truck and head to the bullpen, muscle memory guiding every step.
The mound feels solid under my cleats. I wind up, focus on the catcher’s mitt, some helpful soul left propped against the fence, and let it rip.
The ball cracks against leather.
Again.
Again.
I lose track of how many pitches I throw. Fastballs, curves, sliders, and each one hits exactly where I aim, precision honed by thousands of hours of practice. My shoulder starts burning around pitch seventy.
I ignore it.
The sun drops lower. The shadows stretch long across the field.
I throw harder.
“You trying to tear your rotator cuff, or is this a new conditioning method?”
I catch the ball on the rebound, turning to find Mack leaning against the dugout, arms crossed. He’s my catcher and closest thing I have to a best friend, even if he’s annoying as hell ninety percent of the time.
“Didn’t know you were here.”
“I wasn’t. Got a text from security saying someone was beating up baseballs in the bullpen.” He walks over, eyeing the scattered balls. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Does it involve a certain tattoo artist?”
I fire another pitch. “Drop it.”
“So yes.” Mack crouches, starting to gather the balls. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. That’s the problem.”
“Ah.” He straightens, dumping an armful of balls into my bag. “She shut it down.”
“She set boundaries. Big difference.”
“Is it?” He studies me. “Because you look about thirty seconds from putting a hole in the outfield wall.”
I wipe sweat from my forehead. My arm is screaming now, a deep ache I’ll definitely feel tomorrow. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. That’s why you’re out here destroying baseballs instead of doing literally anything else.” He tosses me a water bottle. “Drink. Then tell me what actually happened.”
I down half the bottle before speaking, “She doesn’t want to risk it. Her dad, the media, my career, they’re all valid reasons.”
“But?”
“But I think she’s scared. And I don’t know how to convince someone to stop being afraid.”
Mack sits on the mound, patting the dirt beside him. I drop down, wincing as my shoulder protests.
“You can’t convince someone to stop being scared,” he says finally. “Fear’s not logical. You just have to show them the alternative is worth the risk.”
“How?”
“No idea. I’m terrible at relationships.” He grins. “But I know you. When you want something, you don’t quit. You’ll find a way.”
“What if the way is respecting her choice and backing off?”
“Is that what you want to do?”
I don’t answer. We both know I don’t.
“Look,” Mack says. “I don’t know Ava. But I know Bishop’s daughter probably didn’t grow up soft. She’s got her reasons for building walls. You want in? You’re going to have to earn it.”
“Earn what?”
“Her trust. Her belief that you’re worth the risk.” He stands, offering me a hand. “And probably prove you can handle not getting what you want for once in your golden-boy life.”
I let him pull me up, flipping him off with my free hand. “I’m not that spoiled.”
“You’re the most spoiled player on this team, and everyone knows it.” He heads toward the dugout, calling over his shoulder. “Don’t stay out here all night. We have practice tomorrow, and you’re going to feel like hell.”
He’s right about that part.
The next week is torture.
I see Ava exactly twice. Once at a coffee shop near the stadium, where she spots me and immediately turns around, and once outside her studio, getting into her car. She doesn’t notice me, and I don’t make her.
The media starts asking questions about my ‘aggressive new training regimen’ because apparently, my stats are spiking. More strikeouts, faster pitches, better control. One sports blog calls me ‘a man possessed.’
They’re not wrong.
Coach pulls me aside after Thursday’s practice. “Steele. Office.”
I follow him in, already knowing this conversation won’t be fun. He shuts the door and leans against his desk, arms crossed. Classic intimidation pose. It works on everyone except me.
Mostly.
“You’ve been pitching well,” he starts.
“Thank you.”
“Too well.”
I frown. “There’s no such thing as too well.”
“There is when it comes out of nowhere and screams ‘personal issues.’ ” He pins me with a look. “You fighting with your ex again?”