Chapter Six #2
“No. Lena and I are done. Have been for months.”
“Then what’s going on?”
I could lie. Make something up about wanting to push myself or prove my contract extension is worth it, and he’d probably believe me.
Instead, I say, “Girl trouble.”
His eyebrows rise. “Girl trouble.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone I know?”
The question is a trap, and we both know it. I hold his gaze. “Not your business, Coach.”
“It is if it affects your performance.”
“My performance is better than ever. Check the numbers.”
“I did. That’s why I’m worried.” He moves to his desk and pulls out a folder. “You’re burning too hot, Steele. This pace? You’ll injure yourself before the playoffs. Whatever you’re dealing with, handle it, because I need you sharp, not spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You threw a hundred and thirty pitches in the bullpen on Monday. Mack reported it.”
Traitor.
“I was practicing.”
“You were destroying your arm.” Coach tosses the folder down. “Take tomorrow off. Rest. Clear your head. Come back Monday ready to work smart, not hard.”
“Coach…”
“That’s an order.”
I clench my jaw but nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He opens the door, dismissing me. “And Steele? Whatever she’s worth, and I’m sure she is, don’t let it wreck you. Baseball’s a long game. Pace yourself.”
I walk out wondering if he suspects more than he’s saying.
Saturday morning, I’m at the gym by six. On Sunday, I run eight miles. By Monday, I’m crawling out of my skin, and the day off did exactly nothing to calm the chaos in my head.
Practice starts at nine.
I’m there at seven thirty.
The guys notice.
They don’t comment directly, but I catch the looks. Mack is worrying, Tommy is confused, and Rivera is amused. By the time we’re running drills, everyone’s treating me differently. They are all being careful, waiting for me to crack.
I don’t crack.
I channel every ounce of frustration into my arm. Every pitch is a conversation I can’t have with Ava. Every strikeout is a boundary I can’t cross. By the end of practice, Coach looks both impressed and deeply concerned.
“Steele. Stay back.”
The team clears out. I grab my water bottle and wait.
“You listened,” he says. “Took the day, came back focused.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you’re still wound tight as hell.”
I don’t deny it.
He sighs, rubbing his face. “Look, kid. I’ve been coaching for thirty years. I’ve seen players in love, in lust, in crisis. You’re all three, and it’s a bad combination.”
My pulse kicks up. “I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve got eyes.” He waves a hand. “I don’t care who she is. I care if you can handle it. Can you?”
The honest answer is… I don’t know.
The answer I give is, “Yes.”
“Prove it. Next game, I need you locked in. Not vengeful, not desperate. Locked in.” He claps my shoulder. “She’s probably worth it. They usually are. But don’t lose yourself chasing someone who’s not ready to be caught.”
He leaves me standing alone, his words echoing in my brain on repeat.
‘Don’t lose yourself.’
Too late.
I lost myself the moment she kissed me back.
The next game is Tuesday night. Home field, division rival, packed crowd. The energy is electric, the kind of atmosphere that usually gets my blood pumping.
Tonight, I feel nothing but cold focus.
I walk to the mound, and everything else disappears. The crowd, the noise, the lights, it all fades into background static. There’s only the ball, the strike zone, and the space between heartbeats where I let everything go.
First pitch—fastball, outside corner. Strike.
Second pitch—curveball, drops at the last second. Strike.
Third pitch—slider, unhittable. Strike.
The batter walks back to the dugout, shaking his head.
It continues for nine innings. I strike out fourteen batters. My pitches are surgical and precise. When I walk off the mound in the ninth, the crowd is chanting my name, and I feel absolutely nothing.
In the locker room, everyone’s celebrating. Mack tries to hand me a beer. I wave it off, heading for the shower.
The hot water pounds my shoulders, but it doesn’t wash away the hollow feeling in my chest.
I won.
We won.
My stats are stupid good.
Coach should be thrilled.
And all I can think about is whether Ava watched the game.
Whether she saw me pitch and knew she’s the reason I’m throwing harder than I ever have.
Whether she cares.
I lean my forehead against the tile, letting the water run cold.
This is what she meant.
The ending. How it destroys people.
Because I’m already destroyed, and nothing has even started.
The stadium is still humming behind me as I walk to my car, and that’s when my phone buzzes with one message, unknown number.
Unknown: You pitched well tonight.
My heart stops.
Me: Ava?
Ava: Don’t make me regret texting you.
Me: Too late. Already smug about it.
Ava: Of course you are.
Me: Were you there?
Three minutes pass before she responds.
Ava: No. But I watched. Hard not to when every TV in the city is showing it.
Me: And?
Ava: And nothing. Just wanted you to know someone noticed.
Me: Just someone?
Ava: Don’t push, Steele.
Me: Fine. But for the record, I knew you were watching.
Ava: Cocky.
Me: Accurate.
The dots appear and disappear twice.
Ava: Goodnight, Reece.
Me: Night, Ava.
She doesn’t text again. But the fact she texted at all is a good sign, and I’ll take it.
I lie in bed staring at my phone, reading those messages over and over until I fall asleep with a smile on my face for the first time in a week.
Next time, I’ll pitch again. Harder, faster, better.
Because if pitching is the only language she’ll let me speak right now, then I’ll make damn sure every single throw says exactly what I can’t.
I’m not giving up.
Not on this.
Not on her.