Chapter Seven
Ava
It’s been three days since I texted Reece after his game, and I’ve regretted it approximately seven thousand times, maybe more. I stopped counting around Thursday.
The problem with sending a you-pitched-well text to someone you’re actively trying to avoid is that it opens a door you specifically nailed shut. And Reece Steele, I’m learning, is excellent at finding open doors.
He hasn’t texted again. Hasn’t shown up at the studio. Hasn’t done anything remotely pushy or annoying.
Which is somehow worse.
Because now I’m the one checking my phone every five minutes. I’m the one refreshing Instagram to see if he’s posted anything. I’m the one watching sports highlights at midnight to catch thirty-second clips of him on the mound, all controlled power and devastating precision.
“You look like a teenager with a crush,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Pathetic.”
My reflection doesn’t argue.
By the time I’m back at my station, the studio is still blissfully quiet. It’s Friday afternoon, my last client canceled, and I’ve got three uninterrupted hours before my evening appointment. I should be sketching, finalizing designs, and doing anything remotely productive.
Instead, I’m reorganizing my ink bottles by shade for the third time this week.
The bell above the door chimes.
I don’t bother looking up as I move away from my station. “We’re by appointment only,” I call out. “There’s a number on the door.”
“I don’t have an appointment.”
My hands freeze on a bottle of midnight blue.
I know without looking.
The voice does something to my nervous system, flipping switches I didn’t know existed. My stomach drops and twists simultaneously, and there’s this electric buzz under my skin, fizzing through my veins.
Butterflies, except butterflies are delicate and fluttery, and this feels more like a swarm of bees has taken up residence in my chest.
I set the bottle down carefully and turn around.
Reece stands just inside the door, hands in his pockets, wearing jeans and a plain gray T-shirt. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends. He looks relaxed, casual, and absolutely unfairly attractive.
My traitorous heart does a stupid little flip.
“Studio’s closed,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
“Door was unlocked.”
“Oversight.”
“Lucky me.”
He walks farther in, and I resist the urge to back up.
This is my space.
My territory.
I don’t retreat here.
“What do you want, Reece?”
“You know what I want.”
The directness of it steals my breath. No games, no pretense. He’s looking at me with the same focused intensity he brings to the mound, and I’m suddenly very aware of how alone we are.
“I told you…”
“I know what you told me.” He stops at the front desk, one hand resting on the counter. “You set boundaries. I respected them.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you texted me.”
“I sent one message.”
“You sent one message at two in the morning telling me you watched my game.” His mouth curves slightly. “You opened the door, Ava. I’m politely walking through it.”
“There’s nothing polite about ambushing someone at work.”
“There’s nothing polite about what I’ve been thinking about you for the past three days either, but here we are.”
Heat floods my face, my neck, and places I will not acknowledge out loud.
“You can’t say things like that in here.” The words come out strangled. “This is a professional establishment.”
“You want me to leave?”
Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know anymore.
I cross my arms, armor against the way he’s looking at me. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth would be nice.”
“The truth is you’re my father’s star pitcher, and this is a terrible idea.”
“We’ve established the terrible part.” He moves around the desk, closing the distance between us. Not crowding, not pushy, but definitely deliberate. “What we haven’t established is whether you care.”
“Of course I care. My dad would lose his mind.”
“I meant whether you care enough about it being terrible to walk away.”
Oh.
Oh no.
The bees in my chest swarm harder, and my skin feels too tight. He’s close enough now that I can smell his soap, something clean and woodsy, and I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes.
“This isn’t fair,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to be cocky and annoying.”
“I am cocky and annoying.”
“You’re supposed to make this easy to say no to.”
His expression softens. “Would it help if I did?”
I want to say yes. Want to tell him to put his arrogance back on, flash his smile, and say something so irritating I can boot him out without guilt.
Instead, I’m staring at his mouth and remembering exactly how it felt against mine.
“My dad,” I start, then stop. Try again. “Coach Bishop. Your coach. He’s already suspicious.”
“Of?”
“You. Me. The fact you walked into my studio and suddenly started pitching harder than you have all season.” I step back, needing space to think. “He’s not stupid, Reece. None of them are. The second this becomes real, people will notice.”
“Let them.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re the golden boy. The face of the franchise. I’m the coach’s daughter who broke the no-athletes rule.”
“You haven’t broken anything yet.”
“Exactly. Yet.” I gesture between us. “This, whatever this is, puts a target on both our backs. The media will make me the distraction. The reason you lose focus. The girl who ruined Reece Steele’s career.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know what’s going to happen. Nobody does.
” I lean against my station, suddenly exhausted.
“I’ve seen what the spotlight does to people, Reece.
I grew up in it. Every girlfriend my dad’s players brought around got scrutinized, judged, and blamed when things went wrong.
I watched relationships implode under pressure. ”
“So, you decided never to risk it.”
“I decided to be smart about it.”
“And dating me isn’t smart.”
I meet his eyes. “No. It really isn’t.”
He nods slowly, processing. For a second, I think he’s going to accept it. Walk out. Let me rebuild my walls in peace.
Then he says, “What if we don’t date?”
I blink. “What?”
“What if we don’t make it a thing? No labels, no pressure, no relationship.” He leans against the desk across from me, mirroring my posture. “Just… us. Figuring it out.”
“That’s called dating, Reece.”
“That’s called not defining it until we’re ready.”
“Semantics.”
“Maybe.” He tilts his head. “But it’s also giving yourself permission to stop overthinking every possible outcome and see what happens.”
“I don’t overthink.”
His eyebrow rises.
“Okay, I overthink a little.”
“You’ve mentally mapped out every worst-case scenario since the second I walked into this studio three weeks ago.”
“Four weeks.”
“See? You’ve been counting.”
Dammit. He’s right, and the smug little smile on his face says he knows it.
“This is a bad idea,” I repeat, but there’s less conviction in it now.
“Probably.”
“My dad will murder you.”
“He’ll try.”
“The media will have a field day.”
“They always do.”
“You’ll get bored.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Ava,” he says my name gently, and it does something catastrophic to my defenses. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m not asking you to go public or make some grand declaration. I’m asking if you want to grab dinner. Maybe see a movie. Talk without an audience.”
“That’s dating.”
“That’s existing in the same space without combusting.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. It comes out sharp and a little hysterical, but it breaks the tension coiling in my chest.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m persistent.”
“Same thing.”
“Is it working?”
The honest answer sits on my tongue, dangerous and terrifying. I could lie. Shut this down completely. Go back to reorganizing ink bottles and pretending I don’t feel anything.
But I’m so tired of pretending.
“Maybe,” I admit. “Possibly. Against my better judgment and every survival instinct I possess.”
His smile could power the entire stadium. “I’ll take it.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat in it. My mind is already spiraling ahead, calculating logistics. “If we do this… if, and I’m not saying we are, there have to be rules.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. Non-negotiable boundaries.”
“I’m listening.”
I start pacing, thinking out loud. “No public anything. No social media. No cute couple photos or tagging or any of the nonsense your ex posts constantly.”
“Done.”
“No telling your teammates. Mack seems nice, but athletes gossip worse than hairstylists.”
“Harsh but fair.”
“And absolutely, under no circumstances, can my father find out. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I don’t know.” I stop pacing, facing him. “He cannot know.”
Reece’s expression sobers. “I can’t lie to Coach if he asks me directly.”
“Then don’t get asked directly.”
“Ava…”
“I’m serious, Reece. My dad is… well, he’s protective. Overly so. And after—” I cut myself off, the memory surfacing before I can stop it.
“After what?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s ancient history.”
He watches me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. But for the record, if we’re doing this, eventually he’s going to figure it out. Bishop’s not stupid.”
“Then we’ll deal with it when it happens. Not before.”
“Fair enough.” He pushes off the desk. “Any other rules?”
I think about it, trying to ignore how my pulse kicks up now that we’re circling around our agreement. “This stays casual. No expectations, no pressure. We’re both adults. If it stops working, we walk away clean.”
“Clean.”
“No drama.”
“Got it.”
“I mean it, Reece. I don’t do messy breakups or public meltdowns or any of the reality TV nonsense.”
“Neither do I.”
“Your ex would disagree.”
His jaw tightens. “Lena and I were over long before it ended. She dragged it out for attention. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
There’s something in his voice, bitter and tired. A story I don’t know yet. Maybe won’t ever know if we keep this casual.
The thought bothers me more than it should.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Okay.”
“Okay, yes?”
“We can try. Dinner. Maybe a movie if you don’t chew loudly.”
“I don’t chew loudly.”
“Everyone says they don’t chew loudly. Then you’re stuck in a theater with someone who eats popcorn through an entire action sequence.”
“Noted. Quiet chewing only.”
“And no sports metaphors. If you compare me to baseball even once, I’m out.”
He grins. “You’re really setting the bar very high.”
“I have standards.”
“You have walls.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.” He takes a step forward, and my traitorous body leans in before my brain catches up. “But I’ll take the walls if it means getting to know what’s behind them.”
My breath catches. The bees in my chest are going absolutely feral now, buzzing so loud I can barely think.
“This is still a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“Absolutely.”
“We’re going to regret it.”
“Maybe.”
“My dad is going to kill you.”
“Worth it.”
He’s close enough to kiss now. I can see the slight stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes have gone dark and focused. I could close the distance, and…
The bell chimes.
We spring apart seconds before my six p.m. appointment walks through the door.
Marcus, a regular who’s been adding to his sleeve for six months, stops when he sees us. His eyes flick between Reece and me, clearly assessing the situation.
“Bad timing?” he asks.
“Perfect timing,” I say brightly, probably too brightly. “Reece was leaving.”
Reece’s mouth twitches. “Right. Leaving.” He heads for the door, then pauses. “I’ll text you.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m going to.”
“Reece…”
“Bye, Ava.”
He’s out the door before I can throw something at him.
Marcus settles into my chair, grinning. “So, that’s interesting.”
“We’re not discussing it.”
“That was Reece Steele. Number thirty. Best pitcher in the league.”
“Allegedly.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.” I am absolutely blushing. “Let me see your arm.”
Marcus extends his arm, but his grin doesn’t fade. “For the record? I won’t say anything. But you might want to lock the door next time you have a moment with a famous athlete in your studio.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Sure, there won’t.”
I focus on his tattoo, pretending my hands aren’t shaking slightly. Pretending my phone isn’t burning a hole in my pocket waiting for a text. Pretending I didn’t agree to the most reckless thing I’ve done in years.
My phone buzzes forty minutes later while I’m finishing Marcus’ shading.
I don’t check it.
I check it the second Marcus leaves.
Reece: Dinner tomorrow? I know a place with terrible lighting and zero Wildcats fans.
I stare at the message for a full minute.
This is my last chance to back out. To be sensible. To protect myself, my dad, and Reece’s career from whatever disaster is waiting down this road.
Instead, I type.
Me: What time?
Reece: 7. I’ll pick you up.
Me: No. I’ll meet you there. Send me the address.
Reece: Independent. I like it.
Me: Don’t get used to liking things about me, Steele.
Reece: Too late for warnings, Ava. Way too late.
I read the message three times before setting my phone down.
My dad is going to kill me when he finds out.
The media is going to have a field day. This is going to end in flames, regret, and probably a restraining order from Wildcats Stadium.
But the bees in my chest are still buzzing, and my face hurts from smiling, and for the first time in years, I’m choosing something reckless.
Something that is mine.
“This is a terrible idea,” I tell the empty studio.
The empty studio, wisely, doesn’t argue.