Chapter Twelve
Reece
The first sign of trouble is a tweet.
Dante sends it at six forty-three in the morning with seven fire emojis and the word ‘bro’ repeated four times in a row, which, from him, counts as a formal notification.
I’m three sips into my first coffee when my phone lights up the kitchen counter, and I make the mistake of reading it before I’m caffeinated enough to handle bad news with any kind of grace.
The account is SportsBeat. Eighty thousand followers.
A bio that reads First in MLB gossip, last in accuracy, and a pinned post featuring a pixelated image of me from when, exactly?
Three weeks ago, maybe four. I’m leaving Ink District after a session, turned away from the camera at an angle that doesn’t confirm anything but doesn’t deny anything either.
Ava’s studio door is visible behind me. My car is nowhere to be seen in the shot.
The caption reads…
Wildcats’ ace pitcher, Reece Steele, has been spotted multiple times at an Ink District Studio near Wildcat Stadium. Sources close to the situation suggest the visits aren’t about the ink. Who’s the mystery woman?
#Wildcats #ReeceSteel30 #WhoIsShe
Sources close to the situation apparently verify the story.
I set my coffee down very carefully.
I arrive at the stadium forty minutes early, which is saying something because I’m never early for anything unless a mound is involved.
By the time the rest of the team starts filing into the locker room, I’ve already been through my warmup routine, fielded eleven texts from teammates, and declined two calls from a number I don’t recognize.
It’s either a reporter or a scam, and at this particular moment, the distinction feels academic.
Martinez spots me from across the room and grins as if he’s won something. “Steele. Big day for your social media presence.”
“Fascinating.”
“Mystery woman.” He makes air quotes with his fingers. “Very dramatic. Very telenovela.”
“Happy to discuss it after you work on your changeup.”
“My changeup is excellent.”
“Your changeup got shelled in the third inning last Tuesday.”
He sits down, slightly less smug.
Mack comes in behind him, takes one look at my face, and chooses the seat next to mine. He doesn’t say anything, which is why Mack is the closest thing I have to a best friend. He has a genuinely excellent instinct for when words are helpful and when shutting up is the superior strategy.
Carlos drops onto the bench across from us and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “Okay, so SportsBeat posted the photo this morning.”
“I’m aware,” I say.
“And then Lena commented on it.”
I look at him.
“I’m not stirring anything. I’m just saying…”
“What did she comment?”
Carlos pulls out his phone. Scrolls, then reads aloud in the deadpan tone of a man reporting a weather forecast, “Some things are obvious once you know what to look for. There is a winking face emoji.”
The silence in my immediate area takes on a particular quality.
“She’s fishing,” Mack says, not looking up from his phone.
“She’s feeding,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
And here’s the thing about Lena Hart—she is smart.
I spent fourteen months with her and underestimated her intelligence for about twelve of them, which was my first mistake and, for a while, my largest. She doesn’t post impulsively.
Every caption is calculated, every emoji deliberate, every so-called throwback photo selected because it serves a purpose in the current moment.
She saw SportsBeat’s post and commented within four minutes.
She’s been watching for it. Possibly waiting for it.
Possibly—and this is the part my stomach doesn’t love—responsible for the source feeding information to them in the first place.
I close the app and shove my phone into my locker.
“How long has she had access to your schedule?” Mack asks.
“She doesn’t.”
“Not your schedule. Your habits. Where you go after games.”
I sit with this for about five seconds and reach a conclusion I don’t enjoy. “She knows my post-game routine. I don’t change it much. Stadium exit, players’ lot, home, or—” I stop.
“Or Ink District,” Mack finishes.
“She doesn’t know about Ava.”
“She knows you’ve been to a specific studio multiple times after games. She knows enough.” He leans back against his locker. “You need to talk to Ava before she sees this.”
I’m already texting her.
My agent calls at eleven.
Derek Paulson has been repping me since the beginning, has the energy of a man permanently on his third coffee of the morning, regardless of the hour, and uses complete sentences with startling efficiency.
When he calls with casual conversation, it lasts four minutes.
When he calls about something real, it lasts two.
This call lasts ninety seconds.
“Management wants to move on the contract extension,” he says without preamble. “They’re ready to open discussions. Numbers are good. Timeline is favorable. There’s one thing…”
“Say it.”
“They want the next three months clean, PR-wise.” A pause.
“Steele, you know I don’t care about your personal life…
I care about your market value. Right now, you’re peaking.
Career-best ERA, strikeout numbers are outstanding, and every analyst with a platform is talking about you.
The extension should be straightforward. ”
“But.”
“But SportsBeat ran a post this morning, and two other outlets picked it up by nine o’clock. Mystery woman, repeated visits, ex-girlfriend weighing in. You know how this plays.”
“It plays as nothing because it is nothing.”
“It plays as a distraction. You know management, they love winning, and they’re terrified of anything they can’t control.” Another pause, shorter. “Is there a woman?”
I stare at the hallway ceiling I’ve ducked into. A fluorescent bulb flickers once at the far end, which feels apt.
“Derek.”
“Yes or no is fine.”
“Yes. And no. It’s complicated, and it has zero effect on my game.”
“Your game is the best argument in your favor, which is why I’m telling you now rather than in three months when it matters more.
Keep the game clean and the headlines manageable, and this extension is the easiest conversation I’ve had in five years.
” He shifts. “I’m not telling you what to do with your personal life.
I’m telling you what we’re working with. ”
“Understood.”
“Numbers, Reece. Keep giving them numbers.” He hangs up.
I stand in the hallway with my phone in my hand and the distant sound of the team running drills somewhere below me. I think about numbers, what it looks like from management’s position, and what three months of clean headlines buys me.
And what suppressing this for three months could cost in return.
Ava’s response comes in at two in the afternoon, right as I’m finishing a bullpen session.
Ava: I saw the post.
I wipe sweat off my face with the hem of my shirt and type back.
Me: How bad is it from your end?
Three minutes pass.
Ava: Zoe found it this morning. She’s thrilled. I told her nothing.
Me: Smart.
Ava: She’s going to figure it out.
Me: How much does Zoe talk?
Ava: Fortunately, only to me and her plants. Unfortunately, her plants are not under any contractual silence agreement.
I laugh out loud in the middle of an empty bullpen, which is the kind of thing Ava does to me without trying. I’m standing in cleats on a practice mound with my arm still warm from the session, and I’m laughing at a text message like a man who has completely lost the plot.
Me: Did you see Lena’s comment?
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Ava: Yes.
Me: She’s behind the original post. Or she fed the source. I don’t know which.
Ava: Does it matter?
Me: It matters because it means she’s watching us. And if she’s watching, she knows more than what’s in the photo.
A longer pause this time.
Ava: How much more could she know?
And here’s the problem with texting instead of having this conversation in person. I can’t read her face. I can’t tell if she’s scared, angry, or retreating behind the walls she spent six weeks carefully dismantling. The message sits flat on a screen and gives me nothing.
Me: Enough to imply without confirming. She’s a professional at this.
Ava: What does she want?
Me: Same thing she’s always wanted. Attention and leverage.
Ava: Over you or over me?
Me: Both, probably. But mostly over me.
I consider whether to add the next part and decide that honesty is the only policy worth having with her.
Me: My agent called. Management wants the contract extension to go smoothly. They’re nervous about the coverage.
There’s a pause long enough that I wonder if she’s put the phone down.
Ava: How nervous?
Me: Manageable.
Ava: That’s not a number.
Me: They want three months of clean headlines.
The dots appear and disappear twice. I wait, turning my cap forward and then backward again because I need to keep my hands busy.
Ava: Okay.
Me: Okay?
Ava: We should talk. Not on the phone.
Me: Tonight?
Ava: Tomorrow. I have a full book today, and I need to think.
I stare at the word think for longer than is probably healthy.
Ava thinking, without me present to redirect, is the variable I trust least in the current situation.
Left alone with her own head, she builds cases, constructs arguments, and maps every possible disaster with the precision of someone who once swore off athletes for exactly these reasons.
Me: Don’t think too hard.
Ava: You don’t get to tell me how hard to think, Steele.
Me: Fair. But whatever conclusion you’re heading toward before we’ve had the actual conversation can be dangerous for both of us.
Ava: Reece.
Me: Right. Tomorrow.
Ava: Tomorrow.