Love Catch (The Love Playbook #2)

Chapter 1

Kenzie

Tempting fate is not my favorite, and this is the reason why.

I should be having a relaxing bachelorette dinner at a rooftop restaurant a few blocks away, blissfully staring at the ocean while stuffing my face with sashimi.

Instead, a camera is in my face, projecting my shocked expression on the jumbotron.

The WAGs—Wives and Girlfriends—on either side of me make kissy faces and contort their lithe bodies into all the right angles, but I can only freeze—old acne scars prominent on the massive LED screen across the baseball diamond.

You’d think that after becoming newly engaged to the Virginia Beach Waves’ starting pitcher, Aaron Lawson, I’d be used to stuff like this.

You’d think I’d have been to my share of games, that my position in the family section of the Waves stadium would be as comfortable as a favorite sweatshirt, but no.

I always watch the games but have a very good reason for not attending in person.

Had these Pilates goddesses not strong-armed me into this seat seconds ago, I wouldn’t be here.

“Smile,” Mallory says through glistening white teeth, her tone encouraging.

I try to lift my lips into a grin, but the panic sprinting through my veins prevents it.

See, here’s the thing. My fiancé—wow, that word is still so weird—doesn’t like any distractions during his games.

And we’re definitely making a scene during this brief between-innings break.

I mean, there’s also a goofy mascot race happening on the field, but no one is paying attention to that.

Nope. No one.

All eyes are on us, or rather me.

With my simple white tee and shorts, I’m woefully unprepared to be in the spotlight. The only thing giving me a little sparkle besides my ring is the Bride to Be sash Mallory insisted I wear.

“Let’s see the ring!” the cameraman shouts over the din.

When I hesitate, Mallory grabs my hand and lifts it up like I won a champion boxing match. The camera lens zooms in, and the shouts of the crowd quickly overpower the sloshing of blood in my ears. I’m vaguely aware of the announcer telling the crowd my name.

I completely understand that any normal bride-to-be would be ecstatic about this outpouring of interest, but when Aaron and I first started dating, he told me he prized his privacy above everything else.

That’s why his personal chef made us meals to enjoy in his oceanside mansion instead of going out.

His social media is exclusively baseball related, so it didn’t make sense to include photos of me, even after he slid a six-carat diamond on my finger.

And to be honest, I didn’t mind. I’m more of a homebody anyway.

With my paltry dating experience, receiving weekly roses and the daily Good morning texts seemed worth keeping things to ourselves.

For the first time in my life, I felt important—more than the quiet, studious one who was always, always overlooked.

Things were great.

But then, I slipped up.

Mallory—wife of third baseman Kai Sato—saw my sparkler during our video call discussing their family taxes and drilled me for details.

Since moving to Virginia Beach, I’d become the unofficial team accountant.

Not for the team in a corporate sense, but I prepare and file the personal taxes for most of the starting lineup and several of the reserve players.

Aaron had suggested I not wear my engagement ring during my virtual meetings with the rest of the players.

Once the news was out, Mallory insisted I have a bachelorette party tonight, even though Aaron and I don’t have anything official planned yet.

Our whole relationship has been such a whirlwind.

We’ve only been dating for nine months, but Aaron said he couldn’t wait any longer to spend the rest of his life with me.

I know, swoon.

My fiancé jogs up to the pitcher’s mound, turning to see my freckled fingers on the jumbotron. I probably should get a manicure now that I’m sporting this rock, but I hate the upkeep of polish since it always gets destroyed when I garden.

When Aaron just stares at the screen, his shoulders tightening, my skin itches as a flush creeps up my neck. If this overzealous cameraman doesn’t pull back soon, my face will be redder than the opposing team’s jerseys.

But then Aaron turns around with that smile—the one that melted my insides the first time he directed it at me. I thought the stadium had been loud before, but when Aaron waves in my direction, the ballpark explodes. I resist the urge to cover my ears as he ducks his face as if shy.

The gesture looks odd to me. My fiancé isn’t shy…or hesitant, or cautious, or any of the adjectives people often use to describe me. He takes up space, demands attention, and always gets his way.

“Excellent,” Mallory says from beside me, her lips still set in a flawless smile.

With the crowd’s positive reaction and the bottom of the fourth about to start, the red light on the camera blinks off, and the man drops it from his shoulder.

“Thanks for that,” he says.

All I can manage is a semi-human grunt.

“Everything will be better now that it’s out in the open,” Mallory says, bumping my shoulder with hers. “You’ll see.”

Mallory might be pushier than the toughest drill sergeant, but she means well. Even when I was just her CPA, she’d always been kind. Then Mallory squealed for a solid ninety seconds once I finally caved and told her the truth about Aaron and me.

“If you say so,” I say meekly.

“Trust me.” This time, she wraps her arm around my shoulder. “These men might know what’s best for their game, but most of them don’t understand what makes a good marriage. A happy wife means a happy life.”

I’ll have to take Mallory’s word on it since she and Kai have been happily married for eight years. But I don’t mention that this future wife would have been perfectly content eating sushi and staring at the ocean.

“Let’s go, Waves!” Mallory shouts, releasing me from her grip.

The bottom of the fourth gets off to a rocky start with Aaron walking the first hitter and then giving up a double to left field, putting runners on second and third with no outs.

I lean forward, biting my thumbnail as a hush goes over the stadium.

When Aaron walks a third player, the catcher, Trevor Chapman, approaches the mound, most of the infield following him.

Trevor is the reason any of this is even happening in the first place.

He’s my former boss, turned client, turned unintentional roommate, turned matchmaker.

It all started last February when I started pet-sitting Banks, his adorable calico cat, before spring training.

Since Banks required a lot of medical attention, I would bring my laptop and work at Trevor’s house.

I had tax forms strewn all over the place from a client who refused to e-file when Trevor came home from practice, inquiring about my day job.

After minimizing how much he owed on taxes by deducting agent fees, training costs, and union dues, Trevor recommended me to his teammates.

Since then, my virtual accounting business has exploded.

He also saved my bacon when my apartment flooded last April, insisting I stay in his spacious, always-empty guest wing while claiming that Banks liked me best anyway—well…

not claiming. Banks one hundred percent likes me best. And then, it was Trevor who hosted the Fourth of July party where Aaron first noticed me.

Come to think of it, Trevor is kind of like a fairy godfather. If fairy godfathers wore catcher’s masks and leg guards. Or rather, he’s my supportive older brother since he’s ten years older than me and always looking out for me.

My roommate glances my way, as do the rest of the infielders in the huddle.

Mallory throws her arm over her head with an enthusiastic wave that would make Dolly Parton proud.

She then elbows me until I offer my own, much smaller, version.

Trevor and the rest of the guys smile, but Aaron’s lips are set in a firm line.

I know that line. That’s the yell at the valet because they adjusted the seat when parking the car line. That’s the I can’t believe the housecleaner left behind the mop again line. And this time, the line is directed at me.

A drop of sweat rolls down my spine.

The men cover their mouths with their gloves, talking for a few more seconds before returning to their positions.

When Aaron pitches again, it’s a thing of beauty.

A perfect curveball results in a strike.

Then a slider, down and away for another strike, finishing with a change-up.

Or at least that’s what the announcer tells us.

All I see is the umpire making the strikeout gesture.

We all stand, screaming and jumping as the batter walks back to the dugout. After linking arms, we keep cheering as the Waves get two more outs—another strikeout for Aaron and a tag out at home by Trevor when the runner on third makes a break for it.

As the inning switches, I hug everyone. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

Maybe Mallory was right about insisting we come to the game.

It’s a lot of fun being here, cheering Aaron on and getting to know the other wives and girlfriends.

For all the drama shown on WAG reality TV shows, these women have only been personable and welcoming.

“Does anyone want anything to drink?” I ask, needing a bottle of water after all that screaming.

“Diet Coke, please.” Amaya, one of the reserve players’ girlfriends, digs in her purse for her wallet.

I wave her off. “I’ve got it.”

I’m halfway to the concourse when Janessa intercepts me.

“Hey,” I say, giving Aaron’s personal assistant a huge grin. “Wasn’t that great?”

“It was.” She presses her lips together, tucking us against the cement half-wall.

Her expression makes a sinking sensation tug at my stomach. “What is it?”

“He’d like you to leave. You’re a…distraction.” Janessa twists her nose as if her words taste rotten.

“What?”

My question is little more than a puff of breath swallowed by the music from the loudspeakers.

Her eyes soften. “I know. I’m sorry. Can I drive you home?”

If I thought the ringing in my brain had been intense before, it’s unbearable now.

“He told you—” I swallow because somehow there’s sand in my mouth. “Aaron wanted you to ask me to leave?”

She sighs. “Yeah.”

It’s her obvious discomfort that does me in. Janessa has always been so sweet, coordinating dates for us around Aaron’s incredibly busy schedule. I’m sure she doesn’t want to be delivering this news any more than I want to be hearing it.

“Oh.” I blink rapidly, trying to keep tears at bay.

Janessa wraps me in a quick hug. “Let me drive you home.”

“Okay.” I sniff, following her for a few steps before halting.

I want to keep walking—actually, I want to disappear into dust like I was never here in the first place—but it’s like my Converse are super-glued to the stairs.

“What if I don’t?”

Janessa turns, her box braids slipping over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Honestly, I have no idea. I don’t even know where that question came from.

“What if I don’t leave?”

I must have been body snatched. Either that or aliens impregnated me with their offspring and now they’re taking over.

And apparently, those squiggly babies are ticked.

The heat pricking my cheeks is definitely not from embarrassment.

I straighten my spine, tilting my chin up like I’m the kind of person who fights for myself instead of always accommodating others.

“What’s the plan if I don’t leave?”

Because here’s another thing about my groom-to-be.

He always has a backup plan. If I’m supposed to come over and I’m not feeling well, he’ll send store-bought soup while asking me to FaceTime.

If he’s supposed to do an interview and it gets moved, he’ll schedule a different one with a more prominent outlet in its place.

Aaron always has a second and then third plan, probably because he always has to think ahead to the next pitch.

“Kenzie.”

I hold up a hand. “Just answer the question.”

Janessa’s shoulders collapse with a weary exhale. “He wants the ring back.”

This time, my “What?” is bellowed. Several spectators look over, and one even takes her phone out, but I can’t bring myself to care. My soul is tired of always being chosen last, of begging for crumbs, of being asked to go home.

I turn on my heels, pounding down the stairs like I’m a trained athlete when, really, my only exercise is the daily walk I take while listening to audiobooks.

Janessa calls after me, but I’m already almost at my seat.

At the last second, I veer right and toward the corner of the dugout where there’s a gap in the netting.

With superhuman strength I didn’t know I possessed—thanks, alien babies—I launch myself atop it.

A collective gasp goes out from the surrounding area as I stomp on the top of the dugout.

“Aaron! I deserve more than to be dumped by your assistant while ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ plays in the background. Come out and do it yourself.”

The cameraman runs from where they were firing t-shirt cannons as half of the team files onto the field.

“We can discuss this later,” Aaron says, his expression even—peaceful almost.

“No. We’re discussing this—”

I stomp my foot again, but it doesn’t hit the steady concrete.

Instead, my forceful kick cuts through the air as I lose my balance and tumble over the dugout’s edge.

The bright stadium lights momentarily blind me as I freefall for two terrifying seconds.

Then I hit something solid that smells faintly of the laundry room upstairs.

A laugh bubbles from my throat when I realize I’ve landed in Trevor’s arms.

“Kenzie.”

Trevor grins at me like I’m a wayward nymph he has to watch over. It must be exhausting, always helping me out, but boy am I grateful for his quick reflexes tonight. I’m definitely baking Trevor that triple-chocolate cake he likes so much as a thank-you later.

“Nice catch,” I say before wiggling free to give Aaron a piece of my mind.