Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Nate
“Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good too.”
Yogi Berra
I needed this win.
After the disaster of my last start, the road trip had been exactly what I needed to reset. A few clean innings, a few quiet hotels, no media, no distractions. I’d gotten my head back on straight.
At least, I thought I had.
That peace lasted until I walked into the clubhouse and saw Garcia grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“My brother,” he said, waving his phone in my face. “You’ve seen this, right?”
I hadn’t, but the tone in his voice told me I didn’t want to.
“It’s all over TikTok,” he continued. “Fans are freaking out.”
He hit play before I could stop him. The video started shaky, filmed from the stands—a fan clip from after last week’s game. Cassidy Calloway and I, mid-conversation near the dugout. She was laughing, head thrown back, her hand brushing my arm like we were sharing a private joke.
We weren’t. But try telling that to the internet.
The caption read: POV: when your favorite player finally flirts back.
My stomach dropped.
Garcia barked out a laugh. “Man, you’re trending. #CassAndNate is a thing now.”
Fantastic. Exactly what I needed: another distraction I hadn’t asked for.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my pulse to even out. I’d just gotten focused again. Now the whole world was speculating about a fake romance with the one woman who drove me insane.
And for some reason, that pissed me off even more than it should’ve.
“Ohhh, O’Brien.” He whistled. “Man, you are down bad.”
I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders back, keeping my focus on the tension in my hamstrings, not on whatever the hell he was talking about.
“No, I am not.”
“This video of the two of you has hit over a million views, my dude.” Henderson gripped my shoulder. “This is good for you, old man. Means you still got it.”
Jesus, one more old man comment and I’d challenge any of these punk ass to a challenge. Didn’t matter what one. I ignored him, shoving his hand off me when him and Garicia howled. “The comment section is killing me!”
They read them outloud, without my permission.
O’Brien is fighting demons rn.
At this point, she’s the team’s good luck charm.
Nate’s gonna propose by the All-Star break, I can feel it.
Bro is throwing fastballs and red flags at the same time.
I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. “This is ridiculous.”
Garcia grinned, pure amusement dripping from his voice. “Is it, though?”
Henderson dropped onto the bench press, shaking his head, like he was about to deliver some deep wisdom I didn’t ask for.
“Look, man, I don’t blame you.” He gestured toward Garcia’s phone like the evidence was right there. “She’s hot. If she wore my jersey, I’d be losing my mind too.”
“I’m not losing my mind.”
Garcia’s grin widened. “Then why’d you throw that fastball into the dirt last week?”
I snapped my head toward him, glare locked and loaded.
“Because I got distracted for one damn pitch, and it won’t happen again.”
Garcia and Henderson exchanged a look. The kind that meant they absolutely did not believe me.
Henderson chuckled. “Man, you know she’s coming to tonight’s game, right?”
I stilled. Fuck. I hadn’t thought about that. Why couldn’t she stop this shit? She probably did this, staged the post. Wanted more fame, more clout,more all of it.
She was meant to torture me and enjoyed it. It was almost guaranteed she’d be there, fucking with me. My jaw clenched, my chest aching with anger.
Henderson leaned back against the weight rack, watching me like I was a live documentary in the making. “Yeah. She posted her whole ‘GRWM for Game Day’ thing this morning.”
Garcia smirked, scrolling. “Oh yeah. And let’s see … ah. ‘Gotta keep the streak going, right?’”
I cursed under my breath.
Garcia whistled. “Oof. This girl is in your head, man.”
“No, she’s fucking not.”
But even as I said it, my stomach twisted, because all I could think about was how she’d be sitting there tonight, wearing my number, smiling.
No.
Not doing this.
I grabbed my glove, shouldered past them, and walked the fuck out. Behind me, Garcia’s annoying laugh cackled down the hall.
Henderson called out, “Better hope she’s actually good luck, O’Brien!”
I was going to kill them both. After I figured out how to survive tonight.
Everything was fine. I was focused. Locked in. Ball in my hand, breath steady, legs loose and ready. The stadium buzzed, the crowd noise humming in the background, the kind of static I’d learned to tune out after years on the mound.
I had one job tonight: dominate.
No distractions. No excuses. No stupid fucking mistakes. My entire life was on the line—the new contract, staying in Phoenix, being close to Amanda. I couldn’t afford to lose focus.
I adjusted my grip on the ball, stepped onto the rubber, and glanced toward the plate—and froze.
Cassidy. Sitting directly behind home plate. My jersey on her back.
And a date beside her.
My pulse stuttered, not from jealousy, but from disbelief.
After everything, after the quiet conversation that almost felt like a truce, she’d gone and turned it into a circus.
I’d tried to avoid the noise, and somehow she’d dragged me right into the center of it.
I stared like a goddamn rookie deer in the headlights as she casually leaned into her date, some guy with a too-perfect smile and a stupid fucking haircut, like she wasn’t actively trying to ruin my life.
She was smiling, laughing at something he said, like this was just another game, like she wasn’t on her third stadium date wearing my name on her back.
And then, because she was an actual demon, she turned, caught me looking, and winked.
Winked.
Like this was a fucking joke.
Like she hadn’t already ruined my peace and opened me up to public speculation. Like this spectacle didn’t give me a case of the yips.
My grip tightened around the ball. I sucked in a sharp breath.
Focused.
Fastball.
I reared back, delivered and sailed it two feet outside.
The crowd collectively groaned.
Garcia shifted behind the plate, glancing at me like what the hell was that?
I rolled my shoulders, forced a slow breath through my nose. One bad pitch. Reset.
I stepped back onto the mound, gripping the ball a little too tight. Tunneled in on my catcher.
Ignored the smug, distracting, completely infuriating woman behind him.
I went for a curveball, low and outside—
And bounced it into the dirt.
Another groan from the crowd. A low chuckle from behind home plate.
I didn’t have to look to know who it was.
My fingers itched to throw something at the backstop.
Instead, I exhaled, re-centered, forced myself to tune her out. I was better than this. I’d been playing my entire life and knew better. I wasn’t going to let some young blonde woman ruin my career for fun.
I locked in on my target.
Breathed.
Reset.
Throw your fucking pitch.
I delivered another fastball—a clean strike down the middle.
The batter swung through it.
Better.
I let out a sharp breath, reset my shoulders, got the ball back from Garcia.
One out at a time.
One batter at a time.
I settled into my rhythm, found my pace, delivered another pitch—a tight slider on the corner.
The batter fouled it off.
Okay.
I rolled the ball in my fingers, grip comfortable now. I had him set up perfectly.
I breathed.
Nodded at Garcia’s signal.
Went into my windup and right as I released the pitch—
Cassidy leaned in toward her date, placed her hand on his arm, and laughed at something he said.
I yanked the pitch high.
The batter crushed it into the gap for a double.
The crowd roared.
I clenched my jaw, stepping off the mound as my stomach coiled.
My gaze flicked—just once—toward home plate.
Cassidy sat there, legs crossed, completely at ease, as if she wasn’t causing absolute chaos in my brain.
And the worst part?
She knew exactly what she was doing.
I hated that the damn double rattled me. Hits happened, even when I was on my game. But my mental block against her was shattered. Why? I had no fucking clue and I was a damn headcase right now.
I stepped off the mound, took a slow breath, forced my grip to relax around the ball. One out. Just get one out.
I adjusted my hat, rolled my shoulders, stepped back up to the mound, and—
She laughed again. Low, barely audible over the stadium noise, but I fucking heard it.
This was all a joke to her. She was messing with my actual life, and she didn’t fucking care. I walked the next batter.
Then, with two outs and runners on, I hung a slider right in the middle of the plate.
And the guy crushed it.
Three-run homer.
The stadium exploded as the opposing dugout cleared for the celebration.
Meanwhile, I stood on the mound, fucking furious at myself.
Garcia didn’t say a word when he walked out to take the ball from me. Just clapped a hand on my back, giving me the silent get your shit together look.
I walked off the field, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
I could already feel the eyes on me.
The media.
The fans.
The fucking internet.
The front office, debating if I was worth it anymore. If I was too old and needed to be changed out with a younger guy. My time was up soon. I’d be forced out of my hometown, away from my sister, and I didn’t fucking want that.
By the time I reached the dugout, I could already hear social media feeding the flames.
An hour later, I sat at my locker, towel draped over my shoulders, seething, listening as the team’s closer gave up one more run in the ninth.
Final score: 5-3.
I took the L.
And the internet was loving every second of it.
Trending Topic: #CallowayCurse
Ever since Cassidy started showing up, O’Brien is getting rocked.
This woman is actually ruining his ERA.
At this point, it’s science. She’s cursed. Someone get an exorcist.
Bro is down bad AND losing games. Pray for him.
I pressed both hands to my face, willing the frustration out of my system.
I couldn’t even sit through the fucking press conference. The last thing I needed was some idiot reporter asking me about her again.