Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cassidy
“It gets late early out there.”
Yogi Barra
The stadium buzzed different today—smaller, looser, more recess than life-or-death. I tugged my cap against the Arizona sun and squinted at a few players tossing neon softballs while families drifted in, laughing, buying Gila Monsters merch.
“Hey, Cassidy.” Lauren’s heels clicked up behind me. She handed me a clipboard with a smile. “Thanks for coming. A handful of players and a few brave souls like you.”
“It’s a charity exhibition,” she added, efficient as ever. “Five-dollar donation, all to the children’s hospital. We’ll film for YouTube and socials. Just have fun.”
Fun. Right.
I scanned the field, pretending my pulse was normal. Three days since the Insta Live disaster. Three days since Nate tucked me under a blanket after I basically tackled him with a hug. Three days of memes and one unexpectedly sweet check-in.
I missed him. The thought nearly tripped me.
Lauren tipped her chin toward the dugout. “Captains’ meeting. You’re leading one team. Guess who has the other?”
“O’Brien, obviously,” I said, laughing. “Totally fair since I have negative athletic skill. My dad tried—made me practice an hour every night one summer. Never amounted to anything.” The words didn’t stab like they used to.
“Your throw to home was great,” she said.
I flipped my hair and leaned into the performance. Loose waves, half pony. Tight shorts, low-cut black tank, Gila Monsters jersey. Every curve intentional—brand on. Pretty, carefree girl here to play softball. “I didn’t realize how much charity work the team does.”
Lauren paused, studying me. “It’s why I love it here. The owners care about giving back. Not performative, core to the organization.”
That same Monday buzz lit up my chest. I wanted to do more. “That’s admirable. I’d love to hear about it. Coffee sometime? My treat.”
Her smile softened. “I’d love that. You have my email—send a few times.”
I stood a little taller, content with my plan when he arrived. It was hard not to notice the subtle shift of the air, nor the way the fans screamed for him. Nate O’Brien walked onto the field. My stomach fluttered as I spun, watching him, and I found him staring right at me.
Holy shit.
He wore a backwards hat—which shouldn’t have been allowed.
An athletic black shirt and Sedona red shorts that hugged his thighs, his face freshly shaved and his eyes almost glowing.
He stalked toward me. No other way to describe how fast and intentional he walked to me.
My breath caught in my throat as his gaze moved from my face to my chest, thighs, then legs.
I shifted my weight left to right, noting how he jaw ticked as he stood in front of me.
“Hi,” I said, practically blushing. My face flushed and I sucked in a breath when he bent down, his fingers carefully gripping my forearm as he kissed the side of my face. “Oh,” I whispered. “God, you smell good.”
He chuckled softly and wrapped his arm around my shoulders in a half hug, guiding me a little further from Lauren and the other players.
His hand pressed against my upper back in a firm grip and I swore I felt that touch all the way to my toes.
He stopped us near third base, spinning me to face him with his hands on my shoulders. “
He squeezed my shoulders once, then leaned down so close I could feel his breath against my ear.
“You look good,” he said, voice low and rough enough to make my skin prickle. “Too good. Gonna be hard to focus today with you running around.”
I froze, blinking up at him like a complete dork, because what the hell was I supposed to say to that?
Make a joke? Laugh it off? Pretend I wasn’t one deep breath away from melting into the infield? All I could manage was a strangled little sound that might’ve been a laugh—or a whimper—God only knew.
He chuckled under his breath, the sound sliding under my skin and settling low in my stomach. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me and was proud of it.
“Come on, sunshine,” he said, finally letting me go with a grin that showcased his perfect teeth. “Let’s go pick teams before you start another social media riot.”
I followed him, legs somehow still functioning, clipboard clutched tight in my sweaty hands.
Everywhere we walked, people’s heads turned.
Mainly were at him, but a few glances slid to me too, curious and lingering, and the idea that anyone was looking at me because of him made something wild flutter inside my chest.
We stopped near home plate where a handful of players and local celebs were gathering. Someone tossed Nate a softball, and he caught it one-handed like it weighed nothing.
He turned to me, smirking that stupid smirk that made me want to both punch him and climb him like a tree.
“Hope you’re ready, Calloway,” he said, tossing the ball lazily from hand to hand. “I’m about to draft a team that’s gonna bury you.”
“In your dreams, O’Brien,” I shot back, lifting my chin, refusing to let him steamroll me before the game even started.
He winked, stepping back to his side of the field. And just like that, the battle lines were drawn.
Lauren grabbed a mic and tapped it once, her voice projecting through the small speaker system.
“Alright everyone! Welcome to the first Gila Monsters Charity Softball Game of the year. Team captains today are Cassidy Calloway and Nate O’Brien.
We’ll alternate picks—no trades, no bribery, and no crying when you lose. ”
I glanced at Nate and caught him smirking at me, full cocky menace.
Oh, it was on. What I lacked in physical skill, I made up for it shit talking and attitude.
“Ladies first,” Lauren said, grinning as she handed me a neon green marker for my team list.
“Thanks,” I said sweetly, shooting Nate a saccharine smile. “I’ll try to go easy on you, old man.”
He barked out a laugh, shaking his head, and damn if it didn’t hit me square in the chest how good it felt to make him laugh.
Focus, Cass. Draft your dream team. Crush him.
I scanned the handful of players in front of me and spotted my first pick immediately. Pavin Porcello stood with his hat backward, flexing dramatically for no reason whatsoever.
It was stupid. And it worked.
“Pavin,” I called, waving him over. “I want you.”
He jogged up, winked at me, and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “God, I’ve been dreaming of this moment. Thank you for believing in me, Cass. I won’t let you down.”
“Oh my god,” I muttered under my breath, laughing as he threw an exaggerated kiss to the crowd.
Next to me, Nate’s jaw ticked visibly.
“Alright, O’Brien,” I teased, flipping my clipboard. “Your move.”
He chose another infielder I barely recognized, a quiet, fast kid probably smarter than all of us put together.
A solid pick, whatever. I was here for the vibes. And chaos.
“Second pick!” Lauren called.
Without hesitation, I grinned and pointed at Garcia, who was already doing some ridiculous warm-up dance move like he was starring in a TikTok.
“Garcia!” I shouted.
Garcia sprinted over, slid theatrically in front of me like he was stealing second base, and popped up grinning.
“Coach, just tell me what base you want me to steal—your heart, third base, home? I’m flexible.”
The crowd cracked up, and I swear I heard someone from the bleachers yell “Let them date!”
I snorted, shaking my head, but I couldn’t ignore the way Nate’s gaze darkened just a fraction. I stuck my tongue out at him as I high fived my two teammates.
Garcia slung his arm around my shoulders, leaning in way too close. “You made the right call, babe. Loyalty and abs? Ten outta ten.”
“Down, Garcia,” Nate muttered, just loud enough for only us to hear.
My heart thudded so hard I almost missed my next pick.
The draft went on like that—Nate choosing smart, strategic players. Me choosing chaos and flirt potential.
At one point, Pavin dropped to one knee and proposed mid-field with a Gatorade cap as a ring.
At another, Garcia challenged Nate to a “flex-off” for leadership rights over me.
I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt.
Through it all, Nate kept up the smirks and the chirps, but every time he thought I wasn’t looking, I caught him glaring daggers at any guy who so much as bumped my arm.
After the final picks, we posed for a photo—rival captains, fake mean-mugging at each other.
Nate grabbed the softball out of my hand last second, dragging his knuckles over my hand for an extra beat, before spinning it casually in his palm.
“Hope you’re ready to lose, Calloway,” he said low enough that only I could hear. “You’re going down, sunshine.”
I rolled my eyes, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. “You wish, old man.”
My stomach absolutely flip flopped at the tender way he said sunshine and how he never took his gaze off me.
I had no idea what this meant but I relished the attention, and wanted to use it to win.
One thing my dad taught me was that Calloway’s never went down without a fight.
Thinking about him made me smile. He’d get a kick out of this game, probably would be laughing his ass off watching me trying to swing a bat.
It was chaos around me, but I closed my eyes for a second, breathing in the moment and feeling my dad’s joy surround me.
This would’ve been the coolest thing ever.
He’d tell everyone he knew how I played in this game, how I was amazing and so awesome.
He told me all the time how proud he was of me, and hoped this moment made him proud.
Playing a softball game with his favorite team.
“Hey,” a deep, familiar voice neared me. “You okay?”
I blinked my eyes open and found green ones narrowed with worry. “Yeah,” I said, smiling and gesturing to the scene around us. “I can feel my dad watching this. I know that sounds stupid—”
“No.” He stopped me. “That sounds wonderful. And he is. I guarantee it.”
Nate leveled me with a serious look, his voice soft and gentle. “Have fun and be careful today.”