The Pitcher’s Proposal (Fixated #5)

1. Dakota

DAKOTA

FEbrUARY

“Ipromise it’ll feel less overwhelming by next week,” Marissa says as we cross the courtyard separating the administrative building from the Titans’ spring training complex.

I adjust the notepad under my arm and keep pace beside her. “It’s not overwhelming. There are just more moving parts than I’m used to.”

“That’s the polite version of overwhelming.”

I laugh, but she isn’t entirely wrong. I’ve spent the past six years working in sports nutrition, first with a university athletic department and then at a private performance center where most of my clients were professional athletes during their off-seasons.

I know how to build fueling plans, coordinate meals, assess hydration, and convince stubborn men that protein powder doesn’t cancel out three nights of takeout.

What I don’t know yet is how the Charlotte Titans operate.

Today is my third day as the team’s new assistant dietitian and nutrition coordinator, and my head is already full of names, schedules, dietary restrictions, medical protocols, and enough acronyms to fill a textbook.

Spring training officially begins this week, which means the complex is growing busier by the hour as players, coaches, trainers, and support staff arrive in Florida.

Marissa Morgan, the Titans’ director of performance nutrition and my new supervisor, has spent the morning walking me through the places and people I’ll need to know. She’s efficient without being impatient, which has made it much easier to admit when I need clarification.

“We’ve got the pitchers’ meeting at ten,” she says, checking the tablet tucked against her side. “You won’t need to say much. I’ll introduce you, we’ll go over the meal schedule, then we’ll let them get back to work.”

“I can handle that.”

“I know you can.” She glances at me. “That’s why I hired you.”

The confidence in her voice is reassuring.

Leaving my last job was the right decision, but that hasn’t stopped me from feeling the pressure of stepping into a major league organization.

This is the opportunity I’ve been working toward for years.

I want to prove I deserve it without trying so hard that everyone can tell how badly I want to prove it.

We enter the main building through a set of glass doors. Voices carry from down the hall, mixed with the squeak of athletic shoes against polished flooring. Marissa turns toward the staff offices, but before we reach them, someone calls her name.

“Marissa.”

The deep timbre of his voice turns my head.

A man approaches from the opposite end of the hallway with a baseball cap turned backward and a Titans training shirt stretched across a strong chest. He’s tall, even for a professional athlete, with thick shoulders and powerful arms. Even from this distance, his hazel eyes are startlingly beautiful.

I recognize him immediately. Brendan Kelso. Starting pitcher. Three-time All-Star.

He’s also considerably more attractive in person than the team headshots prepared me for.

Marissa stops, forcing me to stop beside her. “Kelso. You’re early.”

“I’m responsible now.” His attention shifts to me, still with an easy grin. “Who’s this?”

The directness of his interest sends a flutter through my stomach. I keep my expression pleasant and professional, reminding myself that meeting players is part of my job now. They’re coworkers. Extremely large, absurdly handsome coworkers are still coworkers.

“This is Dakota Lee,” Marissa says. “Our new assistant dietitian.”

His gaze moves over my face before dropping briefly to the ID badge clipped near my waist. It doesn’t linger anywhere inappropriate, but awareness warms my skin anyway.

“Dakota,” he repeats. “Nice to meet you.”

I hold out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Brendan.”

His hand closes around mine, his fingers easily surrounding mine. He smiles. “I can’t remember the last time someone called me Brendan.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Sorry. I should’ve said Kelso.”

“No, I like it. Call me Brendan all you want.”

For a fleeting second, I can feel myself melting under that gorgeous smile of his. Then I remember where I am. Being the new woman on staff who flirts with the starting rotation isn’t a reputation I’m interested in building.

Marissa taps her tablet against her palm. “Dakota will be helping with individual consultations, travel nutrition, and the clubhouse fueling stations. Try not to make her regret accepting the job.”

“I’d never do that.” Brendan’s attention remains fixed on me. “In fact, I’m available to help her settle in.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I say, barely holding back a blush.

“You haven’t heard what I’m offering. I know all the good restaurants around here.”

“Then I’ll keep you in mind if my job suddenly becomes reviewing restaurants.”

“You should. I’m thorough.”

A door opens down the hall, and a man in Titans training gear sticks his head out. “Kelso, you coming?”

Brendan glances over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t move immediately. Instead, he looks back at me, his expression still playful but his gaze so steady it makes my pulse skip.

“See you around, Dakota?”

“Considering we work for the same team, that seems probable.”

His laugh follows him as he turns away. I watch him join the other player, then force myself to look toward Marissa. She’s studying me with amusement. We begin walking again, and she waits until we’ve turned the corner before saying anything. “Kelso is friendly with everyone.”

“I assumed he was.”

“He flirts with everyone too.”

“I assumed that as well.”

It’s reassuring information, which is irritating because I shouldn’t need reassurance. Brendan Kelso is attractive, charming, and completely irrelevant to my plans for this job.

Marissa gives me a sidelong glance. “You handled him well.”

“There wasn’t anything to handle.”

“Of course not.”

I resist the urge to defend myself, which would only make it appear that the interaction affected me more than it did. Brendan probably won’t remember my name by tomorrow, and I have too much work ahead of me to waste time thinking about the way his hand felt around mine.

We reach the conference room where the pitchers’ meeting will be held. Marissa steps inside first, greeting one of the coaches while I pause to hold the door for two staff members coming through behind us.

Before I follow them inside, I glance back down the hallway.

Brendan stands near another doorway, listening to the man beside him. As though he senses me watching, he turns his head.

Our eyes meet across the distance. That gorgeous grin of his returns, slow and confident, and he lifts two fingers in a small wave.

Heat climbs into my face.

I turn and walk into the conference room before Marissa catches me looking.