Forbidden Bases
Bridger City Falcons Book 1
by Alexa Fauli
Genre: Sweet Fake Dating Sports Romance
Carter
I pulled into the players' lot at Falcons Stadium, mytruck's tires crunching over the gravel as I found my usual spot. The afternoonsun bathed the stadium in golden light, and I could already smell the freshlycut grass as I grabbed my gear from the passenger seat. Practice days had theirown rhythm, different from game days—less pressure, more fine-tuning. Istretched my arms over my head, feeling yesterday's game still lingering in mymuscles. Coach Miller would be waiting, probably already pacing the field withthat damn whistle, ready to critique every move we made.
The locker room buzzed with the usual pre-practice chatter.
I nodded to Rivera at his locker across from mine.
"Blake! How's that shoulder feeling?" he asked,tossing me a roll of athletic tape.
I caught it with one hand. "Better than your battingaverage." I grinned to soften the jab.
"You're an asshole," he laughed, pulling hispractice jersey over his head.
I changed quickly, my movements practiced after years ofthis same routine. The smell of liniment and sweat permeated the air, familiarand oddly comforting. I laced up my cleats, grabbed my glove, and headed forthe dugout.
The late afternoon sun hit me full in the face as I steppedonto the field. I paused at the top step, taking it in—the emerald expanse ofthe outfield, the reddish-brown dirt of the infield, and the crisp whitebaselines freshly laid down. This view never got old. A baseball field was theone place in the world that made perfect sense to me.
"Blake! Stop admiring the scenery and get your ass overhere!" Coach Miller's voice cut through my moment. I jogged over to wherethe team was gathering along the first-base line. Coach stood with his armscrossed, his Falcons cap pulled low over his eyes, that perpetual look of milddisappointment etched on his face.
"Alright, listen up," he barked, not bothering toraise his voice—he never needed to. "Infielders with me. Outfielders withCoach Taylor. Pitchers to the bullpen with Ramirez. We're working onfundamentals today because apparently, some of you forgot what those are duringyesterday's game."
A few guys chuckled. We'd won yesterday, but it had beensloppy—three errors and some baserunning mistakes that had Coach's veinspopping out of his neck by the seventh inning.
I followed the rest of the infield to our positions. Thedirt felt firm under my cleats as I took my spot at shortstop. Coach Millerstood at home plate, fungo bat in hand.
"Let's go! Double plays. Martinez to Blake toThompson."
He smacked a grounder toward second base. Martinez fieldedit cleanly, pivoted, and fired the ball to me. I caught it as I glided acrosssecond, tapped the bag with my foot, and threw to first in one fluid motion.The ball hit Thompson's glove with a satisfying pop.
"Again!" Coach called, already sending anotherone.
We fell into rhythm. Ground ball, scoop, throw, catch,pivot, throw, catch. My body knew what to do without my brain getting involved.The sun warmed my back, and sweat began to trickle down my spine. I lovedthis—the mechanical precision of it, the way my muscles remembered everymovement.
"Blake! Watch your footwork on that double play!"Coach Miller's voice cut through my flow. "You're getting lazy with thepivot. Do it again."
I didn't argue. Coach's eyes missed nothing. Instead, Ireset my position, adjusted my stance slightly, and waited for the next ball.
"He’s on your ass already?" Thompson called fromfirst base.
"When is he not?" I shot back with a grin.
The next grounder came hot, a tough short-hop that I had tocharge. I scooped it cleanly, stepped on second, and fired to first—textbook.
"Better," Coach Miller said, which from him waspractically a standing ovation.
We worked through the drills for another twenty minutes. Therhythm of practice wrapped around me like a comfortable blanket—the crack ofthe bat, the calls from teammates, the thud of balls hitting gloves. My shirtstuck to my back with sweat, and dirt collected in the creases of my palms.
"Water break, then switching to situationaldefense," Coach announced, blowing his whistle.
I jogged to the dugout, grabbing a paper cup and filling itfrom the cooler.
"Looking smooth out there, Blake," said Diaz, ourcatcher, as he filled his own cup.
"Thanks, man. How're the pitchers looking?"
"Chen's slider is nasty today. Cruz is still fightinghis control."
I nodded, draining my cup and crumpling it. The water wascold against my throat.
"Blake!" Coach Miller appeared at the dugoutsteps. "I need you to work with Rodriguez on his transfers. Kid's got goodhands but he's fumbling the exchange."
"Sure thing, Skip."
Rodriguez was our rookie second baseman, called up just lastmonth when Pearson went on the injured list. Good kid, quick feet, but stilllearning the ropes.
I found him by the batting cage, nervously fieldinggrounders from one of the assistants.
"Hey, Rodriguez," I called, trotting over."Coach wants us to work on transfers."
"Oh, yeah, sure." His eyes widened slightly.Working directly with a veteran always made the rookies nervous.
"Relax, I don't bite. Much." I grinned,positioning myself next to him. "Show me what you're doing."
The assistant coach hit him a grounder. Rodriguez fielded itwell but fumbled slightly as he moved the ball from his glove to his throwinghand.
"I see the issue," I said. "You're rushingit. Let me show you."
I nodded to the coach, who sent a grounder my way. I fieldedit smoothly, transferring it to my throwing hand in one fluid motion.
"See how I let the momentum of the ball carry into mythrowing hand? You're trying to force it." I demonstrated again."It's all about rhythm. Like dancing with a pretty girl—you've got to feelthe flow."
Rodriguez nodded earnestly. "Can I try again?"
We worked for another fifteen minutes, his transfersgradually becoming smoother. Coach Miller watched from a distance, his armscrossed but his scowl a little less severe.
"Better, kid." I clapped Rodriguez on theshoulder. "You'll get it."
Alexa Fauli is a devoted sports romance author whose passionfor the Atlanta Braves and love of hockey inspire her vibrant stories ofcompetition and connection. When she's not dreaming up unforgettable characterswho play hard for both love and victory, Alexa enjoys sipping toasted whitemochas, watching anime romances, and cherishing time with her family. Her lifeis a delightful blend of heart, heat, and the magic that happens both on andoff the page.
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