Page 8 of Big Pitch Energy

“Was he always so…” I searched for the right word.

“Brooding?” Ava supplied with a laugh.

”Yes,” I said. “Exactly that.”

“He was always quiet and like I said, super focused on baseball. He could have taken advantage of all the attention he got, but as far as I know, he never did.” She smiled. “And he’s never tried to hide the fact that he’s a total mama’s boy.”

Which explains the protective energy I'd felt around his heart chakra. You can’t fake something like that.

“That’s really sweet.”

I’d just finished speaking when my stomach growled, loudly.

Ava chuckled.

“Come on. Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving too.”

I stood and shoved the computer into my bag, my mind already racing ahead. As we walked out the door and headed to The Starlight Tavern, so many questions popped into my head about Sam. But I don’t want to interrogate Ava. Or give her any reason to believe I’m interested in him.

But I am.

And it’s not just because of his broad shoulders, strong jawline, or his intense eyes. It’s something deeper, quieter. Like he’s carrying around a weight no one else sees, and some irrational part of me wants to help him set it down.

I made a mental note to Google Sam when I got home. I told myself it was all in the name of research for his next reiki session. The better I understood his background, the more effectively I could work with his energy.

But deep down, I knew this was more than just professional curiosity. It was the start of something I couldn’t ignore.

Chapter Three

Sam

I walkedinto the house and kicked the door shut behind me. My thoughts were bouncing around with nowhere to land, and the quiet only made it worse.

When I agreed to go to the Reiki session, I did it just to appease my mom. I never thought I’d feel so off balance afterward. So restless. Like my skin didn’t quite fit right.

Mom wouldn’t be home for at least an hour, and the silence seemed to stretch out around me. I needed todo something or I’d crawl out of my own skin.

I thought about working out. Throwing, maybe. But I pushed myself yesterday, and I know better than to risk my recovery by messing around with it.

Still, I needed movement. Focus. Something that would settle me.

I wandered into the kitchen and decided to make dinner. I’ve always enjoyed cooking, and maybe the rhythm of it would help me regroup.

The freezer was packed—leftover chili, frozen pizza, some mystery container I wasn’t brave enough to open—but I grabbed a pack of chicken cutlets. They’d cook the fastest, and I wasn’t in the mood to wait around.

I put them in the microwave to defrost, then started hunting for a clue of what to make. The bell peppers, onion, mushrooms, and half-empty bottle of wine made the decision obvious. Chicken cacciatore it is.

I’ve made the dish with my mom more times than I can count. On Sunday afternoons, quiet holidays, and even random weeknights when wanting comfort food was reason enough. At this point, I can make it on autopilot.

I set the Dutch oven on the stove and poured in a slick of oil then pressed in two cloves of garlic. Once they started to sizzle, I laid the chicken in. While that browned, I grabbed the cutting board and got to work on the onions.

The bell peppers came next, then the mushrooms. Each cut precise, deliberate. My hands moved without thinking, muscle memory taking over. This was something I could control, something that made sense. No radar gun, no disappointed looks from coaches. Just me, a knife, and ingredients that would actually cooperate and do what I wanted.

I moved the browned chicken to a platter, then tipped the cutting board and let the veggies slide into the pan. The sharp, satisfying sizzle cut through the silence like music.

My mom always makes polenta with chicken cacciatore, but I’m not in the mood to stand around stirring tonight. Pasta will work just as well, so I grabbed a pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove to boil.

Once the onions turned translucent, the peppers softened, and the mushrooms started to give up their moisture, I reached for the wine. It hit the pan with a sharp hiss, steam rising as I gave it a quick stir. While it simmered down, I grabbed a canof crushed tomatoes from the cupboard, popped the lid, and poured it in, then added spices by instinct, just like mom taught me. She always told me that cooking isn’t about precision, it’s about comfort and the love you put into it.

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