Page 10 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)
Suck it up and take her on like the grown-up I can be.
My self-analysis has given me the pause I need to calm my junk, but a distraction sounds like a really good idea. I point over to where the boys are separating and going in different directions.
“So, Dylan’s been grinding all day. I thought I’d take him over there. Maybe introduce him to some of the guys.” I adjust the trajectory of my finger to indicate a spot where some of my teammates are hanging out with camp kids.
She looks over to where Dylan’s shagging balls, then turns a soft, liquid expression up at me.
“I was going to leave soon, but I’ll wait.”
I nod and reach for her wrist again, tracing a finger over the blue vein visible on the inside of it.
“Thank you,” I say simply, though it feels as if I’m grateful for so much more than allowing me to escort her son across a ballfield.
Dylan is a cool kid—funny and full of swagger—and not at all chill when I hook my arm over his shoulders, drag him away from cleanup duty, and take him to meet a couple of guys from the team.
This boy is far from timid—he demonstrated that at our meeting with the headmaster the other morning—yet I noticed earlier that he hesitates to walk up alone to the players for a picture.
Boy’s been working like he’s getting paid; the least I can do for him is get some ink on his shirt.
He’s a hustler, and damn near races ahead as I lead him across the field to where closing pitcher Carter Callahan and second baseman Chase Thorne are hanging out.
They all put in hours out here today, and I want to thank them for supporting Camp14 before they hit the locker room for tonight’s game. I owe them big time.
And then they go and spoil it by opening their mouths.
“Hey, Mighty Max, quite a show you put on here,” says Chase in a teasing tone.
Jesus fuck.
“All for a good cause.” I nod, but the bite in my tone tells him loud and fucking clear what I would say if there weren’t kids around.
“Aw, shucks, dude. Don’t be playing like you don’t love your new nickname,” Carter adds, because of course he can’t be left out.
“Just want to be cool like you, Callahan.” I scowl and shove Dylan in front of me to take off some of the heat.
“Hey, guys. This is Dylan. He’s a friend of Nat’s from school.”
The two stick out their fists, and I step aside so Dylan can have his shot.
But Dylan is frozen solid, eyes wide, arms limp at his sides.
If I meet Chase’s laughing eyes, I’m totally gonna lose my shit—and my rep as a hardass. I nudge Dylan’s shoulder.
“Really, kid?”
“Dude, you gonna leave me hanging or you gonna dab me up?” Carter chuckles through his question. We’ve all seen star-struck before, and poor Dylan is mistaken if he thinks Carter’s going to let him get away with it.
“Jesus Christ, you’re The Closer .” Dylan’s voice is low, awe and reverence murmured barely above a whisper.
His right fist raises slowly, as if pulled by a string—until Chase barks out a laugh, breaks the spell, and Dylan turns as red as the shirt on his back.
Somehow, he snaps out of it and manages to bump all three of them before he expires from mortification.
Carter steps closer with a black marker and motions for Dylan to turn around. He presents his back.
“So, Dylan, your dad brings you out to ball games here?”
Dylan’s head snaps over his shoulder with a quizzical expression. “My dad?”
Carter turns him back around with one finger, autographs his shirt, and hands the marker to Chase—all while continuing his conversation with the boy.
“Well, yeah. You like baseball, don’t ya?”
Dylan whips his head around and nearly gets the marker to his cheek.
“Hell, yeah! I’ve been playing since Little League. Pitching since clubs. But I’ve never been to a game with my dad. Been with my team, though. That’s cool.”
“Yep. Baseball’s pretty cool. Glad you’re here,” Chase says, then he caps the pen and shoves it in his back pocket, and they turn for the field.
But fucking Carter just can’t resist one last parting comment.
“Catch you in the locker room, Mighty Max.”
The kids are all gone by now and the field’s about deserted, so I flip off Carter.
Dylan unsuccessfully holds back a laugh. I give him my full attention and glare him down in mock seriousness.
“You think that’s funny, do you?”
Dylan’s entire demeanor changes to one that’s completely subdued.
“Sorry, sir. I thought it was supposed to be a joke.”
Christ . Some sense of anxiety or uncertainty or some fucking thing settles in my gut. I set it aside and flick the kid’s hat off his head. He scrambles after it and puts it back on. Backward.
From yards away, Carter tips his chin at the boy. “Yo, Dylan. You’re good. I absolutely was fucking with him.” Then, Carter’s taking off across the grass.
Dylan looks unconvinced as he scans the field, and stops looking when he sees his mom.
“Yeah, well, it looks like my mom’s calling me over. I’ve got a game tonight so I’m gonna take off now. Thanks for hooking me up with”—he points over his shoulder to the back of his shirt—“and all. Today didn’t suck as bad as it could’ve.”
I get the sense he’s looking for an escape. And maybe permission.
“Not a problem. I need to get to the locker room, too.”
With a short nod, he races off in the direction of the gate to the parking lot, never slowing to talk to his mom.
I head across the field toward the locker room, my mind on the kid instead of tonight’s game against Arizona.
Something about him is just . . . different.
One moment, he’s quiet and withdrawn, another, he’s playful as a young pup, and the next, he’s as all swagger and confidence.
I want to talk to him—to ask—but hell if I’ll set myself up for anything that seems inappropriate.
And what do I know, maybe this is normal behavior for a fifteen-year-old boy.
When I was his age—which, admittedly, was eons ago—I wore baseball blinders and was only interested in what I could do with the ball in my hand . . . or the balls in my pants.
It’s got to be rough for a kid whose dad doesn’t seem to be around much. Though his mom can make me rage in frustration, she gives me a punch-in-the-gut feeling too. Just not in the same way.