Page 12 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Max

I’ve always thought it’s a little more thrilling to attend a baseball game under the lights. The grass is a little greener. The organ music is a little louder. The smell of popcorn and cheese-drenched nachos flooding the concourse is more enticing. The entire atmosphere is electric .

But standing on the mound, gripping a dirty white ball in my left hand, sensing the pitch clock counting down, there’s no feeling like knowing the batter digging his toe into the dirt of the batter’s box is one of the best players in baseball—and I’m going to strike him out.

It’s top of the eighth. We’re up six to one, there’s one out, and fifteen or so bold red Ks march across an electronic message board over the visitor’s bullpen. It’s a good position to be in, but we still have work to do. I have work to do .

Eli Masterson—a pitcher playing two-way ball, and new this year from Boston with a record-breaking contract—is batting third.

He gets set in the batter’s box. I swipe my belly with the forearm of the black long-sleeved tee I wear under tonight’s pinstripe jersey, step to the rubber, and everything happens in perfect rhythm, nearly simultaneously.

Tripp signals to the PitchCom. Deep breath.

Let it out. Take my stance. Pitch clock goes dark.

Wind up. Stretch. Let ’er rip. Strike one.

Four-seamer. Ninety-four miles per hour.

The moon is rising over the rim of the cheap seats, the digital banner is whirling around the entire stadium in vibrant blue, encouraging the crowd to make some noise . They do, their cheering like thunder, and nothing is more energizing than when the fans are chanting your name.

Eli digs in. Sets his bat over his shoulder.

I rub my sleeve against my torso and step up.

Tripp signals another fastball. I’ve got time for debate, and nuh-uh .

They don’t call Eli The Master for nothing.

I shake my head and Tripp comes back with a knuckle curveball.

Yeah, I like that . I nod. Wind up. Stretch.

Send it straight his way. The curve breaks at the last second and Eli’s caught dodging the ball.

Tripp scoops it from the inside edge of the zone. Called strike.

Eli steps out of the box to tie his shoe.

I take a trip around the mound, just to stay chill, making eye contact with each of the infielders.

The outfield looks good. Kelvin James shoves his stat card into his pants pocket and moves back several yards into deep right.

Smart man. Masterson is going down, but we’re not taking chances.

Eli’s back. I slide my sleeve and take the rubber.

Tripp signals the changeup and why the fuck not .

I give him the nod. Do my thing. Send the ball his way, but the throw feels off, and .

. . Crack! My gaze shoots upward to follow the ball.

Pop-up over the safety net. The crowd erupts, and those in the upper level over first base scramble for the ball.

That was a gift, Murph. It was, but it ain’t my fucking birthday. Gotta make sure there isn’t another.

Eli sets in the box, and he looks more determined than ever.

Aw, did he want to be the playmaker? I never promised to make this easy.

The pitch clock starts and it’s Groundhog Day, just like in the movies.

Same sleeve against my shirt. Same step up to the rubber.

Same windup. Same pitch. Changeup right down the pipe .

. . till the moment it falls off the table, and oh, lookie there.

Strike three. It’s my birthday, after all.

I step off the mound, glance at the crowd.

Unbidden memories come of pitching in my first big league game.

The nerves. The bravado. The pure certainty that I was where I belonged when I found my dad in his front-row seat, and Hannah, sitting with the WAGS, huge with Natalie and struggling to bend forward, as if that provided a better view.

Except for the times Nat’s schedule allows her to attend, there’s nobody here I want to go home with. And what the fuck brought that on? I’m here to do a job, so let’s get to it.

Except, I know who brought that on, and tonight, she’s watching high school ball.

Next up is Jeremy Scott, the second-year player out of Arizona State, batting for his home state. He’s got fans in the stadium—probably family too—and they love this kid. Let’s show them why they should love us more.

Jeremy’s a lefty, same as me, but we have a plan for him.

So far tonight, he’s gotten a single and a sacrifice fly, and twice got left staring after my slider.

One for four; I want to keep him at one for the day.

He takes his place in the box and here we go.

But after two swinging strikes—a fastball and then that slider that’s served me so well—Tripp stands, shakes out his legs, then squats into position and adjusts his mask.

He taps the button on his forearm that sends me the play through the PitchCom.

Let’s put this baby to bed, it seems to say, and I nod. We can do that.

A moment later, there’s a weak crack of Jeremy’s bat and the ball bounces right past me. Gunnar lowers his glove, fields it easily at short, and sends it to Diesel at first. Three up, three down. I could do that all night long.

In the dugout, there’s the normal amount of grab-assing and shit talk as we prepare to increase our lead.

I snag a piece of Double Bubble from the pail right before I get word that Callahan got the call to finish the game.

I was expecting relief for the final inning, and there’s not a part of my body that objects. But he better not fuck up my win.

Early Sunday afternoon, I dash through the pouring rain and Adele meets me at the side stoop of her two-story brick home in nearby Hendersonville.

“There you are, you big stud!” She swings the storm door open wide and I quickstep sideways to avoid getting nailed.

“Hi, Adele. How’s my best girl?”

She reaches for me, then inspects me at arm’s length. “Not as relaxed as you look. You got a new girl?”

“Never let up, do you?” I bend low for her genuine hug, and kiss her still-smooth cheek as I pass into the mudroom. She’s been on me for years, but never presses. So, what’s with the thump of anxiety I experience with her question?

“Get on in here, out of the wet.” She lets go and leads me into the kitchen, where there’s always coffee on the stove. She catches me eyeing it.

“You want one while you tell me about the girl we’re not talking about?” She points to the pot but the question’s rhetorical, as she’s already pulling down a mug.

“Coffee, yes. It’s a day for it. Girl, nope. But you can tell me all about your trip to the Gulf with your gal pals.”

She stares at me with narrow-eyed annoyance. “Stayed at the same house we take every year. Car got a flat on Monday. Had to get a tow. Charlotte had too many mai tais Wednesday night and missed bingo on Thursday. Now, aren’t you glad you asked?”

My lips quirk and I wrack my brain for another diversion, but she’s stuck with her hip against the counter, my still-empty mug in her hand, her eyes planted firmly on me. I shake my head.

“Damn, woman, you’re like a dog with a bone.”

“Woof. And I’m still waiting.”

I chuckle, and only because she’s one of my favorite people. Doesn’t mean there’s anything to tell.

“It’s early days, so leave me alone.”

I get up and glance into the living room, where there are signs of my daughter everywhere—her backpack on the sofa, her athletic shoes on the bottom step of the staircase leading up. But no Natalie.

I move back into the kitchen, take a seat at the table, and check my phone while I sip the dark brew.

It warms my throat on the way down. Adele catches me checking for messages and lifts her brow.

I’m rarely on my phone, and don’t usually have it out when I’m visiting.

But I messaged Palmer last night after I got home.

Still haven’t heard from her. Did I misread the signals?

Fuck, I hate this did she, does she middle school nonsense.

I slide the phone into my back pocket, determined to ignore it.

The aroma coming from the slow cooker is spicy and delicious. Adele’s got the lid off and is giving the contents a stir.

I kick my chin in the direction of the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Nat in her room?”

Adele replaces the glass lid, which immediately steams up, and steps into the walk-in pantry.

“That girl likes her phone, too. Been on it about since she got here,” she says once she emerges carrying a pair of canisters marked flour and corn meal.

She shakes her head with an exasperated smile filled with love. “Teenagers, you know.”

I scowl. “She’s supposed to be keeping you company when she’s here.”

Adele pauses her movements and lowers her brow my way, and I feel a mom moment coming on.

“I have friends to keep me company. She’s only supposed to feel loved and safe when she’s here. She doesn’t owe me anything.”

I get up, and in two steps I’m wrapping her in a hug, and it’s a good thing she already deposited the canisters on the counter, or we’d have a hell of a mess. “How’d we get so lucky with you, huh, woman?”

She slaps at my forearm, right over the shaded image of a pocket watch depicting the time of Natalie’s birth. “You got yourself tangled up with my daughter, didn’t you? I’d count us lucky, too.”

I return to my chair, and just then, the product of that luck bounds into the room in her stocking feet, and skids to a halt.

“Hi, Daddy! Good job last night.” She bends down to wrap her arms around my neck and kiss my cheek. My girl may not attend all my home games—face it, that’s a lot of baseball—but she’s my biggest fan and she keeps track of my stats—as if the team doesn’t pay a league of others to manage that task.

“Thanks, bug.”