Page 14 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

What’s not to love about an entire week of early release days?

Well, nothing—for the students. Dylan certainly doesn’t mind lounging around the house all afternoon with no supervision.

Maybe I should have a responsible adult stay with him so he’s not home alone.

Someone to oversee his actions and make sure he’s being, well, responsible .

My cell phone buzzes with an incoming call, but my head’s not so far in the clouds I don’t check the Caller ID before I answer. What if Alejandro is on another of his quests to control my life? When I see it’s Priya, I grab for the phone and answer.

“Hey, lady! I haven’t talked to you in days. How you feeling as a wardrobe curator for the city’s Gen Z titans? And I don’t mean the football studs.”

“Well, my friend, it’s funny you mention professional athletes, actually. Because we’re about to remember how we feel about hockey studs. You’ll never guess who I just fucking signed as a client.”

I could only think of one hockey player—one person —she’d sound so pissed about representing.

“God, Pree, tell me no.”

“Oscar Torres? Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“I told you your socials are badass.” It was a weak attempt and humoring her.

“Thanks, but that’s no help, Palmer.”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe there’ll be a silver lining?”

“Sure. Maybe. When you think of it, let me know. In the meantime, there was one piece of good news in that otherwise craptastic meeting.”

“Don’t keep me waiting. How does this get better?”

“Well, that night of the casino fundraiser, when you were in the bathroom, you know, getting face fucked by a tall, dark stranger—” she interjects a loaded pause and I roll my eyes and twirl my finger in a get to the point gesture because I remember it clearly, thank you —“I met Oz’s agent in person.

Flynn Nichols, that’s his name. I think he said he’s Max’s guy, too? ”

“I don’t know, but I can find out if?—”

“Nah, it’s not important. Anyway, he was there with his wife. Till then, I’d only emailed or talked with him by phone. But his wife, Colleen, loved my dress, and now I have an appointment with her to go over wardrobe strategy.”

My heart swells with happiness at her success.

“Amazing, Pree, and well deserved! I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m just glad you went with me and I didn’t pass on the tickets. It was sheer luck that Kevin in Accounting couldn’t make it so he gave them to me.”

Lucky for her because she got a promising client . . . along with whatever we’re referring to her ex as these days.

The jury’s still out on whether it was lucky for me.

After another few minutes of chatting and deciding we need to get together soon, we say goodbye and I open another student’s file to review the contents in preparation for tomorrow’s parent meetings.

Thank God it’ll finally be Friday. Early release days for teachers is only a matter of exchanging hours spent with students for hours interacting with parents and administration.

As if I conjured it, the file I have open is Natalie’s.

Max’s daughter. He’s been on my mind far too many times in the week since I met him, especially since I thought we turned a corner away from antagonism and maybe— oh please, pretty please —back to the bad boy and his Palmer Girl.

But so far, radio silence. No calls, no texts, no email, no carrier pigeon.

I know he’s attracted, because apparently, I do make everything hard.

And now . . . now that today’s memory of Max has broken the seal and left me feeling dejected and abandoned, and a little bit horny, I wonder how to put him back in the bottle. I haven’t been able to manage it all week, and Mike’s had to be generous with his magical touch.

These continued thoughts are doing me no good at all, so I return to my original quandary.

It would be nice for Dylan to have company this summer while I teach summer classes, but who would it be?

I don’t have family nearby, not that any of them would be willing to help.

Maybe we should get a dog. Not exactly the same thing, but until something, or someone, more suitable comes along, I’m all he’s got.

As if sending a reminder that I do have options, my phone dings with a text message notification. It’s Alejandro. My heart jolts and I swipe left and send it to trash without reading.

Hey, universe, I wasn’t calling for an intervention!

I wait anxiously for a repeat notification from Alex’s dad at the four-minute mark, but for once, he seems content to settle for causing vague anxiety rather than my total meltdown.

It’s late in the afternoon when Natalie Murphy appears at the door to my classroom in a T-shirt and shorts, hair wet and in a combed-back ponytail as though she just showered after practice, her shoulders sagging with the weight of her backpack and gear bag.

Again, I wonder if my thoughts are so loud that I’m manifesting my feelings.

Next thing I know, I’ll get a call from The Max Murphy himself.

The difference is, that’s hope .

Natalie knocks quietly on the frame of my open door and takes a hesitant step forward.

“Ms. Sloan, do you have a minute?”

I close the file I’m working on and give her my attention. “I do. Is everything all right?”

She takes another step toward me, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. I just got done with softball practice and I had a missed call from Dilly.”

I pucker my brow. “Dilly?”

“Um, Adele Mulligan. My grandma.”

I nod my head in understanding, though what does her call have to do with me?

“Of course. So, did you call her back?”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. She’s at the emergency room.” The girl wrings the straps of the bat bag hanging from her shoulder.

I stand from my chair. “Oh, no. What happened? Is she okay?” I shake my head because Palmer Sloan, that is overreaching. “I’m sorry, don’t answer that. I’m just finishing for the day. How can I help?”

“No, it’s fine. She left a voicemail. I guess she fell and hurt her right ankle pretty bad so she called an ambulance.”

I step around the desk and wrap her in a hug. “Oh, honey. What can I do? Do you need a ride somewhere? Maybe home, or to the hospital?”

Natalie nods, slowly, as though piecing together the process of getting . . . anywhere. “My dad’s away so she’s staying at my house this week. But she’s not there right now, I guess.”

I’ve been neatening my desk as she speaks, folding notebooks closed, stacking file folders. I reach for my purse from the lower desk drawer and my sweater from the back of my chair. “I don’t mind at all. Does she need to get picked up?”

“I don’t even know how bad she is,” the girl says through threatening tears. “Would you mind driving me to see her?”

The girl is absolutely distraught. I take her in my arms again, but her bulky backpack prevents me from patting her back. I settle for her shoulder.

“I’m sure everything will be fine and she’ll be back to her same ol’ self in no time. Let’s just get there and see if she’s ready to leave.”

The distance to the hospital is relatively short, but rush hour is coming on, and traffic is slow.

By the time we reach the entrance to the hospital complex, Natalie has received another call from her grandmother, and the older woman’s being released.

The difference in Natalie’s demeanor is immediate.

Her relief is palpable, and she’s back to the happy, energetic girl I know.

I feel as though I’ve also received a reprieve. I’ve witnessed Natalie in general teenage emotional turmoil and no, thank you. I’ll pass on a reenactment.

We spot her grandmother waiting on a bench in the pick-up area. I pull the car over and when the woman stands with the aid of crutches, Natalie throws open her door and hops out to help her in.

I pivot to face the woman as she settles herself on the back seat of my car and buckles in.

“Hello again. I see you took a bit of a tumble.”

“I guess I did. It was stupid, really. Just carelessness.”

“We’ll get you home as quickly as we can.” I turn to my co-pilot. “Natalie, I’m going to need directions to your house.”

The girl bounces back around and faces forward. “I’ll plug it in your GPS.”

She fiddles with the device for a few minutes until the first instruction comes out over the speaker. Then, she turns back to her grandmother.

“Dilly, you scared me to death. You promised Daddy you wouldn’t kill me, but that didn’t mean you can try to kill yourself instead.”

Adele just shakes her head.

“ Pshh , girl. It’s a minor break. More like a cracked bone, probably, but you know doctors—always being dramatic.”

The woman gives Natalie an eyeroll, and me a self-deprecating smile. From what I’ve witnessed in the past, she’s normally capable and alert.

“We all have our moments, don’t we?” she says, and I give her a rueful chuckle of commiseration.

“That we do.” I turn back to the wheel and pull out onto the main road.

Adele is quiet as I follow the next couple of audible driving directions on our way to taking them home, then says, “I have a worry now, though, because I’m not supposed to drive for a couple of weeks. I just don’t know how I’ll manage to get this girl around. She’s an active one, our Nat.”

“I’ll figure it out, Dilly. I can get a ride to school with Becks. Or Harper. And I’ll ask the coach if she can pick me up for our game tomorrow.”

We’ve been weaving our way further and further from school and my part of town, and finally, the GPS announces we’ve arrived.

The house I share with Dylan is a fraction the size and nowhere near as elaborate as the gated residence I’m parked in front of.

I’ve lived in a house similar to this, though.

It was so long ago that I doubt Dylan has memories of it.