Page 16 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)
Max
Ten days on the road is a solid haul. I should be able to stay focused. I’ve had this career for a long time, and traveling is part of the life. This time, though, outside forces creep in and steal my concentration.
Tripp and I are friends as well as a well-oiled machine, practically attached by a sixty-foot, six-inch tether between his spot behind the plate and mine on the mound.
And absolutely on the same wavelength when we face each other on the diamond.
But he left suddenly two days ago—gone to Montana and his grandfather’s funeral—and Davidson and I are somehow managing wins, but we are not vibing.
This guy’s got an agenda, and he’s impatient for Tripp to hang up his mitt.
But I’m facing an even worse distraction, and she has untamed curls and eyes that I see every morning in my coffee cup. Her voice is in my head, and the feel of her lips invades my dreams. The woman is a nuisance in my life—both waking and asleep.
It’s been two days since I talked to Nat—actually heard her voice.
A pinprick in time back before she came to live with me, but with this weekend’s schedule—night game on Friday leading into a day game yesterday—conflicting with her activities, it’s unacceptable.
Especially once she returned my text and I heard about Adele’s injury.
The woman’s got to need help, and I know she won’t ask.
She messaged, too, assuring me they have what they need.
But who’s taking care of Nat? The indigestion is real.
In desperation, I pull out what I’ve been told is a tried-and-true dad trick for inciting the wrath of a teenage daughter, and call her at eight a.m. It’s a bold move, and risky, but when Natalie answers with a sleepy, “Good morning, Daddy. Your ERA’s down another point,” I’m glad I found the balls.
I chuckle. “Good morning, bug. I’ve missed you.”
I walk a fine line with this girl, making sure she knows I’m there for her, yet not allowing her to feel responsible for me.
I manage to keep my declaration from sounding needy.
There’re shuffling noises in the background, and I imagine her scooting to sit propped amongst the forty-seven decorative pillows she piles on her bed.
“You have not. You’ve been too busy.” She laughs, and the sound of it is still deep with sleep. “What happened to Tripp, though? That other guy’s a tool.”
I agree, but I didn’t wake her up to spend time trash talking a fellow team member.
“He had to take care of a family thing. And thanks for keeping up on my stats. Is everything else going okay? If you need a ride while Dilly’s on the mend, just use the app for a car.”
“I’ve got it handled, Daddy,” she assures me, and the exasperation in her tone reminds me that she’s fifteen and capable, not five and totally reliant on an adult. Still, I need her to be a little reliant. And I’m interested.
“Handled how? You’re not riding with a boy, are you? You know that’s against house rules.”
She laughs again, bright and breezy, and I already sense I’m not going to like her answer.
“Yep, sometimes I ride with a boy from school. And don’t be growly.” Just as I’m about to have a fucking heart attack, she adds, “His mom is the one driving.”
Now, I’m suspicious. Because what the fuck mom of a boy from school does she know well enough to accept a ride?
“You’re playing with me, bug, and I can turn off your credit card with a click on their website.”
She blows a raspberry into the phone and it’s my turn to laugh.
“I’m begging. Just tell me who you’re taking rides from and save me more gray hairs.”
“You won’t get mad?”
“I won’t get mad.”
“Pinkie promise?”
“Natalie!”
“Geez, Daddy, it’s Palmer, all right? Um, Ms. Sloan. My math teacher.”
“Dylan’s mom?” So not the answer I’m expecting.
“Duh, Daddy. Hey, we watched him play yesterday. Damn, that school better find a coach for him. His fastball is good, but his slider is ugly. Even Palmer agrees.”
“You know not to call adults by their first name.”
“But she said! We were on our way to . . . Well, anyway, she’s been helping me get around. She even drove Dilly home from the hospital. She’s cool, Daddy. You’ll like her when you get to know her better.”
That much, I already goddamn know.
Of course Natalie couldn’t beg rides from any-fucking-body else. No, she has to make friends with the one woman who can turn me inside out and then turn me on, all in the same conversation. The one woman who decided to ghost me when I reached out to continue what we started a week ago.
“Listen, bug. I better go. Early game today and I need a conversation with your Ms. Sloan before I head down to eat. Be good.”
“And if I can’t be good, don’t get caught, right?”
Lord help me . I drop my forehead into my palm. This girl is going to be the death of me.
I take a moment after our chat to scroll in my phone. There’s got to be a fucking email from Palmer— Ms. Sloan —in here somewhere. One with an alternate contact number.
The first one I find is a conference reminder I blew off because Adele always covers those for me. Now, I wonder if she was even able to make it. Maybe Palmer’s pissed and that’s why she’s not answering. Should I ask her while we’re on the phone?
No, you idiot. That idea sucks balls.
One, Natalie may be over whatever happened between her and Dylan, but I’m definitely—probably—not, and two, I had a dream about our kiss again last night—which means, some part of me is probably—definitely—over it.
I fist my hair in both hands and pull. This woman who will not return my messages is totally fucking with my head.
At last, I find a phone number in her signature block and, oh fuck, that is not the number I’ve been using.
The relief I feel is on par with the amount of dread coursing through me because who the fuck have I been calling , and how mad is Palmer that I’ve ignored her after proving absolutely how attracted to her I am? I am so screwed.
I tap the link to her phone number, and listen while it rings. Once. Twice. On the third ring, the call connects and I wait for Palmer to say hello.
“Get it through your dense head, you fucking asshole. You can’t have my son!” is not what I’m expecting. Her voice is coarse and full of hot emotion. Girl is pissed, but what the fuck did I do to Dylan?
“The fuck’s going on, Palmer Girl?” I yell right back.
Because knee-jerk reactions are always productive.
But the call disappears.
I stew on that telephone call—on her heated attack—while I chow down on oatmeal and scrambled eggs.
And then a little more while I get wrapped and take the field for warmups.
Davidson is still a dick, but he catches every fucking ball and he isn’t afraid of the heat.
And fuck if I’m not bringing the heat today.
With the sun high overhead, we all line up while some local beauty queen squeaks through the national anthem. It’s already hot out, and the clouds that bring a chance of rain only add to the humidity. God, I can’t wait to get out of Alabama.
But first, we have to get through nine innings of baseball.
It took us a lot of throws to take care of business the last two games—an early win for Zach and then a save for Callahan—but I’m throwing tonight.
I gear up to make the next eight innings count and not leave a clusterfuck to clean up.
With luck, we’ll get out of this series with a three-peat.
It’s a little early in the season to worry about the final show— though, is it ever really —but it’s never too early to think about an All-Star bid.
I’m off today. I feel it. Thoughts of Palmer occupy my brain when she absolutely needs to sit the bench.
I take the mound for the first pitch. The inning is less than eventful with the number one batter a little eager, and striking out on three consecutive fastballs.
The next guy, a leftie, likes my slider and gets a piece of it.
Which Eric manages nicely in a quick boom boom four-to-three action.
Batter three in the lineup thinks he’s learned his lesson and backs off the early pitches, only to be left standing with an oh-and-three count.
Jesus. We could call fucking Dylan up to take care of these knuckleheads.
But then, Alabama’s offense gets serious, our defense hops on the sloppy train, and we end up tanking the game by a single run. Son of a bitch.
By the time I get to the hotel and order room service and a glass of whiskey, I’m still on edge while I strip down to my boxer briefs.
My phone rings. It’s Tripp. I should give him a few minutes, but tonight I’m the asshole friend, and in no mood to cheer him up when he wants to relive memories of his gramps.
Or maybe he’s just calling to give me shit for the game.
In that case, fuck him. I’ll give him a call before breakfast.
This morning’s call to Palmer has been eating at me all day.
What does she think I want with her son?
Other than the time I spent with him last weekend at the field day, I barely know the boy.
I won’t say the distraction is the reason I sucked balls today, but yeah, it’s probably the reason I sucked balls. My head just wasn’t in the game.
It’s in the game now, though. Probably due to the red meat I just wolfed down, along with the Macallan—my glass is empty. I set my tray of dirty dishes in the hall outside my door and call down for another drink before I commit to calling Palmer. I’m going to want it by the time this call is over.
All right, no more bullshit . I pick up my phone and redial Palmer’s number. It rings and rings, and just when I’m grateful for a reprieve, she answers.
“Max, is that you?”
I clear my throat because that voice . It’s the one from the party, and attached to the kiss that’s been hijacking my dreams.
“Max? If you don’t answer, I’m hanging up.”