Page 17 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

I’m caught daydreaming—and get another dose of her pissy attitude, only slightly less hostile than earlier today. If I were smart, I’d hang up now.

“What the fuck happened this morning?”

Not so smart, then.

“Oh.” She stumbles through that one short syllable and I swear she swallows back a sob. “I can’t. I thought you were someone else. Well, obviously, because . . .” Her words trail off and I wait with my fingers drumming the table.

I’m curious about the mood swing, but I need to know the rest of her thought. This woman is invading my sleep and fucking with my play. I’m invested .

I put the call on speaker and lean forward in the club chair, legs spread and my elbows resting on my splayed knees.

“Was it your husband? Are you safe? Is Dylan?”

Her mood flips again, and her words are harsh, her voice thick with rage but, interestingly enough, not tears when she replies with, “No, not my husband.”

My frustration spikes and I’m ready to hang up on her.

“Damn it, Palmer. You were wrecked when I called and now you’ve got riddles? Have a good li?—”

“He’s gone,” she cuts in. “My husband isn’t here. I mean, I divorced him ten years ago. But his family is still around, doing their best to make my life hell.”

Still with the fucking double-talk.

“I trust you with my fucking daughter, Palmer. Is she in danger?”

“No!” Her response is immediate, and forceful. I want to believe her.

I also want to hang up and drown my thoughts in alcohol. In my current mood, and struggling to understand hers, I’m not sleeping anytime soon.

“You’re going to have to accept that, Max. I can’t tell you more.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I have to protect my son. You have to understand that.”

“I don’t have to do shit.”

Palmer lets out a deep sigh and there’s a pause in our conversation.

“Look, can we walk this back a bit. Please? Did you call to unload on me because you had a bad game?”

“I am not unloading,” I grind out.

“If you say so.” And damn it, I can picture her quirked lips as she teases.

“Look, I fucked up. I’ve been messaging you all week and getting pissed because you weren’t messaging back.”

“But I didn’t get any?—”

“I know! Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. But you’ve been fucking with my head and messing with my game, and today I found out I wasn’t even calling the right phone number.”

She giggles, and I’m glad one of us finds this fucking funny. “I blew tonight’s game because I couldn’t concentrate.”

“Not such a bad boy after all, huh?”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“So, what did you message that I didn’t respond to? Was it your updated ERA? Because, Mighty Max, I don’t lose sleep over that.”

I snort out a laugh, so relieved that our signals weren’t crossed, only our communication.

“Do you want me to tell you something that’ll make you lose sleep?”

She pauses before continuing our banter, and I swear the air around me thickens when she asks, “So, it was dirty?”

It was now, with her question out there, making my dick jump.

“You want it to be?”

“Maybe. It’s been awhile, though. I might be out of practice. Would you want me to answer with words or emojis?”

“How about live pics?”

Silence.

“Palmer Girl? If you don’t answer, I’m going to hang up.”

I throw her own words out at her, but I’m lying. There’s no way I’m leaving this conversation.

“It’s not too late, you know,” she says, and my thoughts slow, centered on this single moment in time. Is this leading to?—?

“To do what?” I interrupt my own damn thought, because a guy can hope, but . . .

“The thing you’re imagining.”

Oh, honey, you have no idea .

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“ Mmm . You do that.”

She’s coy but confident, and now my brain is scrambled and my tongue is fucking paralyzed. This woman is not off her game. And I want in on her play.

“Hey, you still there? Do you need to go? You probably have a curfew.”

Yeah, that came and went a while ago.

“I do, and I should, but I actually called for a reason. Another reason, I mean. Other than why you yelled at me this morning.”

“I’m really sorry about that.”

“It’s done. However, Nat mentioned you helped chauffeur her around this week. I want to . . . to . . . thank you.”

“Wow, did that hurt?” she says through a damn chuckle.

I knuckle my beard, because it kind of did.

“Only a little.”

She’s still making funny noises in her throat and I’m not even mad that this amuses her.

“Tough guy,” she says, and she’s mocking me. I know she is, and I’m okay with it. It’s better than angry, or sad, or anything else we’ve been through tonight. Except horny. I still like that best.

“Right. But I think I should do something for you. You know, to make up for the favor. It was a big ask.”

“You should ?” And Christ, does she ever let up?

“Could. Fucking want to. Jesus, woman, what do you want from me? I thought I could work with your boy a bit, give him some pointers since his coach took a powder, but fuck you if?—”

She cuts me off, and now she seems sincere rather than taunting.

“Look, I appreciate the offer, really. But Natalie . . . your travel schedule . . . you’re gone so much. When you’re at home, don’t you want to spend time with your daughter? Doesn’t she want that? Expect it, even?”

I nod, though she’s not here to see. “Fair point.”

“Dylan’s dad was never much of a father. I understand how disappointing an absent parent is. Do you?”

I scrape my fingers through my hair and again knuckle the scruff covering my chin.

“Hey, I don’t need you to come down on me for how I raise my kid. I hear Dylan and Nat are friends. She’ll want to be there, too. And I’ll need her help anyway.”

“Okay, now I’m curious. Just what do you have in mind, giving him pointers?”

It’s been a gradual shift, this lightening of her mood, but I think that’s a smile in her voice. I’m still on the bubble as to her being my favorite person—my kid’s still on the headmaster’s shit list because of her—but I remember that smile, how it stretches wide and can light up her entire face.

I fall back in the cushioned chair, and bring the phone close.

“This is planning ahead some since I’ll be away a few more days, but can you bring him over when I’m back in town?

I have a setup in the yard. It’s simple.

A backstop with a plate. A mound with an L-screen.

A cage that Nat uses for batting practice. ”

“That doesn’t sound simple at all.”

“You’ll think so when you see what some of the other guys have.”

A low chuckle comes from her.

“I guess we’re going to have to imagine that. But thank you. Dylan will be over the moon. So far, he only gets to practice with the team and the school’s equipment.”

“I think it’ll be fun for him, and hopefully, he’ll learn something.”

There’s a knock at the door. Probably room service. I abandon my relaxed pose and sit forward in the seat.

“Hey, I’ve gotta go. Someone’s at the door. But, Palmer Girl?”

“Yeah?”

“When I message you tomorrow, you’re gonna want to pick up the phone.”

“You think so?”

“Know so.”

“We’ll see about that, bad boy.”

Without a goodbye, she clicks off and I get up to answer the door. It’s my refill, but do I even want it anymore? The tension that filled my mind and my gut for the better part of the day is gone—replaced with anticipation for tomorrow.

I slam the contents of the glass and hit the bathroom for another shower. After that call, it needs to be a cold one.