Page 20 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

“Grades first. Then, we talk about wheels.”

Alex had three cars. All three, along with my Navigator, were confiscated by the feds.

Afterward, Alejandro let me buy a used Toyota sedan from his dealership and make payments directly to him.

It’s the car I still drive, but it didn’t take me long to realize what a mistake I made asking him for help.

To this day, he thinks his generosity entitles him to a say in all parts of my life.

But Max is done being roasted by his daughter for his conservative, non-materialistic philosophies. At least, when it comes to his acquisition of motor vehicles. He gives a nod to her, then turns his gaze to home plate.

“Warmed up?”

She nods up at him as she straps on leg guards. “Laps. Squats. Arm circles. Stretches. We’re ready to work.” She drops a catcher’s mask over her face, then pushes it up till it rests on her forehead. She tosses a rosin sack to Dylan and points toward the pitcher’s mound.

Dylan traps the flying object against his chest and glares at her. “The fuck you doing?”

“Rude.”

He actually looks at what she threw him, and gives it a toss. Powder drifts into the air, then clouds his hand. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Whatever. Use it or not. Now, move the L-screen out of the way. Nobody’s batting today.”

He pushes the screen to the side of the dirt practice yard and meets Max at the mound.

Max looks in my direction. “You gonna stick around while we do this?”

The sun is bright this morning. I raise a hand to shield my eyes.

“Thought I might.”

He returns to the backstop and bends over the unzipped duffle bag that Natalie dug her gear from.

“Mind keeping track?”

“Sure,” I say from my grassy spot under a shade tree.

I could do that. Or I could keep checking out the way his nylon shorts stretch across his what I imagine to be firm ass a few short feet in front of me. With his prolonged search, I have plenty of time to take in the view.

Our texts from Friday included photos destined for hidden folders where they will never be discovered by nosy adolescents.

Me: I need you to send me a pic. From the back. Waist down.

Bad Boy: That’s oddly specific. You want my ass for your spank bank?

Me: Something like that

The photo he sent of his butt was a selfie in the bathroom mirror. Sans pants.

Max shouting to me disrupts my mental butterfly chasing and I look over at him.

“Here.” From bent at the waist, he squats to his heels and waves the book for me to come get it from him. His grin is diabolical. My face engulfs in heat.

There’s a pen clipped to the spiral binding, and I open the book in my lap. I don’t even ask what he wants me to keep track of. I’ve been a pitcher’s mom since Dylan was eight. By now, it’s in my blood.

Max strides back to the mound, where a bucket of balls sits on the ground beside Dylan. He tips it over and they spill out and roll away. Using the inside of his foot, he captures and slides them back into one grouping.

“All right, son. Let me see what we’re working with.”

Dylan picks up a ball and steps to the rubber. Winds up and throws a slow, arcing pitch. Natalie catches it easily.

“Ooh, that was ugly,” Max comments.

“Told you!” Natalie yells from behind the plate.

Dylan shouts back at her, “You’re not helpful!”

Natalie hoots with laughter, but Max steps up beside him and speaks so low I only hear the hum of conversation, but not their actual words.

Max picks up a ball from near his foot and rotates it in his hand, demonstrating to Dylan how to situate his fingers.

Then, he slaps the ball into Dylan’s open palm.

“Okay now, core grip. Thumb goes where?”

Dylan obediently maneuvers the ball, intent on his thumb placement.

“Good,” Max comments. Then, “Now, where do your fingers go in relation to the seam?”

Dylan furrows his brow, a mask of concentration as he sets one finger and then another, then releases his grip with a growl of frustration and starts the process over.

Max watches patiently from beside him, reaching over once to make a slight adjustment.

“Right. You want to focus on your thumb and your middle finger.”

Last Thursday, Max’s last day in St. Louis, he messaged me early. He’d already warned me he’d be tied up for the day—they had an early game, and then then they’d be traveling home for a game the next afternoon.

The text was a selfie of him with another man, a guy about ten years older than him.

Bad Boy: Meet Eddie Ramirez, best pitching coach in the game.

I think Eddie helped improve more than his pitching.

Dylan grins with something like relief, and hope lights up his expression. His hand is clamped to the ball. “Can I throw this, Coach?”

Max chuckles. “Holding the ball is only part of the pitch. What about the delivery?”

“I’ve been practicing that.” He demonstrates his wind-up and stretch, along with his throw, each movement in slow motion.

“We’re looking for accuracy and control. You want to see how that one flies?”

Dylan nods, still in deep concentration, and steps to the rubber.

“You ready, Nat?” he yells out to her. She’s already crouched behind the plate, mask down, mitt up.

“Born ready,” she sasses back. “Stop talking and bring it!”

Dylan spits off to the left, taps the bill of his cap, winds up, and pitches the ball. In no time, the ball snaps into Natalie’s glove.

“Woot woot!” she hollers before rolling the ball back to the mound. “That one felt good!”

Max high fives him. “Looked good, too. Just remember . . . not as hard as your fastball, but with all the intensity. This is a mental game. You can’t let up.”

Dylan stands tall and hangs on his every word, and it feels as though, in that moment, I lose my little boy.

It’s bittersweet to think of him as growing older and growing up, but I’m so proud.

I want him to always have his boyish sense of fun and play.

But it’s my job as his parent to raise him to be the best man he can be.

That includes respect for other men, when he hasn’t had anyone close to admire, or act as a role model.

Max works with Dylan for a while longer, sharing his free time, which, in his business, is short in supply.

Eventually, Max signals Natalie to the mound and she jogs over and high fives with Dylan, who’s been grinning with pride and enthusiasm.

“Good job, you two.” Max stretches his arms wide and brings them both in for a group hug. Dylan hesitates at first, but when Max yanks on his sleeve, he stumbles into the quick embrace.

Once they separate, Max pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the screen.

“I have a little more time before I need to leave. I want you two to keep practicing. But alternate the pitches this time. A fastball, then a slider. A couple of fastballs, and then a curve. You get the picture.” The teens are focused on him with their full attention.

“I’m working on the mental intensity, right? So I don’t let up from one pitch to the next?”

Max gives him one of those precious grins, along with an approving nod. “Smart kid. That’s exactly what I want you to do. And I want you to tell me if today’s work makes any difference at your next game. I think you should see an improvement in your performance.”

Natalie splits off and heads back to the plate.

Max turns to walk in my direction but hesitates, eying the equipment scattered all around them.

“Gather all this up and get the screens and stuff, and put it away when you’re done.”

Dylan gives him a chin nod, already more comfortable in the presence of his guy crush.

“Sure thing, Coach. Where does it go?”

Max grins and points to the large building that was the topic of earlier conversation.

“Right there, kid. Why do you think we have such a big-ass garage?”