Page 22 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)
Palmer
Attending a professional baseball game with Alex and a preschool-aged Dylan was an experience that in no way revolved around the action on the field.
Most of my time was spent running after my son for a soda, for popcorn or a hot dog, for the bathroom.
Up and then back down thousands of steps, it was exercise all right—in patience and endurance.
Baseball played on a diamond in a huge stadium has not been in my budget since we left California. And though my son lives and breathes the sport, the only time he attends games in the big park is when he comes with his team.
Watching him this morning with Max, I better understand his love of the game, and how important it is to him to learn and improve. Right now, he’s discussing the on-field play with Natalie, and I see that he appreciates the hard work and commitment required from career players.
I have a deep appreciation, too—for the pants.
As promised, our seats are not located with the players’ families, but instead, near the Terrors’ dugout, a position I heartily endorse since I—um, we —have a close view of the team as they enter and exit the playing field.
I am definitely paying closer attention to one player more than any of the others.
Dylan reaches across Natalie to knock me on the arm.
“Hey, Mom. Check out Max.”
And since I have been watching him, intently, I jerk my gaze away from the field. Natalie is suspicious, but Max and I didn’t discuss any plans to out our . . . us .
Dylan’s eyes are twinkling as he wordlessly points his chin to where Max is leaving the mound and heading toward the dugout after an inning in which a sac fly gave Chicago the lead.
I might be busted. He might have caught on. More likely, Natalie gave him a heads up. Doesn’t mean I can’t play dumb.
“They’re leaving the field. What of it? It’s, like, the eighth time they’ve done it this game.”
“But he’s looking at you.”
He is not. I absolutely would have noticed.
I look up anyway—how can I resist—as Max strides closer and closer.
He doesn’t say anything, though. He clomps down into the dugout, then reemerges with a ball in his right hand, a marker in his left.
He writes on the ball, and with his eyes solid on me . . . tosses it to Dylan.
Dylan snags it easily from amid the other fans who notice Max tossing a ball into the stands, reads the short message on the dirty leather, then snickers.
“Y’all passing notes in class now?” he teases as he reaches in front of Natalie to hand it to me.
Natalie gets a look at the message as the ball crosses her chest, and I get a chorus of oooohh before I snatch it from his hand.
WAIT FOR ME
It’s a simple message, scrawled in block letters. I shake my head and hand it back.
“He threw it to you, son, not me.”
“Only because he knew I’d catch it.”
Well, that might be true.
But does he want me to wait for him here? That’s what I ponder the rest of the game—while Natalie and Dylan armchair coach the remaining inning, and make yet another trip to the concession stands. Some things never change.
Max is pulled after the turnover, and Carter Callahan takes the mound for the final inning.
It makes sense that they wouldn’t put in a less seasoned closer with the game riding on their performance.
On the other hand, how do the young guys get experience if they’re not given a chance to succeed?
I’m glad I’m not in charge of making that call.
The rest of the game is a nail biter, but nobody makes a play that changes the score.
When the last out is called, the crowd is already making their way out of the stadium and my kids race to the rail and yell down to Max in the dugout.
He must hear them, even over the stampede of the crowd, because he meets them at the rail, his tall frame standing only slightly lower than they are on the ramp beside the dugout.
I’m slower to reach them, as I chose not to trample small children to get there. Max looks up from his conversation with the teens as I arrive, ignoring the jostling going on around him as some photographer is capturing her last shots of his teammates as they leave for the locker room.
“Hi there, the kids want to know?—”
But then, Dylan interrupts with, “Hey, Mom. Max asked if we want to go for pizza with him and Nat. What do you think?”
I think Dylan is man-dazzled, that’s what I think. I understand the affliction. The man can dazzle me ? —
“Yeah, Palmer, how about it?” Natalie nudges me, because the path my mind is stuck wandering is indecent. Intriguing, but does not have a PG rating.
Max’s arms casually drape over the metal railing, and he has one foot propped on the concrete ramp we’re standing on. He’s watching me with his brows raised, as though he didn’t just get talked into a public outing after spending hours on the ball field.
What the hell. “I could eat pizza.”
“Cool,” the kids say in unison, then step aside to loudly debate which pizza place has the best crust.
Max adjusts his stance slightly. Lowers his foot to the ground, and then props the other on the ramp. “You sure you want to go?”
I squat with my hands wrapped around the painted metal tubing at his waist level. I lean my head in closer so we don’t have to yell to hear each other over the din of departing fans.
“You’ll be there. And I have to feed him eventually.”
“Ouch. I think my ego just got put on the injured reserve list.”
I chuckle. “You’re a tough guy. But things might get crazy if someone recognizes you.”
“Possible. You never know, especially on game days.”
“Well, there’s nobody waiting at home. It’s just me and my kid, and tonight, we’d be happy to share dinner with you.” I let my gaze wander out to the scoreboard and then back with a grin to let him know I’m joking when I add, “You know, to commiserate.”
Max sputters his amusement, and his grin holds genuine humor. His expression sobers, and he leans forward, too—our foreheads close, so close —before he moves his hand right beside mine. Our pinkies are millimeters apart.
I can’t look away.