Page 28 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Max

The blaring eighties rock combined with the clank and thud of the team finishing up midday workouts echoes throughout the high-ceilinged weight room, but does the chest-heaving, sweat-inducing exertion keep my buds from spouting off between reps? It does not.

Practically every guy on the team saw that tabloid article that upended my world yesterday—that tilt that prompted me to propose to my daughter’s teacher out of the blue, for God’s sake. But nobody can layer on the shit like Gunnar and Tripp.

“So, that chick in the photo, she was following you at Tripp’s casino deal?” Gunnar asks from over me as I raise the bar off my chest to rack it and add weight.

“She wasn’t following me,” I grunt out. He’s supposed to be spotting me, but mostly he’s asking stupid questions. I still haven’t figured out what Tripp’s doing except getting in the way.

I heave myself up from my prone position on the bench, and he’s not quick enough to take a step back so I can stand—until I kick him in the shin.

“Yep, that was her,” he says as he hops back, and then comes around to help me load the plates.

Gunnar’s not even pretending to be helpful anymore, just stands there with his hands on his hips.

“I recognized her by the hair,” says Bear from the next bench over.

“Her hair?” Gunnar asks, like he can’t make the connection.

“Sure, it was pretty . . .” Barrett waves his hands all around his head as if to indicate it was .

. . something, and then stops his antics when I send him a death glare.

Could be the strain in my face is from the additional weight I’m sliding onto the bar, but we’ll let the rookie think what he thinks.

“She has curls. They’re nice,” I say, then clamp my mouth shut and drag a breath in through my nose before every-fucking-body realizes what I’m saying.

Combined with what came out in the media yesterday, these knuckleheads would have us married off before the week is through.

And apparently, that’s not on the table.

But she agreed to an engagement. A fake engagement. More like an unannounced fake engagement since the only person who’s going to hear about it is that Lopez prick. We’ll start there anyway.

“Nice to wrap your hands around,” snarks Barrett in a somewhat gasping voice, and doesn’t he ever fucking stop?

“Save your clown town comments, Baby Bear,” Tripp growls.

“Just messing with him, old man,” Barrett says, then chortles and gets up and moves off to the treadmill.

The additional weight is locked in place, so I straddle the bench and Tripp steps closer to spot me.

I lay back and grab hold of the bar, release it from the rack, and lower it to my chest. This shit with Palmer is clawing at me, and I want—maybe need —to share some updated details about us, now that it’s just the three of us.

We’re the old guys on the team, the veteran players, and even though it’s Gunnar’s first year with the Terrors, we’ve formed a pretty close bond, probably because we’ve all been around the block a few times.

None of us are on the hunt for barely legal cleat chasers, and a night out clubbing usually ends by midnight.

Gunnar must finally decide to get serious about his workout because he wipes down the bench Bear just abandoned, then takes a seat and gets started on overhead triceps extensions using free weights.

“So, what’s going on with you two? You a thing now?” Tripp asks, as if he can read my mind. His eyes are narrowed and he sounds a little put out that he hasn’t heard anything new, when he keeps me pretty much in the loop about him and the girl he’s seeing.

“We’re a . . . situation,” I huff out as I continue my rep.

Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to increase the weight?

“She was Natalie’s teacher when we had that bit of drama at her school a while back, so we didn’t exactly start off on friendly terms. But now .

. . she’s, uh, nice. And Nat likes her.”

“Oh, shit. That could be complicated. And bruh, Natalie isn’t the one who wants to date her.”

Nope, nobody dating here. We managed to shoot straight past that. I drop the bar to my chest again. Maybe these guys can actually help.

“No, I am. The one who wants to date her, I mean.” I immediately get responses of oh, shit and no fucking way , and then two fists appear for me to pound.

Their reactions are enough to scare me away from mentioning my marriage proposal and our alternate arrangement.

Besides, how do I bring that up without explaining about her dick of an ex who’s currently a guest of the state all the way on the West Coast?

No, better to build this up slowly with them.

I’ve had since yesterday to toss around the idea of a relationship with Palmer, and the notion doesn’t make me wish our series this week was out of town so I could avoid the subject.

Maybe the idea of a marriage came from somewhere deep in my subconscious, but when she suggested Plan B after our pros versus cons debate, I realized I was actually disappointed.

As it turns out, I like my Palmer Girl for more than her lush curves.

Or maybe it’s my dick that’s disappointed.

It’s been too long since he’s seen any action, and then he got shut down just when prospects were looking good.

Either way, I can think of worse ideas than exploring whatever this is between us.

Is it just sex, or is there something deeper to build on?

Whichever it is, when am I supposed to squeeze her into my crazy life?

I rarely see my daughter as it is, and Palmer?

Even less than that. Something will need to change.

Gunnar switches to squats and I rack my bar to move on to free weights.

I’ve been laying here distracted by the conundrum of my love life, but now I’ll grab dumbbells and get some lat work in.

I wipe down my bench and Tripp takes my place, now that I don’t need a spotter.

It’s a good thing I’m not in the rotation tonight.

I might be making a show of getting the work done, but as distracted as I am, these ten-pound barbells is the lamest workout I’ve had in years.

Women weaken legs. Ain’t that the truth.

“How do you guys even do it, though—fit a relationship into our crazy-ass schedule?” I send out the request to both of them, then focus on our shortstop, who might actually have advice I can use. “Gunnar, you have a kid. How do you even make time for a personal life?”

It’s a serious concern, and something I haven’t even considered until recently.

I haven’t worried about a relationship lasting longer than a weekend in I don’t even know how long.

Years. But lots of guys in the league have girlfriends, or even get married during the season. There has to be some kind of way.

“Bro, you just go for it. It’s not going to be easy, ever, so if it’s what you want, you just have to dive in.

Face first, is my recommendation.” He snickers.

My dick sends up a tingle of supplication, reminding me he’s still sulking.

Diving face first into Palmer’s sweet pussy might work for me, but he’s got needs .

This morning’s soapy tug in the shower was not the satisfaction he craves.

Yesterday showed real promise. That is, until Palmer’s mom radar went off.

“Get creative,” Tripp adds. “That works too.”

“Get creative,” I echo with a thoughtful nod. “Just do the damn thing.”

“Hey, why don’t you bring her and her kid over to Gavin’s on Monday, after we get back from Michigan?” Gunnar suggests. “You too, Tripp.”

“Cool. Thanks,” Tripp says.

“Your brother?” I ask, and Gunnar nods with a negligent shrug.

“Yeah, he’s throwing me a welcome to T-N party out at his house , and tossing in an ain’t it cool I knocked up my wife again kind of thing.”

I’ve met his brother, and his beautiful and clever wife who he’s genuinely devoted to, and Gunnar is full of shit. When I chuckle knowingly, he laughingly comes clean.

“All right, all right. I’m just dicking around. They’re both so damn excited about this new baby, and they’re sharing the love. The day will be dope. He has a sick pool, and there’ll be plenty of beer.” Like any of us are getting wasted before the end of the season.

But I can already imagine Dylan’s reaction when he hears he’s invited to a pool party with players from more than one team, as well as an honest to God rock star.

I stick around a little while longer to get the details of the party, then it’s time to take off.

“Gotta jet,” I say with a chin nod. “Eddie and Randy requested the honor of my presence to review film.”

When your position coaches call a meetup, it’s not recommended you blow them off.

“Have fun with that,” Tripp jokes as he grunts through his reps.

I flip him off, because really, he wouldn’t expect anything less.

I pull out my phone on my trek through the clubhouse.

It’ll be late by the time our game is finished and I’m out of the locker room, and I want to get the invitation to Palmer before I’m distracted.

Once I have her contact pulled up, I shoot off a text.

Phase One of my somewhat nebulous plan to actually date a woman— to date Palmer—my fake fiancée —is in play.