Page 32 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

Dylan and I spend the evening gathering together everything he needs for his upcoming camping adventure.

And though I can’t attend tonight’s game in person like Max asked, we squint at the baseball app on the phone screen to catch a glimpse of him at his game.

He looks bored as he watches play unfold from the bullpen, sprawled in a folding metal chair, his legs so long he keeps shifting to sit comfortably.

He warned me when I got Natalie that he won’t be playing, so I am prepared for that.

Some guy named Zach starts instead, a closer comes out to finish the game, and the Terrors get the W.

When the last out is recorded on the board and the team is on their way through the tunnel to the locker room, I lift my phone to shoot him a funny message.

He won’t see it until later, and it’s just something silly to lighten his mood and let him know I’m thinking of him.

It can’t be easy to watch your team win a game and not be a part of that success. Not directly, at least.

Me: Cookies or a cupcake?

It’s occurred to me off and on that, even though I have feelings for this guy, I don’t know as much as I’d like about him—about his everyday life. This is as good a place to start as any other.

A combination of second thoughts and giddy anticipation assails me from the moment I send my message, and continues through the dark of the night, like some sort of reverse lullaby, keeping me awake when I need to be up early to deliver Dylan to Gabe’s house.

What kind of stupid question was that?

He’s going to think you’re deranged.

When I wake to several text notifications—including one from Max—I rush to open his first. It has to be his response to last night’s question.

His response is . . . playful?

Bad Boy: How many cookies?

He’s a bit flirty, and oh, maybe I’m not a weirdo after all.

I leave the rest of the messages for later and hop out of bed. They’re all from Alejandro, and Jesus , does this man know how to blow up an already nerve-rattling morning.

But once I drop Dylan at Gabe’s house, chat with his parents for more time than I intend, and then leave, I’m in a rush to be on time to work.

I don’t even have time to stop for a latte as a reward for not crying when I left my son.

It’s not that I don’t know both his dads; we’ve spent endless hours sitting together at baseball games and carpooling to camp each summer.

So, why the extra emotion today? Why does this trip hit differently than any of the others?

Unless it’s not sadness I feel for my boy taking off, but anticipation for what could happen while he’s away? Tonight will be the first opportunity Max and I have to spend time together, one on one, without tiptoeing around our pair of adolescents.

A delighted grin splits my face, and the warmth in my chest lasts through the morning, till around noontime when my phone dings with an incoming message and I discover my bad boy has continued our game.

Bad Boy: Pizza or pasta?

Well, this is a no-brainer. My response is nearly immediate.

Me: but only from Zito’s

Immediately, the mild fluttering of nervous butterflies in my belly becomes a full-fledged swarm of ninja locusts, rolling somersaults and high kicking, and generally wreaking all kinds of havoc. I contemplate this as I pull into school and unlock my classroom.

His return message is almost immediate.

Bad Boy: Now you tell me

I wonder if he’s referring to the night we took the kids to Dugout Pizza after a losing game, and the fans there were feral. Must be, right? I send back a sympathy emoji, because he may be accustomed to that sort of treatment, but to me, the memory just isn’t funny.

For the next few hours, I’m counting on my summer students to blatantly misbehave, repeatedly ask for a bathroom pass, and frustrate me with their inane questions.

For today only, I don’t even care if they learn anything.

Their mission is solely to keep me distracted until my sub arrives and I’m off for his eleven o’clock game.

After that, my bad boy in his snug-fitting uniform pants will provide all the distraction I can handle.

I arrive at Music City Park early to give myself plenty of time to locate my seat before the national anthem.

Don’t know why, but on my previous visit, I entered on the opposite side of the park than the gate to my allotted section.

Today is no exception, especially when I realize the seat he reserved for me isn’t off in some far section, but is front and center.

“Hi,” comes a friendly voice from the cute auburn-haired girl sitting beside me. She holds down my hinged stadium seat so I can drop into it somewhat gracefully, even with my hands loaded down with the snacks I stopped for in the concession area.

“Thanks,” I murmur in appreciation to this stranger for the assist with my chair. “It’s a bit of a gauntlet, isn’t it, sliding past all those knees without spilling on anyone.”

“Yeah, it can be, all right. I’m Christy. This is Nolan.”

“Palmer.” I settle my drink into the cup holder on the back of the seat in front of me and say hello to the young boy sitting on Christy’s other side.

“Nolan, huh?” I say to him. “Were you named after the great ball player?”

The boy shakes his head. “Nope, but everybody asks me that.” I chuckle, and Christy ruffles his hair, which makes him pull away and climb back in his seat.

“Hey, I think they’re going to start soon,” he yells, obviously excited about the game.

I look out over the field where the team is coming into the dugout after warming up. I munch on a nacho, then reach for my beer.

“So, did you come alone?” This Christy must be talkative, and I swivel my neck to face her. There’s not near enough room in this fold-up seat to shift my entire body comfortably.

“Yeah, I’m here by myself.”

“You’re one of the WAGS, now, right?”

“WAGS?”

Damn it, Max, what did you do?

Clearly, he’s determined to get his way. I take a moment to pay closer attention to those around me— all the women and children around me —and yep, he positioned me right up front with his teammates’ significant others.

“Looks like it. Max said he’d get me a ticket for today’s game, and . . . well, here I am.”

“Oh, you’re Max’s Palmer!”

I raise my eyebrows cautiously at her eager tone. My face is suddenly hot, but it’s not from the sun or the eighty-six flights of stairs I recently climbed that’s causing it. Is there some sort of unofficial roster that I don’t know about? Ooh, Max is going to pay for this!

Christy flaps her hand, as if shooing away an unpleasant odor.

“Don’t worry about it one bit. You’re cool. I swear, these guys gossip worse than we women do. I’m with Evan, out there.” She shields her eyes with one hand and points to left field with the other. “And we have a great group here; most are very friendly.”

Christy spends the next several minutes introducing me to others who are sitting close.

Many of the women have children with them, and it’s obvious that some of the women have their own little friend groups.

I’m familiar with how cliques of all ages work, but nobody’s outright nasty, and most are actually welcoming.

The game starts shortly, and I have to admit, watching Max play from the stands, the warm sun bright and the smell of beer and ballpark food scenting the air, is much better entertainment than last night’s experience.

The ladies around me all seem knowledgeable about the game, and many are vocal when we make a good play—or when they don’t think the umpire is doing his job.

He knows I’m here. As soon as I saw him searching the crowd, I hopped from my seat to show him my jersey. I bought it as a surprise for him, and a way to feel him close.

The first couple of innings go smoothly; almost boring, in fact, with few hitters reaching first base for either team. And then, the game turns.

The next several innings are . . . ugly.

Even the women in our section are quiet.

I want to cover my eyes and not watch as Max struggles through the other team’s lineup.

I want to run down to the mound and give him a pep talk, or a hug.

I want to let him know I want to ravish his body long into the night—but instead, I’ll take what time we have and get him to the airport for his flight to Michigan.

Sometime during the sixth inning, when he must be blessedly close to getting pulled, he takes a moment to peer into the crowd.

To the thousands and thousands of fans wearing his jersey and shouting his name.

I’m thinking he’d be happier if there wasn’t a single person in attendance, though.

His play—usually in the prime position on the highlight reel for any sports news outlet—today, will sadly be excluded.

And then, his gaze locks on me, holds, and I wave.

I’m grinning, waiting to see how he reacts.

He winks.

My heart warms. I’m okay with sitting here, on display for everyone to see. As long as he can see me, too.

When the last inning is over, everyone in our section collects their belongings.

“Hey, new girl, you gonna meet your guy down in the family area?”

I look around. What am I supposed to do?

“Ignore her,” Christy says. “She’s giving you a hard time because you’re the only girl Max has brought to a game since his baby mama passed.”

I am?

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Go on without me, then. I need to be getting home anyway.”

It takes forever to reach my car, still on the far side of the parking lot.

I start the engine and sit in the air conditioning, waiting for the interior to cool, and for a break in the line of traffic crawling past. I pull out my phone to message him something I hope will make him feel better after the disappointing last several hours. Then, I get a better idea.

I pull off my jersey and lower the sleeve of my peasant blouse down my arm so my shoulder and chest are bare, snap a somewhat misleading pic—and attach it to a short message.

Me: Socks on or off?

As soon as my text hits the ether, those insecurities that appear so reliably and make me doubt myself, are clamoring loud and clear.

Was that even seductive?

Will he understand what I meant?

And then, practicality sets in. Does he even know where I live?

Palmer Sloan, do you know what you’re doing right now?

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

I pull up my messaging app again and send him my address. For an intelligent woman, I seem to be turning this potential mantrap into a comedy of errors. But I’m committed, now. This is happening.