Page 45 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Max

I’m thirty-seven years old and just spoke marriage vows for the first time. Do I know what to expect in the upcoming days? Hell no, I do not, and the waters may be treacherous. But I can hope for the best.

The first week of my marriage was more than I knew to ask for, with the total chaos of moving Palmer and Dylan into our home, and then Natalie and Adele returning and making our family complete.

So complete, I suggested Adele take permanent residence in her suite at our home. She’s considering the idea.

My life is laughter, and teenage shenanigans, dinners at home—when I don’t have a night game anyway—and best of all, Palmer’s in my bed every night. So why does time pass so slowly when I need it to race?

The last eleven days have been endless, and even when we had a break in the schedule and I could zip home for a day, I ended up with a virus and spent the day in bed. Alone. At a strange hotel, because it wasn’t even the place where we usually stay.

Nothing but room service orange juice and a box of tissues for company, because my teammates were all lucky enough to not catch whatever I did.

And smart enough to not come by for a visit and test that luck.

Instead, they spent their day sending memes from the hotel pool and sharing funny videos while seeing the sights in the Bay Area.

When Bear started sharing clips from batting practice, I turned off my phone.

Then, I turned it right back on, because Palmer had gone back to sending her either-or messages.

They were mostly corny, but I’d gotten used to her idea of fun, and the connection took some of the sting away from our separation.

Palmer Girl: Do you fill your car when the tank still has gas, or wait till you’re on E?

Me: I don’t know

Palmer Girl: What do you mean? How do you not know?

Me: I have a guy

Palmer Girl: Of course you do *cue eyeroll*

But I may have unleashed the beast with my answer to her next question.

Palmer Girl: Are you a sharer or a hoarder?

Me: I don’t share your O’s. Does that count?

Girl left me on read for longer than usual before responding.

Palmer Girl: You want to uncork that, do you, from two thousand miles away?

And added a photo of Mike.

I didn’t understand, at the time.

Then, without warning, she transitioned her questions designed to learn more about me, to questions designed to learn more about me .

Palmer Girl: Lace or cotton?

Me: Yes. Now for you - Boxers or Briefs?

Palmer Girl: Yes

Me: You don’t play fair

Palmer Girl: …

Girl could call me on my shit without saying a word. But still, I waited to see what she’d send next.

Palmer Girl: Shower alone or with company?

Oh, now she was just being spiteful. She knew that answer, and I’d proven it to her. It was time to fight back.

Me: Reverse cowgirl or doggy style?

She didn’t answer. Did I take our game too far?

Me: ?

Palmer Girl: On my knees

Me: …

The woman was trying to kill me and I hadn’t even added her to my life insurance.

The last day in San Francisco, the final game of our away tour—and how the fuck did this happen only yesterday —was probably the hardest day to not be home . To not be available when news came out that affected me and Palmer as a married couple. As a unit .

Last night’s game was unremarkable. We won, but only because Zach and Carter both had solid performances and the offense brought their A game after a loss the night before.

We had clutch hits and made critical plays, but nobody was a superhero and there were no major errors.

There was nothing to put the press into a frenzy, but the buzz of anticipation was in the media room the moment I stepped in.

I’ve been in this business long enough that I should have felt it coming—especially since I was asked in tonight, even though I didn’t pitch.

The briefing started rather benignly. Declan made his general comments about the game, Coach answered questions, the pitchers got grilled because writers had inches to fill, and Jake got a minute to relive an over-the-wall catch that denied San Francisco a run.

Press got their quota of sound bites and the flashes had been going off since we all entered, so the socials would all have content.

Then, from somewhere in the middle row, a local sports blogger yelled out and totally ruined a perfectly good Thursday.

“Hey, Max, Jake Webber, BBSF . We hear you got married recently. Congratulations. Tell us more about the lucky lady and why you’re keeping her hidden.”

“The fuck, you say,” I muttered as I stormed my way to the podium, to probably say something damaging that I’d regret with my next breath. Thankfully, Declan took my arm and shoved me from the room before I had a chance to do that.

“Call your agent. Do it now,” he demanded, then went back in to confront the hammering media. I never heard details of exactly how that went down, but Declan wasn’t bleeding.

I did the smart thing and put in a call to Flynn. His damn phone rang and rang with no response, and I left messages. The same message every time.

“Fucking call me!”

It wasn’t like Flynn to ghost me. So, as the team loaded the bus for the airport, as I ordered a whiskey at the bar to keep me from climbing the walls, and as I called Palmer, got her voicemail, and left her a heads up, I refreshed my phone like a crack addict, waiting for the story to hit.

Somehow, I made it onto the flight and back to Nashville without losing my fucking mind. I managed a little sleep on the plane, which was a miracle, and something I desperately needed since I was scheduled for the mound at home tonight.

My phone doesn’t ping with alerts about the news story until an hour after we land, so Dec must have worked his end like a badass.

Now, all I want is a moment with my wife and a conversation with my agent.

I get the latter when I finally get a return message telling me to call.

I’m in my SUV, flying through pre-dawn traffic, and almost home when I call him back.

I light into him as soon as he picks up.

“Jesus fuck, Flynn. Shit’s on fire and you’re on vacation?”

“Been a little busy around here, Murph,” Flynn grits out. I’ve never heard his temper before. But mine’s well-lit, too.

“Tell me what’s happening.”

“Before we begin, let me say that this all directly affects your wife. I’d like to pull her in on this call.”

I screeched up to my gate and jammed in the code. “I’m home. Give me a minute to wake her up.”

“Understood. I’ll give you a minute.”

I disconnect our call, rush into the house and up the stairs. Palmer’s sitting up in bed, her phone in hand, her attention on the screen.

“Jesus, Max, what’s going on? I saw a story that you got ambushed after the game. You okay?”

“I’m good, and I’m sorry you saw that before I got to talk to you. I’m talking to Flynn but he wants to talk to you, too. We’re all going to figure it out.” I reached for my laptop on my nightstand and put in the FaceTime call. Flynn answered immediately.

After my wife says hello and proves that one of us in this marriage has manners, Flynn clears his throat.

“Palmer, apparently, someone posted a pic of you wearing your wedding ring at some outdoor party.”

“Oh, no. It must have been at Gavin McNeer’s house. A welcome party for his brother, Gunnar,” she explains. She leaves out the part about the baby shower, which is probably for the best.

“But that was three fucking weeks ago,” I add. “Why’s this coming out now?”

Flynn just shakes his head, like it’s a mystery to him, too.

“She only happened to be in the background of the shot, and nobody realized who she is until now.”

“So, the story is out. Do we have to respond? If we don’t say anything to the press, will it just become yesterday’s news?” Palmer is remarkably calm. I am so proud of her.

“No, you need to take care of this, and today. Max, get with the team, make a statement; that’s my best advice. This won’t go away.”

Palmer is slowly nodding her head and taking deep breaths. I get up and walk to the wall of windows, looking out over the pool area and back yard.

“All right, yeah,” I say. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

“Wait, hold up,” Flynn says before we have a chance to disconnect our call. “There’s other news, too, and this is the reason I couldn’t get back to you right away.”

“This is what you were busy with?”

“Pretty much.”

“We’re listening.”

“After that story leaked about the marriage, I heard from Alejandro Lopez’s attorney.”

“He called you ?” Palmer squeaked out.

After her last showdown with Alejandro, Flynn had my lawyer notify him not to contact her directly.

Any communication was to go solely through his office.

Had I been magically transported to an alternate reality where I couldn’t protect Palmer from him?

Everything we constructed to keep him away seemed to be falling apart.

“What does Lopez want now?” Pretty sure I growl that. I am so done with this guy, and the trouble he’s causing for my wife.

“Not what he wants, Murph. It’s what he’s willing to give up.”

“Flynn, I don’t understand,” Palmer says. She’s pacing the room, her features tense, and I have no idea what Flynn’s looking at because neither of us are looking at him.

“Yeah, what are you saying?” I demand, because Flynn doesn’t sound tense at all.

“I’m saying . . . Lopez cancelled his trip to Nashville, which I sense was a ruse all along, to get Palmer to comply with his wishes. His attorney forwarded a copy of a letter he wrote. In it, he says . . . Here, I’ll forward it to you both, and you can read it.”

Within moments, both my phone and Palmer’s ping with notifications, and we move back to the bed where are phones are, and open the attachment Flynn sent.

Palmer skims it and paraphrases aloud. “His letter says he’s sad that I won’t be rejoining the family. He adds that I’m a kind and beautiful woman and a wonderful mother?—”

“Which of fucking course you are,” I interrupt. “And I want his balls for ever making you think otherwise.”

Palmer smiles and goes back to the letter. “He says he’ll leave me in peace, and champion me if his son ever tries to reach out. Wow, that’s something, I guess.”

“Jesus, did he really use that word, champion? ” I ask, and Palmer chuckles.

“The guy does love using antiquated words.”

Flynn’s messing with shit on his desk as Palmer and I read it through again.

“Is this it?” Palmer asks Flynn. “Did he say anything else?”

So, I am not the only one who doesn’t trust the guy.

“He does have one condition,” Flynn says.

“Of course, he does,” Palmer murmurs, and her eyes are drawn, as though she knows she’s not going to like it.

“I didn’t see any condition in his letter,” I say.

“You won’t find it in that letter from him; it’s in the instructions from his attorney,” Flynn says, and then, he tells us what it is.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Palmer shouts, after we’re given the news.

But I just laugh.

There’s nothing like being back in our home stadium after a long series of away games.

It’s top of the fifth and we’re ahead by two.

The Madison Badgers have a runner on first, but Diesel is keeping him honest. The batter at the plate’s got a full count, and one more strike will shut this down and bring out our hitters.

The crowd is alive tonight, and loud , the bleachers full with fans wearing their favorite player’s number.

The WAGS section behind the dugout is packed, the families glad to have us back, including mine.

Palmer stands to cheer when I send a curveball for the third strike, and she’s wearing my jersey—the white one with black trim, and my name and number fourteen big on her back.

I trot in toward the dugout, tagging gloves with Diesel and Thorne along the way.

Palmer has assimilated into that group well over the period of time I’ve known her, the same way she’s made herself an important part of my life—with humor and kindness, and without guile. But now that we’ve taken care of the Alejandro Lopez problem, is she thinking of retiring from our team?

Because I need her in our starting lineup.

When I talked to Declan earlier in the day about an announcement for the media, we put our heads together and concocted a plan for an alternative type of statement. One that goes to the fans first, since they’re the ones who are here every day, supporting our players and our team. I’m all for it.

The presser after the game is going to be a crowd pleaser; we’ll make sure of it. Having Declan as a co-conspirator is just smart. It makes it easier to communicate with the tech crew, too. He catches my eye and he gives me the nod.

Palmer’s still standing, clapping as we clear the field, and I veer off to the side, waving her down to the iron rail where we were first caught on camera. She’s laughing as she trots down the shallow steps, her curls bouncing as she makes her way over to me.

“Max, what are you doing?” she shouts over the noise of the crowd.

“Kissing my wife,” I say, and then lock my arms around her and crash my lips to hers.

The crowd erupts with applause. Palmer pulls away, looking confused and a little dazed as she glances around to see what’s happening.

I turn her in my arms until she spots the Jumbotron and us captured on-screen, encircled by a big pink heart and huge white lettering.

CONGRATULATIONS MR AND MRS MURPHY!

I kiss her again, and the crowd goes wild.