Page 47 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Oscar Torres

It’s only been a month since my hockey season ended, and I’m already bored.

I miss being on the ice every day. I miss traveling with the team.

I even miss the coaches yelling at me. What I don’t miss is going to parties for people I don’t know.

Those people usually just want some piece of me—and I’m lucky if it’s only an autograph, or a snap.

“When I get home, I’m starting a countdown calendar,” I tell Flynn Nichols, my agent, who brought me out to this place that belongs to one of his other clients—some big-shot baseball player.

“Because, man, if this is the kind of party you’re gonna drag me to because I’m bored, the season can’t start soon enough. ”

“You whine more than my three-year-old,” he tells me, as I tag along through the dude’s big-ass house we needed a code to drive up to. There are people every-fucking-where.

“Didn’t know you had a kid.”

He scowls at me.

“I have two. And tonight, a wife who’s unhappy with me because I’m not there. So, for thirty minutes, pretend you’re having a good time, and then we’ll head out to dinner and go over your new contract.”

“Fair enough. So, who’d you say this spread belongs to?”

Because by now, we’ve made it onto the back deck where there are even more fucking people, but at least, the music is off the hook.

A few couples are dancing over next to the biggest pool I’ve ever seen outside of a resort.

But past the pool, dude’s got himself a generous piece of Tennessee.

And it’s all backlit by a brightly colored July sunset.

“Belongs to Max Murphy.” He pauses, like I should recognize the name. I don’t.

I give him a mild expression designed to keep him talking. After shaking his head in what I easily identify as exasperation—I tend to exasperate Flynn—he continues with his saga.

“So, it’s the All-Star break and the Terrors players who didn’t go to Atlanta wanted to cut loose some. I’ve got a few players here, so I thought we’d pop in and say hey, since we have a little time before our reservation.”

More of my bland face.

“Do you follow baseball at all ?”

I shake my head.

“Too goddamn slow. But if you want to say hey before we dip, by all means . . .” I swing my arm wide.

Flynn just rubs his chin. He’s exasperated again.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Been told that a time or two.”

“Just come with me. I’ll make it quick. Ish.”

“Sure. Gonna grab a beer, first.”

“Yeah. Grab me one, too.”

I pull a couple of bottles from a cooler nearby, pop the caps, and hand him one.

“Any of these pretty ladies available?” I ask as we wade into the crowd.

“Don’t know. Don’t start a fight.”

He drags me from group to group and introduces me, like I know or care who any of these dudes are. Then, one of them, a bald-headed guy, looks at me closer.

“Hey, you’re Torres, yeah?” He sticks out his fist and I bump it.

“That’s me. You like hockey?”

“What’s not to like? Congrats on the big season, man. That’s got to feel good.”

Feels good in my bank account. The words nearly sail from my mouth, then I catch sight of Flynn’s watch it face, and edit myself on the fly.

“Feels great, man. Thanks. Good luck with the rest of yours, too.” Then, I peel off before I realize Flynn’s not right behind me, so I hang tight, scope out the ladies while I wait for him to cut himself loose from the crowd. He finally sidles up to me.

“It’s a target-rich environment, Nichols,” I tell him. More than a few of the women are strutting around in bikinis, and I’m not mad about it.

“So’s Fiji. Maybe you need a vacation.”

I do need a vacation. Need to get laid, too. Then, a girl strides by with her squad on her heels, all dressed in not hardly enough for girls their age, and what the hell? I grab Flynn’s arm.

“The fuck kind of party is this? Those are little girls over there.” I point my chin in the direction the girl gang set off to.

“Would you chill? They’re teenagers. Max’s daughter and a couple of her friends. We’re also celebrating his stepson’s sixteenth birthday tonight. Boy’s a ballplayer, too.”

“Good for him. We about done here?”

“Almost. I still need to see Murph. Guys told me he went out front.” We steer for the wide doors that lead back into the house.

Flynn gets caught up a couple more times along the way, but I don’t give him shit.

Just stand by patiently for him to network .

Next stop is dinner, and a chat about next year.

After the way I played this season, I’ve got a few ideas about how the team can say thank you.

“So, this guy . . . Murph?” We make it out to the front porch without any more ambushes.

There’s a crowd of people standing around an oversized pickup truck parked at an odd angle in front of the house.

A pair of teenage boys are hopping all around and yelling with excitement, like they’ve never seen one before.

“Max Murphy,” Flynn says. “The Terrors’ starting pitcher. That’s him, over there with his boy and the boy’s friend. His wife, Palmer, and her friend are there, too. Come on and I’ll introduce you to all of them.”

I let him lead me, still kind of watching the kid wearing the Terrors snap cap and messing with the key fob for what’s, apparently, his birthday gift. When I was sixteen, I got brand new elbow pads. My first pair that didn’t already have someone else’s sweat on them.

When we get close and Flynn calls out, the big guy nearest the kid turns our way, taps his wife on the arm, and they both come over. After a few minutes of small talk, Flynn comments about the truck.

“Pretty nice truck, huh? Look like Dylan’s a little excited about it.”

Flynn’s acting all nonchalant, like it’s not Ford’s top-of-the-line model. At least the kid seems to appreciate their gift.

“Don’t even get me started, Flynn,” the lady with the wild curls— fucking Palmer —says with a big smile, but her teeth are clenched. “I better never hear from Alejandro again in my life.”

I want to ask. I want to ask so bad . Instead, I’ll just wonder until I get Flynn alone, but why’d they buy him a truck if they’re mad about it, and who the hell is Alejandro? As it turns out, I don’t have to wait that long.

“I have a signed statement from him, Palmer,” Flynn tells her as her friend walks up beside her, and my night is looking up.

Lady is a smoke show with smooth, golden brown skin and hazel eyes.

The skirt she’s wearing is doing fantastic things to her ass, and I peep the rounded tops of her breasts through the plunging front of her blouse.

Her dark braid is long over one shoulder, and that shit’s gotta go past her waist when it’s hanging free.

“There you go, Palmer,” she says without even looking my way. “Flynn and Max’s attorney are looking out for you. Now, you going to tell Dylan he has to give it back?”

“She’s got a good point, babe,” Max says from beside her. “Oh, sorry, Pree, I don’t think you met Flynn’s friend.”

He steps aside, and now, she can’t avoid me. I step up and take her hand, like maybe I’m going to shake it. I don’t. I give her a tug, pull her in so we’re close enough that nobody else can hear what we say.

“Been waiting for you to answer my text, Pree.”

She goes rigid and I let her go. She stays put, though. Doesn’t step away.

“I am not going out with you, Oz,” she whispers at me, like she thinks that will get rid of me. And like everyone else in our little group isn’t paying close attention.

“We’ll see, angel.”

“And stop calling me that or I’m going to stop dressing you. You can parade around in faded Wranglers, for all I care.”

The girl knows where to cut, but I’ve been healing the wounds she causes for years.

I take it as my cue to turn around and ignore her. I reach out to shake Max’s hand.

“Good to meet you, man. Take care of that one for me.”

I don’t nod toward Priya. He knows who I’m talking about. The laugh lines in Max’s face are deep, like holding in his laughter is costing him.

“Better watch out, friend. Piss her off and that girl’s gonna grab you by the balls and tug.”

I could have a whole conversation about the way this girl tugs on me, but we’ll save that for another night.

“Already kinda feeling that way,” I agree.

Flynn’s been chuckling quietly this whole time, the dick.

“You planning to do something about that?” he asks me.

“Better believe it.”

Won’t be long before I’ve got her taking off my clothes, as well as picking them out. And she’s never gonna know what hit her.

THE END

Thank you for reading CURVEBALL , following Max Murphy, a pitcher on the team, and Palmer Sloan—my contribution to the Tennessee Terrors series!