Page 7 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Max

We all stand to leave, and the headmaster herds us into the outer office, where the overdone secretary—Hazel, I think that’s her name—is clacking away on her keyboard with impossibly long fingernails.

When the last of us has cleared the threshold, Grady moves forward from the rear and clears his throat.

Hazel peers up, the clattering noise tapering off until it stops altogether.

“All done?”

The headmaster nods his head. “For now, the students will remain in school. The terms of their disciplinary action are in here.” He lobs a manila folder to the edge of her desk, where it bumps into her safety orange Stanley mug and comes to rest. “Please make a note in their academic files.”

She quirks a clearly tattooed eyebrow. “Alrighty, then.”

She gathers up the folder he just tossed at her, and with a twist of her lips, adds it to a stack that’s already plenty deep.

I don’t imagine the results of our meeting are exactly what she expected—the two of them kicked out of school for the better part of a week—but then, they probably aren’t what the headmaster wanted either.

I’ll expect reports.

I make a move to shake his hand, a gesture of both courtesy and farewell, but his door clicks shut at his back before I have the chance. I’m clearly not the only one who’s had more than enough of this meeting.

Before I have a chance to brace myself, the boy rushes me like a base runner on a passed ball, but stumbles to a halt before making actual contact.

“Hey, Max! I mean, Mr. Murphy”—he peers over his shoulder at his mom; my guess is to make sure she caught his use of manners. I get it. The boy has some making up to do. I see what a stickler the poor guy’s mom can be. I wonder if his dad is a hardass, too.

“Hey, kid. It’s Dylan, right?” The boy’s eyes go wide and he shoves out his hand. I shake it.

“Yeah. Dylan. I mean, yes. I can’t believe Natalie never told me about you.

” Again, that narrow-eyed flash of betrayal.

And then, the moment I’ve been waiting for—when he realizes the thrill of standing this close to a sports celeb is overwhelming him, and that it’s so not cool —and he gives me a relaxed chin nod.

“Baseball’s the sh— the best, man. Did she tell you I pitch, too? I’ve been working on my slider.”

This is why I love working with the kids. Not the adoration, but their pure joy in the game.

For this moment, I forget what his mom did to me—what she led me to believe—and relax my posture.

“That so? You’ve gotta have tight wrists and fast arms to get that right. You’ll have to take a turn on the rubber and give me a preview.”

His excitement gains renewed life and he looks as though he wants to jump out of his skin. I almost hate to burst his baseball bubble with a reality check.

“Hey, you guys got off easy today. You know that, right? Sharing information with your team is expected. But it’s usually not cool in the classroom. ”

He nods his head and scuffs the toe of his sneaker into the vinyl flooring. “Yeah, I get it. But man, it still sucks.” Then, his face lights with interest. “You’re gonna be there on Saturday, too, right?”

My point was made. I’ll leave words of discipline to his parents.

“Yeah, kid. I’ll be there. You’ll have to bring your parents by so I can meet your dad. Now, scoot.”

He hesitates slightly, then tosses an absent, “See ya, Nat,” at my daughter as he turns to leave.

She shoots him a peace sign and he rushes ahead to meet his mom in the hallway. After a short, somewhat terse exchange with her, he shuffles further into the school, presumably to class.

The privilege of being a role model for impressionable kids is still a rush after all these years, but the responsibility of giving the hard advice that’s part of it—definitely my least favorite.

I never know what effect my words or actions will have in shaping someone’s future.

I want to be the practical and sensible mentor I craved but never had when I was young.

But I want to be fun too. Camp14 is my way of giving that security to Nashville kids who need it.

After her stunt from earlier—no matter her level of guilt—Natalie just bought herself a little extra of my practicality and sensibility.

And if she’s wise, a little sucking up on her part wouldn’t hurt.

She can start by getting her ass back to class instead of idling here, with me.

I give her my full attention, donning a stern expression that doesn’t get near enough playing time.

“Girl, you are expected in class, and I mean right now.”

She scowls and drags her feet.

“You’d rather hang out in the house with me for three days?”

“Daddy, you’re so mean!”

“That’s what I thought.”

I kiss the top of her head and give her shoulder a slight shove to get her moving. When I’m sure she’s on her way, I rush down the hall until I catch up to . . . what the fuck do I even call her?

Is she Palmer Girl from last night who was less than forthright about her identity, or is she Mrs. Sloan, the uptight shrew I only just met since I always seem to be out of town when Natalie has events at school.

“Hey there, wait!” Nice and generic .

She turns, impatience written in her features. The shrew it is.

“Mrs. Sloan.”

“Mr. Murphy. And it’s Ms.”

She blows out a slow breath, but she may as well have huffed out loud. Her eyes shift to icy slits, but I’ve got a temper of my own and I don’t mind sharing. I lower my voice to a hiss. No sense drawing a crowd.

“Just what the hell game were you playing at last night? You’re a married woman, and you came on to me as hot as a sorority girl at a rush party.”

Her back goes rigid and she stutters before spitting out her full thought.

“I-I-I didn’t act any more irrationally than you did, chasing after me into the bathroom to call dibs, of all things.

Are you seven? And then, I find out you’re the parent of one of my students!

I have exactly the same question for you, mister—just what kind of game were you playing?

Did you get a thrill pretending you didn’t know who I was?

” She pauses for a breath, and a look of horror overtakes her already furious expression. “Are you planning to blackmail me?”

The woman is delusional, that’s the only answer to any of my questions, and now I’m shackled to her for as long as it takes our two budding juvenile delinquents to get square with the headmaster.

I scoff. “No, lady. Why the fuck would I want to blackmail you? You make no sense at all, yet they let you teach our kids?”

Her gaze darts away, but when it returns, her eyes are narrowed and her lips are twisted in a sneer as she grinds out, “Not only do they let me, but they pay me to do it, which is where I’m heading. Did you stop me for a particular purpose, or simply to harass me?”

There she is with the bitchy comments again. Still.

There aren’t any students visible in this corridor.

No staff either. We seem to be alone in this wing of the school.

My gut wants me to slice this woman to shreds with my words, give her a taste of my frustration for what her son’s actions are putting us through.

But I’ve been in this business long enough to know that cameras and recorders lurk around every corner.

I lift my gaze over her shoulder to keep from looking her in the eye, all while measuring my breathing, and my tone.

“Look. Lady. This event on Saturday is only for kids in the program. It’ll be pretty short, only from ten to noon, maybe one by the time we get cleaned up and out of there.

I’ll have someone call you with details—what time to arrive, where to report, that sort of thing.

Volunteers all wear a special T-shirt so we know who they are.

I’ll make sure Dylan gets added to the list.”

I pivot to leave but then remember one last thing, and damn me to hell, but for as much effort as I just put into remaining rational, I hope these words cut like razors.