Page 8 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

After Max demonstrates what a jerk he can be and how much of a bullet I dodged by leaving when I did last night, he turns away as if dismissing me. But oh joy, he spins back and speaks through his curled lip.

“Since he’s a minor, Dylan will need at least one parent present for as long as he’s on the field.

” I manage to keep my jaw from dropping, but the hair on the back of my neck prickles, my back stiffens, and I want to spit out that I already know that.

I deal with safety regulations on the regular.

“If you can’t make it, or choose not to come, your husband will have to be there. ”

These words come across more like a criticism than a fishing expedition; more like a threat than a statement—and they don’t mix well with the sour feeling developing in my stomach.

I kissed this man. I enjoyed it, damn it! But now I only feel gullible, and taken advantage of. The same way his daughter made my son?—

No, no. Learning lessons are hard, and I have to accept that Dylan will have those. Max widens his stance and again avoids making eye contact.

“Look, I’m already planning to be there. The kids expect it. It’s my gig, and besides, I love spending time with them and teaching them the fundamentals of sports.”

I am not excited about spending my morning off with Max Murphy, and overselling it won’t make that change. I look up, hold strong until he meets my gaze, and damn, I forgot just how tall he is. I may have also disregarded the thrill of that tattoo that covers his forearm .

“Fine. I’ll plan to be there.”

He looks expectant, as though he’s waiting for more from me, but that’s the only concession I’ll offer.

I don’t want him to think anything I do is for him.

It’s not, and I’ll make that clear at every turn.

My job here is to protect my son. And, if possible, keep him from falling any further in love with his idol.

I turn on the heel of my very sensible loafer and stalk down the corridor and back to my normal daily routine. Away from any memories of hard abs and firm shoulders, and a steamy encounter with a man I had no business kissing.

The rest of the week looms long and heavy.

It’s too close to the end of the school year to take on any new projects in class, and the kids are too restless anyway.

Getting them prepared for final exams—no matter how crucial—is an ongoing exercise in futility.

Nobody is as happy for Friday afternoon as I am.

A few hours spent digging in the garden will ground me, so on my way home, I stop by the nursery for mulch and a flat of petunias.

The flowers are low maintenance and reliable, and the bright blossoms have me cheered by the time they are situated in the planting bed.

I’m just getting the walkway swept up when Dylan drags in from baseball practice and drops his gear bag at his feet.

His T-shirt is dusty, his pants are nothing that resembles white, and there’s an impressive red dirt stain down the entire left leg— they just have to slide, don’t they —and my nose isn’t going anywhere near the socks he didn’t remove before changing from cleats to slides.

Poor Kara! We both wave and shout our thanks to the carpool mom who has pick-up duty this week.

I can smell his armpits from five feet away.

He stands close, eyeing the improvements. “Hey, the flowers look good.”

I cover my nose and take a step back. “Kissass. When was the last time you noticed the yard?”

He sticks his nose into his underarm and comes out grinning but with his nose wrinkled.

“I notice it every time I have to cut the grass. I just don’t say anything about the flowers. You already know they look pretty or you wouldn’t plant them every year.”

I give him a long, assessing stare. “That almost makes sense. Now, get your gear put away.” I earn an impatient eyeroll, but I’ve worked this mom gig long enough to know what needs to be said out loud. “Get cleaned up, too. Dinner’s in about thirty minutes.”

Dylan stops mid-step on his way into the open garage.

“Not going to be here for dinner.”

Rolling the garden hose into a loose coil next to the house, I peer up at him.

“Oh?” I load as much censure into my expression as I can pack in.

“Come on,” he cajoles. “I already had house arrest the past two nights. And Gabe will be here in a few minutes. We’re going to meet Jenna and Harper at Zito’s for pizza.”

“Jenna and Harper? You mean, like, a double date?”

“Like a hangout, Mom.”

Which doesn’t sound like too many unfastened buttons away from a hookup. Jesus, I’m not ready for this.

“You have money?”

He takes another step closer to the house but tosses over his shoulder, “I have some leftover allowance in my wallet, but if you want to contribute . . .”

I pick up his gear bag and follow him in through the mud room. Damn that son of mine. I planned chicken for our evening meal—something healthy and nutritious. But now, I want pizza.

I have a little cash in my purse so I pull some out and leave it for him on the kitchen counter. My phone’s in my bag too, and I pull it out as well. I’ll need to call Zito’s and order my own dinner to be delivered. I’m thinking deep dish pepperoni with extra cheese.

I awaken early the next morning, with plenty of time to get ready and drive us to the ballpark by nine, the time yesterday’s email suggests we arrive. But I’m sluggish, and even a cup of coffee and a massaging shower don’t do the trick. Fucking third piece of pizza .

Dylan’s up, too, and if he moves through the house any louder, I may have to suffocate him in his sleep. Except, he’s got so much energy right now, I doubt he’ll ever sleep again.

“Let’s go, let’s go. They’re waiting for us!

” He slides his Tennessee Terrors ballcap over his short dark hair and clomps into my room, calling out orders like a drill sergeant, tossing me my cap, my sunglasses.

When I pass him on my way to the kitchen, he halts in his tracks and waggles a finger in the direction of my head.

“You’re going to do something with that, right? ”

I pop over to a decorative wall mirror and holy shit!

My curls have taken on a life of their own.

My hair’s still damp underneath, so the best I can do is plait the mass into a braid over my shoulder while I wait for my second cup of coffee to brew into a to-go cup.

I absently wonder about the bathroom situation at the ball field—because, face it, two cups of coffee —but then override the concern with shaky resolve. I’ve got this .

Once the lid’s secure on my travel mug, I fly back to my bathroom for something to secure the ends of my hair.

“Jesus, Mom, you’re being such a girl,” Dylan comments from right on my heels, like a damn puppy. Or a mosquito.

“I am a girl. Leave me alone.”

I shut the door in his face and paw through the bathroom drawer for just the right ribbon.

He barges in anyway, yanks a red one from my collection, and tosses it at me.

I contain my hair with one hand, swat him away with the other, and wish I had one more to shove him down the hall.

Mama octopuses have such an advantage over humans.

“Who are you trying to impress anyway?” he asks when we reach the front doorway. “You know no matter what you do to your hair, it’ll be all over the place in no time.”

“All right. All right! I’m not out to impress anyone,” I insist, even as my overactive imagination flat out calls me a liar and singsongs about a growly, broody bad boy, all while doing pirouettes.

I apply a coat of glossy lipstick in the same small mirror I used to inspect my hair, then drop the wand into the drawer of my refinished entry table and rush ahead of him out the door.

“Where did you learn to be such a nag anyway?” I ask him, but before he can respond with another smartass remark, I tack on an emphatic, “Don’t answer that!”

The door slamming behind me signals Dylan’s exit, and his quick footsteps pound the concrete driveway until he catches up with me at the driver’s door of my would-have-been nice-to-replace-by-now Toyota sedan.

My sunglasses are perched on my head, my ID is saved to my phone, and the car keys are in my hand—no purse today because wherever would I put it while we’re on the baseball field? Dylan holds out his palm like a beggar.

“I want to drive. It’s just us, and you said whenever?—”

I don’t argue because if anyone is ever destined to become a lawyer, it’s this kid .

The keys dangle over his open hand, and for the thousandth time this week, I wonder if I make wise parenting decisions.

The kid is in deep shit at school yet here I am, strongly considering not restricting his fun.

Because teenage boys on the cusp of a milestone birthday do not consider learning to drive a chore. At all.

Why the hell are you even debating the issue? He needs to learn for my sake, too. He only has a few more weeks till he turns sixteen and can get his license and drive his own self wherever he needs to be. The decision is made. I release the keys and he snatches them mid-air.

We arrive at the ballpark safe and sound, and with only one minor squabble about where he should park. I silence his argument by pulling out my phone and showing him the message I received from whatever admin Max lined up for that sort of thing.

A security guard wearing a badge that introduces him as George ushers us through the outfield gate at the rear of the field, just past the warning track.

Everyone here is wearing matching T-shirts, red with the mostly turquoise logo for Max’s foundation emblazoned on the front.

It reminds me that Max said volunteers would all be wearing them to distinguish themselves, and we should look for the person passing them out.

I peer around, spot him, and steer Dylan over to get him hooked up.

As it turns out, I’m voluntold to help rather than wait in the car with papers I was planning to grade, and I’m given my own red shirt.

With our bright event tees slipped on over our regular clothes, Dylan and I go looking for our assignments.

The morning is overcast and breezy, a beautiful morning to spend outside, and passes in a rush of activity as I help the kids move from one event to the next—running the bases, long jump, softball throw, and plenty of other skills games to keep them happy and invested.

There are prizes for everyone, including Camp14 logo gear and loads of Terrors team merch.

I spot Max here and there, moving between games, and he seems to make time for each of the kids, smiling and laughing with them, patting them on the shoulder or ruffling their hair.

There’s a clench in my gut, but it isn’t worry; I’m sure of it.

Unreasonably, it seems to be regret . . .

for yet one more scene my boy will never play out with his dad.

Max is casual and relaxed today, in direct opposition to his tense, adversarial attitude Wednesday morning. This guy’s demeanor is like a see saw, up one day then down the next. Or maybe it’s just me he’s like that with. Hell if I can figure out why, but if that’s the game he wants to play, I’m in.