Page 100 of Curveball
He nods, then moves his hands to my shoulders, as though holding me in place until I’m done.
“I don’t know where or how, and I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for this to happen, but it did. So . . . there. That’s it. It wasn’t part of our agreement, but I wanted to tell you.”
And I’m not going anywhere until you kick me out.
Max just stands there staring at me, with his hands on the points of my shoulders, squeezing lightly. He can either push me away or pull me close, the same decision I had in front of a bathroom door on the night we met.
He tightens his hold and pulls me into him, his arms wrapped snugly around my body, like he wants me close.
“I’m glad you told me that,” he says into the side of my head.
“You are?” I mumble into his shirt. I squirm till he loosens his hold and I can pull my head back, watch his expression. He looks down at me, and his eyes are intense with emotion.
“Yeah. Because I love you, too, Palmer Girl. Don’t know where. Don’t know how. It really doesn’t matter. I only want to make this—your whole life, everything right here—simple foryou. I want to be there. With you, wife. With our family. Making our own rules, accepting what we want, leaving the rest, living the way that makes sense to us.”
My knees weaken and I’m glad he’s got a good grip on me.
“So, this is us?” I pose it as a question, and raise the nearly empty glass I’ve been clinging to this whole time. He clinks his glass against it, drains the contents, and finishes the toast.
“To theuswe want to be. And happily ever after.”
Epilogue
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 areeven morefucking 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 baseballat all?”
I shake my head.
“Too goddamn slow. But if you want tosay heybefore 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.”
