Page 15 of Curveball
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 myhead, my ID is saved to my phone, and the car keys are in my hand—no purse today becausewherever 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 becauseif 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 myown 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.
Chapter 7
Max
Today’s event is getting lots of coverage, I’m pleased to notice, which is what we need in order to rake in donations and sponsors. Major backers are sluts for good press. Positive and supportive, that’s what they want to see. Not the random digs and innuendo I can get when an article is about anything other than my performance on the mound. There, I excel, and heaven help the dude with the balls to suggest otherwise.
Sports reporters, bloggers, and influencers alike all report on my generally aloof and occasionally surly attitude off the field. Let’s face it, some of them come right out and call me a dick. And I get it. I’m not concerned with being everyone’s friend or being accountable for anyone else’s well-being. The safety and happiness of one person is my only job these days—well, that and the other one that provides the exceptional paycheck and keeps her in designer denim.
For years, I was the party guy, the one who didn’t only go along with a plan to close down a club and then invite multiple females back to the hotel—hell, it was probably my idea. But thatchanged overnight when Hannah, mom of my then-tweenager, swerved to avoid an oncoming car in a busy intersection and ended up rolling hers. I lost one of my best friends that day, and became solely responsible for her mini-me, all in the space of one idiot’s misjudged left turn.
Should I be grateful that the guy who caused the accident lived so Natalie doesn’t have to grow up thinking her mom was involved in someone else’s death? I might be glad he survived, but not for that reason. Nope, we sued the fuck out of him on Natalie’s behalf, and he was aware of every legal move we made. Had to sign off on the judge’s final decree.
Truth be told, though, I’d rather my girl had her mom to fight with through her teenage years than a pile of cash socked away for her future.
I’ve never made it a secret that I have a daughter, or that Hannah and I were each on career paths we didn’t want to interrupt with marriage. Crazily enough, we were both insanely excited about the baby, and since Hannah lived at home with her widowed mom while finishing school, Adele stepped up to help raise baby Nat. She’s been a godsend for me since Hannah died, though she swears Natalie is no trouble at all.
I’m just waiting for Natalie to blast her with that aforementioned teenage angst. So far, she’s saving it all for me.
In the early days, and with my outrageous travel schedule during the season, nobody wondered at how little time I spent with Natalie. Lately, she has a larger presence in my public life, and my social media. I’ve been photographed with her over the years at team events or on vacation, and I’m okay with showing off my little princess sitting in the stands cheering me on, or during a fun day at Florida’s most popular theme park. I do not allow her to be included in my endorsement deals, though, and it’s never okay to exploit her. Don’t believe me? You can ask theformertabloid reporter who posted a shot of her with her friends at the beach last summer.
Also,when the fuck did she get that swim suit?My dad brain exploded at the realization that her body filled it out.
Not that I’d be caught dead with her at the mall—or the other way around, more likely—but the girl needs adult supervision when shopping for swim attire.
I can see the plus side to including her in today’s event. She wasn’t happy about giving up her morning—downright snarly until I suggested a detour for her favorite cold brew on the way here—but she’s engaging with the younger kids as their parents round them up and lead them to the parking lot, and her help today took a load off the other volunteers. When Evan Parker brought his girlfriend’s son by to meet some of the guys, he got a kick out of her squatting behind a makeshift home plate and letting him lob a few balls into her mitt.
I’ll add that to my report.
She notices me watching her and gives me a grin and a big wave. When she shouts, “Hi, Daddy!” across half the width of the outfield, I have to read her lips. The piped-in music and noise from the kids running around is so loud, and her voice doesn’t carry that far.
I wave back and her smile widens. Looks like I’ve been forgiven, and that’s good news. I’ll wait to remind her she’s also been called up for next month’s gala. Or maybe I can get someone else to take on that task for me.
I twist my wrist to check the time—I’ve spotted a few team members come from the locker room and they’re looking antsy to start pre-game warmups—then let my gaze sweep the area to confirm everything is going according to plan. But of course it is. I pay an event company a boatload of money to make sure it does. And to make sure there’s just enough press hanging around to give the day the exposure it deserves without whoringourselves out. Donors like to know their money is well-spent. They do not like to be portrayed as pimps.
