Page 16 of Curveball
I’ve seen plenty of cameras out this morning—both professional and of the smartphone variety—and I’ve smiled for pictures with numerous fans. It’s all part of today’s goals, offering the kids a safe place to play and increase their love of sports, and encourage attendance—and fandom—for the Terrors.
The parents of the camp kids are present, and helping as much as the event staff to make sure everything runs without a hitch. Other kids are still laughing and playing at the various games, and for this one day, at least, I hope my Camp14 encourages them to feel as advantaged as any other child. In a perfect world, this is what childhood looks like.
I find Natalie again, and watch as she helps one of the youngsters who trips as he runs across the grass. I’m proud and grateful that she can make him laugh even as she brushes grass and dirt off his knees.
She and I have had a long road learning to navigate our grief and live together—the past three years have been so much damn work—but she’s teaching me the role of full-time girl dad. It’s a part I only filled sporadically in the past, and though I enjoyed it, it was always in a much more peripheral manner. These days, I’mthe parent, and it’s really not the same. I’m not sure Adele always agrees with my child-rearing methods—because face it, sometimes my decisions are real meatballs—but she rarely calls me out.
Talk about calling me out . . . my eyes land on Ms. Sloan and come to a stuttering halt as she pulls the many wooden stakes from the ground one by one, and then wraps them with endless yards of brightly-colored flagging tape. She cut right through whatever play I may have made in the bathroom on Tuesday night with her quirky charm and quick wit. And thenext morning, while I was still coming to grips with the idea that I may have gotten a kiss but not a phone number, there she was again, only to learn she’s the reason my week was about to go to shit.
My chest tightens in quick annoyance at the immediate reminder of who she is—the woman who involved my daughter in her bullshit accusation—and the reason she’s here, at my event.
I stomp closer to where she’s standing, irrationally irritated at both the recollection of our meeting with the headmaster, and the notion that the whole situation doesn’t seem to faze her at all. Who the fuckwantsto spend their free time working someone else’s show?
Another woman I recognize as one of the camp moms is with her, and I come up to them as Palmer pulls her in for a hug.
“Thanks for stopping and letting me know, Kay. It was good to see you again. And I’ll be sure to pass the message to Dylan.”
Kay pulls away and turns to head in another direction. Palmer waves after her, but seems lost in thought. It’s a moment before she realizes I’m there, and faces me with a start.
“Did you come by to make sure I’m doing my part?”
I ignore her dig. “So, you decided to volunteer, too.”
“Something like that.” She gives me a Mona Lisa smile.
“I need to ask?—”
“Well, this is finished.” She spreads her arms wide, an impressive pile of stakes stacked neatly on the ground nearby.
“I can see that.”
I look up and away before I say something I’ll regret, and find Dylan and another boy in my line of sight. He’s doing a fine job, and buddied up with another of the high school-age volunteers to work with the T-Ball kids. We often get private school students who need community service hours . . . for other less altruistic purposes.
“I’m about to go help Dylan gather the balls over there,” she says, and turns away.
My hand snakes out to take hold of her forearm. Memories rush me. Soft skin. Tender touches. Her plush lips on mine.
“He’s fine, and probably wouldn’t love having his mommy hovering over him.” Her eyes stare down at my fingers wrapped around her lightly freckled skin. I let go. “Can you just hold on for one fucking minute?”
Her scowl doesn’t come immediately, but she works her way up to it.
“This better be important.”
“Jesus, woman, do you need to make everything hard?”
Her hard eyes flit to my crotch andfuck me. Apparently, she does.
Her eyebrows raise and her lips quirk. No anger rolling off her now. Nope. No annoyance, no testiness, nada. Palmer isamused.
I just met this woman. Do I know for a fact she won’t fault my daughter for getting in trouble with her son? I do not. Do I want to kiss her again?
Desperately.
I was on a heated tear as I stomped over here from across the field, but an essential tool in survival—both on and off the field—is knowing when to pivot. Overlook errors in judgment brought on by emotion. Ignore assumptions based on incomplete knowledge.
Suck it up and take her on like the grown-up I can be.
My self-analysis has given me the pause I need to calm my junk, but a distraction sounds like a really good idea. I point over to where the boys are separating and going in different directions.
