Page 17 of Curveball
“So, Dylan’s been grinding all day. I thought I’d take him over there. Maybe introduce him to some of the guys.” I adjustthe trajectory of my finger to indicate a spot where some of my teammates are hanging out with camp kids.
She looks over to where Dylan’s shagging balls, then turns a soft, liquid expression up at me.
“I was going to leave soon, but I’ll wait.”
I nod and reach for her wrist again, tracing a finger over the blue vein visible on the inside of it.
“Thank you,”I say simply, though it feels as if I’m grateful for so much more than allowing me to escort her son across a ballfield.
Dylan is a cool kid—funny and full of swagger—andnotat allchillwhen I hook my arm over his shoulders, drag him away from cleanup duty, and take him to meet a couple of guys from the team. This boy is far from timid—he demonstrated that at our meeting with the headmaster the other morning—yet I noticed earlier that he hesitates to walk up alone to the players for a picture. Boy’s been working like he’s getting paid; the least I can do for him is get some ink on his shirt.
He’s a hustler, and damn near races ahead as I lead him across the field to where closing pitcher Carter Callahan and second baseman Chase Thorne are hanging out. They all put in hours out here today, and I want to thank them for supporting Camp14 before they hit the locker room for tonight’s game. I owe them big time.
And then they go and spoil it by opening their mouths.
“Hey, Mighty Max, quite a show you put on here,” says Chase in a teasing tone.
Jesus fuck.
“All for a good cause.” I nod, but the bite in my tone tells him loud and fucking clear what I would say if there weren’t kids around.
“Aw, shucks, dude. Don’t be playing like you don’t love your new nickname,” Carter adds, because of course he can’t be left out.
“Just want to be cool like you, Callahan.” I scowl and shove Dylan in front of me to take off some of the heat.
“Hey, guys. This is Dylan. He’s a friend of Nat’s from school.”
The two stick out their fists, and I step aside so Dylan can have his shot.
But Dylan is frozen solid, eyes wide, arms limp at his sides.
If I meet Chase’s laughing eyes, I’m totally gonna lose my shit—and my rep as a hardass. I nudge Dylan’s shoulder.
“Really, kid?”
“Dude, you gonna leave me hanging or you gonna dab me up?” Carter chuckles through his question. We’ve all seen star-struck before, and poor Dylan is mistaken if he thinks Carter’s going to let him get away with it.
“Jesus Christ, you’reThe Closer.” Dylan’s voice is low, awe and reverence murmured barely above a whisper. His right fist raises slowly, as if pulled by a string—until Chase barks out a laugh, breaks the spell, and Dylan turns as red as the shirt on his back. Somehow, he snaps out of it and manages to bump all three of them before he expires from mortification.
Carter steps closer with a black marker and motions for Dylan to turn around. He presents his back.
“So, Dylan, your dad brings you out to ball games here?”
Dylan’s head snaps over his shoulder with a quizzical expression. “My dad?”
Carter turns him back around with one finger, autographs his shirt, and hands the marker to Chase—all while continuing his conversation with the boy.
“Well, yeah. You like baseball, don’t ya?”
Dylan whips his head around and nearly gets the marker to his cheek.
“Hell, yeah! I’ve been playing since Little League. Pitching since clubs. But I’ve never been to a game with my dad. Been with my team, though. That’s cool.”
“Yep. Baseball’s pretty cool. Glad you’re here,” Chase says, then he caps the pen and shoves it in his back pocket, and they turn for the field.
But fucking Carter just can’t resist one last parting comment.
“Catch you in the locker room, Mighty Max.”
