Page 18 of Curveball
The kids are all gone by now and the field’s about deserted, so I flip off Carter.
Dylan unsuccessfully holds back a laugh. I give him my full attention and glare him down in mock seriousness.
“You think that’s funny, do you?”
Dylan’s entire demeanor changes to one that’s completely subdued.
“Sorry, sir. I thought it was supposed to be a joke.”
Christ. Some sense of anxiety or uncertainty or some fucking thing settles in my gut. I set it aside and flick the kid’s hat off his head. He scrambles after it and puts it back on. Backward.
From yards away, Carter tips his chin at the boy. “Yo, Dylan. You’re good. I absolutely was fucking with him.” Then, Carter’s taking off across the grass.
Dylan looks unconvinced as he scans the field, and stops looking when he sees his mom.
“Yeah, well, it looks like my mom’s calling me over. I’ve got a game tonight so I’m gonna take off now. Thanks for hooking me up with”—he points over his shoulder to the back of his shirt—“and all. Today didn’t suck as bad as it could’ve.”
I get the sense he’s looking for an escape. And maybe permission.
“Not a problem. I need to get to the locker room, too.”
With a short nod, he races off in the direction of the gate to the parking lot, never slowing to talk to his mom.
I head across the field toward the locker room, my mind on the kid instead of tonight’s game against Arizona.
Something about him is just . . . different. One moment, he’s quiet and withdrawn, another, he’s playful as a young pup, and the next, he’s as all swagger and confidence. I want to talk to him—to ask—but hell if I’ll set myself up for anything that seems inappropriate. And what do I know, maybe this is normal behavior for a fifteen-year-old boy. When I was his age—which, admittedly, was eons ago—I wore baseball blinders and was only interested in what I could do with the ball in my hand . . .or the balls in my pants.
It’s got to be rough for a kid whose dad doesn’t seem to be around much. Though his mom can make me rage in frustration, she gives me a punch-in-the-gut feeling too. Just not in the same way.
Chapter 8
Palmer
Some days you’re the windshield; some days you’re the bug. And some days you’re lucky enough to avoid the splat, only to land on the ground and get flattened by the tire. Welcome to Saturday.
These are my thoughts when my cell phone rings and Alejandro’s name and photo flash on the caller ID after sending his calls to voicemail for the past two hours. I walked in the door from our morning’s activities at the ball field exactly twelve minutes ago and headed straight for the bathroom. Becausehello! Two cups of coffee, remember?
I dropped Dylan off at Gabe’s so they could hang out before their game. I have a couple of free hours until I’m expected at the school field, and all I want is a shower, clean clothes, and to somehow untangle the snarl that my hair has become in the breeze and humidity of the past several hours.
I don’thaveto answer the phone. I’m an adult and make my own decisions. I even make decisions for Dylan. But you try making my former father-in-law understand that he is not themaster of every situation, and let me know how that goes for you. I’ll wait.
Actually, I’ll wait to talk to him until after I have that shower—and that change of clothes. The hair situation may take more time than my patience allows if Big A sticks to his standard MO and puts his attempts to contact me on auto redial. I don’t know if that’s even a thing, but at exactly four minutes, the length of time between his calls or texts is eerily specific.
I mute my phone and step under the streaming hot water, letting it soothe away the morning’s frustrations. I didn’t intend to baby my hair with a leave-in mask—face it, my hair’s gonna do what it’s gonna do—but here I am, slathering it on. A girl can hope—and I’m still waiting for one thing to go well today.
To delay my interaction with Dylan’s grandfather as long as possible, I even dig through the shower caddy hanging from the wall and come up with the razor. It’s been too long since I tackled this chore, but it’s coming on shorts season, and face it, you never know when Mr. Right Now might show up and introduce himself.
Be prepared, and all that. The Scouts may be on to something.
Just the idea has me envisioning the scratch of scruff as I ran my hand over Max’s sculpted jaw, and the toned, muscular arms I wrapped my hands around while I kissed his firm lips.The man frustrates me every time he opens his mouth to speak. And now, he’s leaving me with a totally different kind of frustration.
Get a grip, Palmer Sloan.
And yeah, I agree with myself wholeheartedly. That sounds like a really good idea.
I finish with the razor, hitting all the places I’d want smooth if I were sharing this enclosed space with a nude, hard-bodied male, then lather up andget a grip. . . on Mike, the pink—yes, Mike is pink—battery-operated boyfriend I keep fully chargedin another of those hanging wall caddies. It isn’t concealed in its storage solution but it’s convenient, and if my teenage son happens to see it and is mortified by its presence, he can just remember that his mother is a youngishsinglewoman who is capable of taking care of her life and herself.Or maybe he should stick to his own private bathroom and not think about it at all.
Hot water streams over my head and shoulders, and spills down over my bare body in smooth rivulets that wash away the suds, and in the heightened headspace I’ve willed myself into with the idea of my student’s hot father, it entices and intensifies my body’s reaction when it comes in contact with my sensitive nerve endings.
