Page 20 of Curveball
“They are moving my son, Alejandro, to a facility closer to Los Angeles. It is time for you to come home and be a family again.”
My brain is whirling, but cohesive thoughts take a moment to form. When they do, they all spill out at once.
“Alejandro, maybe I’ll start with delusion number one. Alex is not in the hospital. Not in rehab or a nursing home either. Those arefacilities. He is in prison. You’ve visited. You saw it. High walls, razor wire—any of that jogging your memory?”
Alejandro is silent, as I knew he would be, but I swear I hear the steam coming from his ears. Not big on contradiction, this man, unless he’s the one serving it up. And since he just detonated the effects of the best orgasm I’ve hadin yearsand isn’t supplying any input of his own, I am in it, full steam ahead.
“And maybe you also don’t remember that your son was never fond of family life. Not his own, anyway. How many girlfriends was he supporting, Alejandro?”All while he wore my ring on his finger.My chest is heaving by now, and not with the sensual tension that built and then exploded inside me not so long ago, but with billowing anger that’s threatening to swamp me.
I am over this, damn it! I do not want to relive those years. No more drama, no more cops, no lawyers, no judges. No federal agencies dissecting my life. No neighbors I am embarrassed to show my face to. No more fucking press tearing my life to bits and then tossing the shreds like confetti for the vultures to feast on.
I want the life I have now. As calm and serene as it can be with a teenage boy in the mix. I am at peace. If the fucking regret of those early years rears its ugly head from time to time, all I have to do is take one look at my boy and I can shove it all back down where it belongs—in the past.
“Palmer Lopez, you will find compassion in your heart. You will find empathy, and you will create a life with my son once more. He is the father of your child and he deserves nothing less. He would like to know his son, to have him visit regularly for the years until he is free to rejoin society, and then be the father Dylan’s been denied for the past ten years. Let me be clear, I will make this happen.”
Goose bumps raise on my arms. On the back of my neck. Alejandro’s tone is different—harder, more determined—than anything I’ve heard from him in the past. But now I’m livid, because fuck him if he thinks he’s going to decree who I live with.
“Alejandro, I allowed Dylan to keep his father’s name, but are you forgetting thatIditched my husband’s name the absolutemomentit was an option for me? I expect you to respect that. I’ve allowed you to communicate with Dylan these past years, and don’t make me regret that. I believe it’s right that he has a connection to his roots, no matter what I think of you personally. No matter how little respect I have for your son. But let me make myself clear. Starting today, I am done with you. Dylan is done with you. We want nothing more to do with you or anyone from your entire family.”
He won’t concede. It’s not in his DNA.
“You can say whatever you like, mija. You can pretend you are a strong woman. But make no mistake—we arenotdone.”
Alejandro is a wealthy businessman. He had standing in his community until his son shattered it, and it took him years to rebuild what he lost. To recreate trusting relationships from those people his son swindled. He can decide to gamble that all away again, but I choose not to.
I also choose to end this game of cat and mouse. My son is pitching in one hour and I will be there, cheering him on, pretending his grandfather did not just threaten to implode my life.
Chapter 9
Max
I’ve always thought it’s a little more thrilling to attend a baseball game under the lights. The grass is a little greener. The organ music is a little louder. The smell of popcorn and cheese-drenched nachos flooding the concourse is more enticing. The entire atmosphere iselectric.
But standing on the mound, gripping a dirty white ball in my left hand,sensingthe pitch clock counting down, there’s no feeling like knowing the batter digging his toe into the dirt of the batter’s box is one of the best players in baseball—and I’m going to strike him out.
It’s top of the eighth. We’re up six to one, there’s one out, and fifteen or so bold red Ks march across an electronic message board over the visitor’s bullpen. It’s a good position to be in, but we still have work to do.I have work to do.
Eli Masterson—a pitcher playing two-way ball, and new this year from Boston with a record-breaking contract—is batting third. He gets set in the batter’s box. I swipe my belly with the forearm of the black long-sleeved tee I wear under tonight’spinstripe jersey, step to the rubber, and everything happens in perfect rhythm, nearly simultaneously. Tripp signals to the PitchCom. Deep breath. Let it out. Take my stance. Pitch clock goes dark. Wind up. Stretch. Let ’er rip. Strike one. Four-seamer. Ninety-four miles per hour.
The moon is rising over the rim of the cheap seats, the digital banner is whirling around the entire stadium in vibrant blue, encouraging the crowd tomake some noise. They do, their cheering like thunder, and nothing is more energizing than when the fans are chanting your name.
Eli digs in. Sets his bat over his shoulder. I rub my sleeve against my torso and step up. Tripp signals another fastball. I’ve got time for debate, andnuh-uh. They don’t call EliThe Masterfor nothing. I shake my head and Tripp comes back with a knuckle curveball.Yeah, I like that. I nod. Wind up. Stretch. Send it straight his way. The curve breaks at the last second and Eli’s caught dodging the ball. Tripp scoops it from the inside edge of the zone. Called strike.
Eli steps out of the box to tie his shoe. I take a trip around the mound, just to stay chill, making eye contact with each of the infielders. The outfield looks good. Kelvin James shoves his stat card into his pants pocket and moves back several yards into deep right. Smart man. Masterson is going down, but we’re not taking chances.
Eli’s back. I slide my sleeve and take the rubber. Tripp signals the changeup andwhy the fuck not. I give him the nod. Do my thing. Send the ball his way, but the throw feels off, and . . .Crack!Mygaze shoots upward to follow the ball. Pop-up over the safety net. The crowd erupts, and those in the upper level over first base scramble for the ball.
That was a gift, Murph.It was, but it ain’t my fucking birthday. Gotta make sure there isn’t another.
Eli sets in the box, and he looks more determined than ever.Aw, did he want to be the playmaker?I never promised to make this easy. The pitch clock starts and it’s Groundhog Day, just like in the movies. Same sleeve against my shirt. Same step up to the rubber. Same windup. Same pitch. Changeup right down the pipe . . . till the moment it falls off the table, and oh, lookie there. Strike three. It’s my birthday, after all.
I step off the mound, glance at the crowd. Unbidden memories come of pitching in my first big league game. The nerves. The bravado. The pure certainty that I was where I belonged when I found my dad in his front-row seat, and Hannah, sitting with the WAGS, huge with Natalie and struggling to bend forward, as if that provided a better view.
Except for the times Nat’s schedule allows her to attend, there’s nobody here I want to go home with.And what the fuck brought that on?I’m here to do a job, so let’s get to it.
Except, I knowwhobrought that on, and tonight, she’s watching high school ball.
Next up is Jeremy Scott, the second-year player out of Arizona State, batting for his home state. He’s got fans in the stadium—probably family too—and they love this kid. Let’s show them why they should love us more.
