Page 21 of Curveball
Jeremy’s a lefty, same as me, but we have a plan for him. So far tonight, he’s gotten a single and a sacrifice fly, and twice got left staring after my slider. One for four; I want to keep him at one for the day. He takes his place in the box and here we go. But after two swinging strikes—a fastball and then that slider that’s served me so well—Tripp stands, shakes out his legs, then squats into position and adjusts his mask. He taps the button on his forearm that sends me the play through the PitchCom.Let’s put this baby to bed,it seems to say, and I nod.We can do that.
A moment later, there’s a weak crack of Jeremy’s bat and the ball bounces right past me. Gunnar lowers his glove, fieldsit easily at short, and sends it to Diesel at first. Three up, three down. I could do that all night long.
In the dugout, there’s the normal amount of grab-assing and shit talk as we prepare to increase our lead. I snag a piece of Double Bubble from the pail right before I get word that Callahan got the call to finish the game. I was expecting relief for the final inning, and there’s not a part of my body that objects. But he better not fuck up my win.
Early Sunday afternoon,I dash through the pouring rain and Adele meets me at the side stoop of her two-story brick home in nearby Hendersonville.
“There you are, you big stud!” She swings the storm door open wide and I quickstep sideways to avoid getting nailed.
“Hi, Adele. How’s my best girl?”
She reaches for me, then inspects me at arm’s length. “Not as relaxed as you look. You got a new girl?”
“Never let up, do you?” I bend low for her genuine hug, and kiss her still-smooth cheek as I pass into the mudroom. She’s been on me for years, but never presses. So, what’s with the thump of anxiety I experience with her question?
“Get on in here, out of the wet.” She lets go and leads me into the kitchen, where there’s always coffee on the stove. She catches me eyeing it.
“You want one while you tell me about the girl we’re not talking about?” She points to the pot but the question’s rhetorical, as she’s already pulling down a mug.
“Coffee, yes. It’s a day for it. Girl, nope. But you can tell me all about your trip to the Gulf with your gal pals.”
She stares at me with narrow-eyed annoyance. “Stayed at the same house we take every year. Car got a flat on Monday. Had toget a tow. Charlotte had too many mai tais Wednesday night and missed bingo on Thursday. Now, aren’t you glad you asked?”
My lips quirk and I wrack my brain for another diversion, but she’s stuck with her hip against the counter, my still-empty mug in her hand, her eyes planted firmly on me. I shake my head.
“Damn, woman, you’re like a dog with a bone.”
“Woof. And I’m still waiting.”
I chuckle, and only because she’s one of my favorite people. Doesn’t mean there’s anything to tell.
“It’s early days, so leave me alone.”
I get up and glance into the living room, where there are signs of my daughter everywhere—her backpack on the sofa, her athletic shoes on the bottom step of the staircase leading up. But no Natalie.
I move back into the kitchen, take a seat at the table, and check my phone while I sip the dark brew. It warms my throat on the way down. Adele catches me checking for messages and lifts her brow. I’m rarely on my phone, and don’t usually have it out when I’m visiting. But I messaged Palmer last night after I got home. Still haven’t heard from her. Did I misread the signals? Fuck, I hate thisdid she, does shemiddle school nonsense. I slide the phone into my back pocket, determined to ignore it.
The aroma coming from the slow cooker is spicy and delicious. Adele’s got the lid off and is giving the contents a stir.
I kick my chin in the direction of the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Nat in her room?”
Adele replaces the glass lid, which immediately steams up, and steps into the walk-in pantry. “That girl likes her phone, too. Been on it about since she got here,” she says once she emerges carrying a pair of canisters marked flour and corn meal. She shakes her head with an exasperated smile filled with love. “Teenagers, you know.”
I scowl. “She’s supposed to be keeping you company when she’s here.”
Adele pauses her movements and lowers her brow my way, and I feel a mom moment coming on.
“I have friends to keep me company. She’s only supposed to feel loved and safe when she’s here. She doesn’t owe me anything.”
I get up, and in two steps I’m wrapping her in a hug, and it’s a good thing she already deposited the canisters on the counter, or we’d have a hell of a mess. “How’d we get so lucky with you, huh, woman?”
She slaps at my forearm, right over the shaded image of a pocket watch depicting the time of Natalie’s birth. “You got yourself tangled up with my daughter, didn’t you? I’d count us lucky, too.”
I return to my chair, and just then, the product of thatluckbounds into the room in her stocking feet, and skids to a halt.
“Hi, Daddy! Good job last night.” She bends down to wrap her arms around my neck and kiss my cheek. My girl may not attend all my home games—face it, that’sa lotof baseball—but she’s my biggest fanandshe keeps track of my stats—as if the team doesn’t pay a league of others to manage that task.
“Thanks, bug.”
