Page 29 of Curveball
Dylan steps back, his posture stiff, rigid, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Why won’t he leave us alone? I don’t have to go there, do I? I won’t.”
My man-child is trying so hard to be fearless and brave, but there’s still a little boy in him who must be scared.
I control my emotion, keeping my voice neutral but firm. “What did I tell him?”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You said no.”
Well, that’s the short of it, but yeah. I nod and swipe at my face with both hands. I am so tired of this fight.
“Yeah. I said no.” Dylan audibly sighs, and slumps against the wall.
The phone rings again, andfuck him!The anger I tamped down for the sake of my son erupts into fiery hot temper. I take astep away from Dylan and turn my back to him. This is done. I’m over it. I’m not playing Alejandro’s game any longer.
I let loose my fury, pick up the phone, and yell in a thick voice, “Get it through your dense head, you fucking asshole. You can’t have my son!”
A voice shouts back from the phone, just as I throw it into the couch.
“The fuck’s going on, Palmer Girl?”
No, no, no!I dive into the cushions and slam the device back to my ear.
“Murph?” I yell in rising panic. But he doesn’t hear.
The call is gone.
Chapter 11
Max
Ten days on the road is a solid haul. I should be able to stay focused. I’ve had this career for a long time, and traveling is part of the life. This time, though, outside forces creep in and steal my concentration.
Tripp and I are friends as well as a well-oiled machine, practically attached by a sixty-foot, six-inch tether between his spot behind the plate and mine on the mound. And absolutely on the same wavelength when we face each other on the diamond. But he left suddenly two days ago—gone to Montana and his grandfather’s funeral—and Davidson and I are somehow managing wins, but we are not vibing. This guy’s got an agenda, and he’s impatient for Tripp to hang up his mitt.
But I’m facing an even worse distraction, and she has untamed curls and eyes that I see every morning in my coffee cup. Her voice is in my head, and the feel of her lips invades my dreams. The woman is a nuisance in my life—both waking and asleep.
It’s been two days since I talked to Nat—actually heard her voice. A pinprick in time back before she came to live with me, but with this weekend’s schedule—night game on Friday leading into a day game yesterday—conflicting with her activities, it’s unacceptable. Especially once she returned my text and I heard about Adele’s injury. The woman’s got to need help, and I know she won’t ask. She messaged, too, assuring me they have what they need. But who’s taking care of Nat? The indigestion is real.
In desperation, I pull out what I’ve been told is a tried-and-true dad trick for inciting the wrath of a teenage daughter, and call her at eight a.m. It’s a bold move, and risky, but when Natalie answers with a sleepy, “Good morning, Daddy. Your ERA’s down another point,” I’m glad I found the balls.
I chuckle. “Good morning, bug. I’ve missed you.”
I walk a fine line with this girl, making sure she knows I’m there for her, yet not allowing her to feel responsible for me. I manage to keep my declaration from sounding needy. There’re shuffling noises in the background, and I imagine her scooting to sit propped amongst the forty-seven decorative pillows she piles on her bed.
“You have not. You’ve been too busy.” She laughs, and the sound of it is still deep with sleep. “What happened to Tripp, though? That other guy’s a tool.”
I agree, but I didn’t wake her up to spend time trash talking a fellow team member.
“He had to take care of a family thing. And thanks for keeping up on my stats. Is everything else going okay? If you need a ride while Dilly’s on the mend, just use the app for a car.”
“I’ve got it handled, Daddy,” she assures me, and the exasperation in her tone reminds me that she’s fifteen and capable, not five and totally reliant on an adult. Still, I need her to be a little reliant. And I’m interested.
“Handled how? You’re not riding with a boy, are you? You know that’s against house rules.”
She laughs again, bright and breezy, and I already sense I’m not going to like her answer.
“Yep, sometimes I ride with a boy from school. And don’t be growly.” Just as I’m about to have a fucking heart attack, she adds, “His mom is the one driving.”
