Page 30 of Curveball
Now, I’m suspicious. Becausewhat the fuck mom of a boy from school does she know well enough to accept a ride?
“You’re playing with me, bug, and I can turn off your credit card with a click on their website.”
She blows a raspberry into the phone and it’s my turn to laugh.
“I’m begging. Just tell me who you’re taking rides from and save me more gray hairs.”
“You won’t get mad?”
“I won’t get mad.”
“Pinkie promise?”
“Natalie!”
“Geez, Daddy, it’s Palmer, all right? Um, Ms. Sloan. My math teacher.”
“Dylan’s mom?”Sonot the answer I’m expecting.
“Duh, Daddy. Hey, we watched him play yesterday. Damn, that school better find a coach for him. His fastball is good, but his slider is ugly. Even Palmer agrees.”
“You know not to call adults by their first name.”
“But she said! We were on our way to . . . Well, anyway, she’s been helping me get around. She even drove Dilly home from the hospital. She’s cool, Daddy. You’ll like her when you get to know her better.”
That much, I already goddamn know.
Of course Natalie couldn’t beg rides from any-fucking-body else. No, she has to make friends with the one woman whocan turn me inside out and then turn me on, all in the same conversation. The one woman who decided to ghost me when I reached out to continue what we started a week ago.
“Listen, bug. I better go. Early game today and I need a conversation with your Ms. Sloan before I head down to eat. Be good.”
“And if I can’t be good, don’t get caught, right?”
Lord help me. I drop my forehead into my palm. This girl is going to be the death of me.
I take a moment after our chat to scroll in my phone. There’s got to be a fucking email from Palmer—Ms. Sloan—in here somewhere. One with an alternate contact number.
The first one I find is a conference reminder I blew off because Adele always covers those for me. Now, I wonder if she was even able to make it. Maybe Palmer’s pissed and that’s why she’s not answering. Should I ask her while we’re on the phone?
No, you idiot. That idea sucks balls.
One, Natalie may be over whatever happened between her and Dylan, but I’m definitely—probably—not, and two, I had a dream about our kiss again last night—which means, some part of me is probably—definitely—over it. I fist my hair in both hands and pull. This woman who will not return my messages is totally fucking with my head.
At last, I find a phone number in her signature block and, oh fuck, that is not the number I’ve been using.
The relief I feel is on par with the amount of dread coursing through me becausewho the fuck have I been calling, andhow mad is Palmer that I’ve ignored her after proving absolutely how attracted to her I am?I am so screwed.
I tap the link to her phone number, and listen while it rings. Once. Twice. On the third ring, the call connects and I wait for Palmer to say hello.
“Get it through your dense head, you fucking asshole. You can’t have my son!”is not what I’m expecting. Her voice is coarse and full of hot emotion. Girl is pissed, butwhatthe fuck did I do to Dylan?
“The fuck’s going on, Palmer Girl?” I yell right back.
Because knee-jerk reactions are always productive.
But the call disappears.
I stew on that telephone call—on her heated attack—while I chow down on oatmeal and scrambled eggs. And then a little more while I get wrapped and take the field for warmups. Davidson is still a dick, but he catches every fucking ball and he isn’t afraid of the heat. And fuck if I’m not bringing the heat today.
