Page 31 of Curveball
With the sun high overhead, we all line up while some local beauty queen squeaks through the national anthem. It’s already hot out, and the clouds that bring a chance of rain only add to the humidity. God, I can’t wait to get out of Alabama.
But first, we have to get through nine innings of baseball. It took us a lot of throws to take care of business the last two games—an early win for Zach and then a save for Callahan—but I’m throwing tonight. I gear up to make the next eight innings count and not leave a clusterfuck to clean up. With luck, we’ll get out of this series with a three-peat. It’s a little early in the season to worry about the final show—though, is it ever really—but it’s never too early to think about an All-Star bid.
I’m off today. I feel it. Thoughts of Palmer occupy my brain when she absolutely needs to sit the bench. I take the mound for the first pitch. The inning is less than eventful with the number one batter a little eager, and striking out on three consecutive fastballs. The next guy, a leftie, likes my slider and gets a piece of it. Which Eric manages nicely in a quick boom boom four-to-three action. Batter three in the lineup thinks he’s learned his lesson and backs off the early pitches, only to be left standingwith an oh-and-three count. Jesus. We could call fucking Dylan up to take care of these knuckleheads.
But then, Alabama’s offense gets serious, our defense hops on the sloppy train, and we end up tanking the game by a single run. Son of a bitch.
By the time I get to the hotel and order room service and a glass of whiskey, I’m still on edge while I strip down to my boxer briefs. My phone rings. It’s Tripp. I should give him a few minutes, but tonight I’m the asshole friend, and in no mood to cheer him up when he wants to relive memories of his gramps. Or maybe he’s just calling to give me shit for the game. In that case, fuck him. I’ll give him a call before breakfast.
This morning’s call to Palmer has been eating at me all day. What does she think I want with her son? Other than the time I spent with him last weekend at the field day, I barely know the boy. I won’t say the distraction is the reason I sucked balls today, but yeah, it’s probably the reason I sucked balls. My head just wasn’t in the game.
It’s in the game now, though. Probably due to the red meat I just wolfed down, along with the Macallan—my glass is empty. I set my tray of dirty dishes in the hall outside my door and call down for another drink before I commit to calling Palmer. I’m going to want it by the time this call is over.
All right, no more bullshit. I pick up my phone and redial Palmer’s number. It rings and rings, and just when I’m grateful for a reprieve, she answers.
“Max, is that you?”
I clear my throat becausethat voice. It’s the one from the party, and attached to the kiss that’s been hijacking my dreams.
“Max? If you don’t answer, I’m hanging up.”
I’m caught daydreaming—and get another dose of her pissy attitude, only slightly less hostile than earlier today. If I were smart, I’d hang up now.
“What the fuck happened this morning?”
Not so smart, then.
“Oh.” She stumbles through that one short syllable and I swear she swallows back a sob. “I can’t. I thought you were someone else. Well, obviously, because . . .” Her words trail off and I wait with my fingers drumming the table.
I’m curious about the mood swing, but Ineedto know the rest of her thought. This woman is invading my sleep and fucking with my play. I’minvested.
I put the call on speaker and lean forward in the club chair, legs spread and my elbows resting on my splayed knees.
“Was it your husband? Are you safe? Is Dylan?”
Her mood flips again, and her words are harsh, her voice thick with rage but, interestingly enough, not tears when she replies with, “No, not my husband.”
My frustration spikes and I’m ready to hang up on her.
“Damn it, Palmer. You were wrecked when I called and now you’ve got riddles? Have a good li?—”
“He’s gone,” she cuts in. “My husband isn’t here. I mean, I divorced him ten years ago. But his family is still around, doing their best to make my life hell.”
Still with the fucking double-talk.
“I trust you with my fucking daughter, Palmer. Is she in danger?”
“No!” Her response is immediate, and forceful. I want to believe her.
I also want to hang up and drown my thoughts in alcohol. In my current mood, and struggling to understand hers, I’m not sleeping anytime soon.
“You’re going to have to accept that, Max. I can’t tell you more.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I have to protect my son. You have to understand that.”
“I don’t have to do shit.”
