Page 34 of Curveball
“Know so.”
“We’ll see about that, bad boy.”
Without a goodbye, she clicks off and I get up to answer the door. It’s my refill, but do I even want it anymore? The tension that filled my mind and my gut for the better part of the day is gone—replaced with anticipation for tomorrow.
I slam the contents of the glass and hit the bathroom for another shower. After that call, it needs to be a cold one.
Chapter 12
Palmer
Dylan sprints down the hall from his room the next Sunday morning while I’m still parked at the counter with my phone and a mug of coffee, infusing my body with that first dose of caffeine while scrolling old texts. It’s been a full week since my tense, then playful, phone chat with Max—the same night he invited Dylan over for a private coaching session—and we haven’t wasted a day.
I pause when I reach our earliest messages. The first one came less than ten hours after our call, and I open a selfie of Max’s face as he’s lying bare-chested in bed, his head resting on his tattooed forearm, his hair disheveled, pillow lines indenting his cheek, his eyelids still heavy with sleep.
Bad Boy: wish you were here
I wished I was, too, becausedamn.
Me: Jesus, bad boy. Next time warn a girl
Bad Boy: I warned you last night. Were you not paying attention?
I’m paying attention now.
And over and over again as the days passed and he sent me a flurry of random thoughts and photos of his view.
I sent him a pic of Natalie one morning, because he mentioned how much he missed her. Then, I sent him a shot of Mike, on my nightstand, beside a bottle of lube.
Bad Boy: We’ll be retiring his number soon
All right, then.
I messaged him later in the week, while preparing our early dinner.
Me: Game tonight? Thought I might watch you in action.
I had no plans so I thought I would tune in.
Bad Boy: Travel day. We’re almost home. And there are so many ways I want to see you in action.
I may have been surprised by my disappointment in not seeing him that night, but I was overwhelmed by the sudden fluttery anticipation building in my stomach.
Then, he sent a photo of the screen on the seat back in front of him, displaying the route between St. Louis and Nashville—at the time, I had to stretch the photo to see where they wereheaded—and I somehow felt more settled, more connected to him.
I wonder yet again if I should ask for a copy of his schedule.
My goal is to fill my brain with our messages and gain the reassurance I need to face him today. Last week, I accidentally lashed out at him—my verbal abuse obviously not meant for him—but since our exchange, and him talking me down from a minor meltdown that same night, neither of us has exhumed the subject. Today, I’ll see him in person for the first time since then, and the past week feels like an alternate reality.
“Hurry up, Mom. You stay glued to the phone like that, I’m gonna think you have some kind of boyfriend.”
I jerk my gaze up and meet his teasing expression, and my face must transmit my musings because he hoots with laughter.
“Oh, my God, you do!” he shouts, and he’s almost gleeful as he dances around and is generally annoying. “Who is it? Is it that new teacher from school, because, for a mom, you’re killing it. You can do better than that old guy.”
Do I?Do I have a hot new boyfriend? Andkilling it? Really? But yeah, it kind of feels like I have a new boyfriend. Or what I remember of those fuzzy-headed, hummingbirds-in-the-belly sensations.
But then, I see the clock on the microwave. “Yikes! I lost track of time.” I hurry down the hall to finish getting dressed, calling over my shoulder for him to eat something.
