Page 44 of Curveball
She drops her head to her chest and mutters a quiet, begrudging curse. “Damn it, Max.”
I wait her out, pretending my anxiety isn’t ratcheted and my heart isn’t bursting like I just pitched a comeback win. I almost have her.
“I won’t sit with the wives and girlfriends.”
Atta girl. We’re closer.
“I can agree to that.”
And finally, she gives in. Shaking her head with a grimace, like she can’t believe what she’s saying.
“All right, Max, I’ll come to your game.”
I want to beat my chest in male satisfaction. Damn, this woman makes me work harder than Eddie does. I put my hand on her shoulder and let it slide all the way down her arm.
“Not a problem. I’ll leave tickets at Will Call.”
Chapter 14
Palmer
Attending a professional baseball game with Alex and a preschool-aged Dylan was an experience that in no way revolved around the action on the field. Most of my time was spent running after my son for a soda, for popcorn or a hot dog, for the bathroom. Up and then back down thousands of steps, it was exercise all right—in patience and endurance.
Baseball played on a diamond in a huge stadium has not been in my budget since we left California. And though my son lives and breathes the sport, the only time he attends games in the big park is when he comes with his team.
Watching him this morning with Max, I better understand his love of the game, and how important it is to him to learn and improve. Right now, he’s discussing the on-field play with Natalie, and I see that he appreciates the hard work and commitment required from career players.
I have a deep appreciation, too—for the pants.
As promised, our seats are not located with the players’ families, but instead, near the Terrors’ dugout, a position Iheartily endorse since I—um,we—have a close view of the team as they enter and exit the playing field. I am definitely paying closer attention to one player more than any of the others.
Dylan reaches across Natalie to knock me on the arm.
“Hey, Mom. Check out Max.”
And since Ihavebeen watching him, intently, I jerk my gaze away from the field. Natalie is suspicious, but Max and I didn’t discuss any plans to out our . . .us.
Dylan’s eyes are twinkling as he wordlessly points his chin to where Max is leaving the mound and heading toward the dugout after an inning in which a sac fly gave Chicago the lead.
I might be busted. He might have caught on. More likely, Natalie gave him a heads up. Doesn’t mean I can’t play dumb.
“They’re leaving the field. What of it? It’s, like, the eighth time they’ve done it this game.”
“But he’s looking at you.”
He is not. I absolutely would have noticed. I look up anyway—how can I resist—as Max strides closer and closer. He doesn’t say anything, though. He clomps down into the dugout, then reemerges with a ball in his right hand, a marker in his left. He writes on the ball, and with his eyes solid on me . . . tosses it to Dylan.
Dylan snags it easily from amid the other fans who notice Max tossing a ball into the stands, reads the short message on the dirty leather, then snickers.
“Y’all passing notes in class now?” he teases as he reaches in front of Natalie to hand it to me.
Natalie gets a look at the message as the ball crosses her chest, and I get a chorus ofoooohhbefore I snatch it from his hand.
WAIT FOR ME
It’s a simple message, scrawled in block letters. I shake my head and hand it back.
“He threw it to you, son, not me.”
