Page 45 of Curveball
“Only because he knew I’d catch it.”
Well, that might be true.
But does he want me to wait for himhere?That’s what I ponder the rest of the game—while Natalie and Dylan armchair coach the remaining inning, and make yet another trip to the concession stands. Some things never change.
Max is pulled after the turnover, and Carter Callahan takes the mound for the final inning. It makes sense that they wouldn’t put in a less seasoned closer with the game riding on their performance. On the other hand, how do the young guys get experience if they’re not given a chance to succeed? I’m glad I’m not in charge of making that call.
The rest of the game is a nail biter, but nobody makes a play that changes the score. When the last out is called, the crowd is already making their way out of the stadium and my kids race to the rail and yell down to Max in the dugout. He must hear them, even over the stampede of the crowd, because he meets them at the rail, his tall frame standing only slightly lower than they are on the ramp beside the dugout.
I’m slower to reach them, as I chosenotto trample small children to get there. Max looks up from his conversation with the teens as I arrive, ignoring the jostling going on around him as some photographer is capturing her last shots of his teammates as they leave for the locker room.
“Hi there, the kids want to know?—”
But then, Dylan interrupts with, “Hey, Mom. Max asked if we want to go for pizza with him and Nat. What do you think?”
I think Dylan is man-dazzled, that’s what I think. I understand the affliction. The man can dazzle me?—
“Yeah, Palmer, how about it?” Natalie nudges me, because the path my mind is stuck wandering is indecent. Intriguing, but does not have a PG rating.
Max’s arms casually drape over the metal railing, and he has one foot propped on the concrete ramp we’re standing on. He’s watching me with his brows raised, as though he didn’t just get talked into a public outing after spending hours on the ball field.
What the hell. “I could eat pizza.”
“Cool,” the kids say in unison, then step aside to loudly debate which pizza place has the best crust.
Max adjusts his stance slightly. Lowers his foot to the ground, and then props the other on the ramp. “You sure you want to go?”
I squat with my hands wrapped around the painted metal tubing at his waist level. I lean my head in closer so we don’t have to yell to hear each other over the din of departing fans.
“You’ll be there. And I have to feed him eventually.”
“Ouch. I think my ego just got put on the injured reserve list.”
I chuckle. “You’re a tough guy. But things might get crazy if someone recognizes you.”
“Possible. You never know, especially on game days.”
“Well, there’s nobody waiting at home. It’s just me and my kid, and tonight, we’d be happy to share dinner with you.” I let my gaze wander out to the scoreboard and then back with a grin to let him know I’m joking when I add, “You know, to commiserate.”
Max sputters his amusement, and his grin holds genuine humor. His expression sobers, and he leans forward, too—our foreheads close,so close—before he moves his hand right beside mine. Our pinkies are millimeters apart.
I can’t look away.
Chapter 15
Max
As it turns out, Dugout Pizza is a hangout for local Terrors fans. You’d think we could deduce that from the name alone, but since their location is miles from the stadium, it seems more likely it’s a kitschy name based on their baseball décor than home of an actual fandom.
We are wrong.
It’s long past the dinner hour by the time we arrive and take a booth in the rear; in fact, we arrive with so little time before closing that the server is on us immediately.What do we want to drink? Do we know what we’re eating tonight?We don’t, but we learn just how fast we can come to a consensus. Our pie arrives in record time.
There are several patrons in attendance, all wearing Terrors jerseys, still grumbling over tonight’s loss—and shooting us irritated glances.
Palmer and Dylan sit across from my daughter and me, their backs to the petulant fans as we wolf down our thick-crust pie. I can generally defuse this type of situation with a selfie and asignature, but tonight, they’ve been stewing in their drafts for a while and they’re loud.
I am not in the mood.
