Page 46 of Curveball
Tonight, I don’t want to enable a group of entitled pricks because their hometown team wasn’t the victor. I want to enjoy my cheat meal with my daughter and the little family that’s coming to feel likemoreto me.
I keep my head down while we eat rather than acknowledging their attitudes, and keep our conversation pleasant while Natalie talks about the summer vacation she has planned with Adele, and discourage any recap of tonight’s play at our table. We all know what happened. Same way we all know there are more than a hundred games left in the season, and some of those will be losses, too.
With a chorus of muttered curses and warning glares, the final trio of men drain the last of their beers and leave the restaurant. The LEDclosedsign has been lit for several minutes and now we’re getting impatient stares from the staff.
Finished, we gather our belongings and offer friendly smiles as we exit through the tense atmosphere. I drop a sizeable tip in the jar on my way out, and add a polite apology for keeping them—because one of the teenage employees had their camera out, and if they were filming, I need to control the narrative as much as possible.
“Well, that was just weird,” Natalie says as we walk down the sidewalk toward our cars. She isn’t usually exposed to the darker side of fan backlash, and tonight was a blatant reminder why.
“Those guys were real asshats,” Dylan says, and yeah, they were. But this kid, while his mechanics are on track to take him where he wants to go, still has a lot to learn about the contrary dynamics between pro ballplayers and the people who worship them.
“I’m sorry, guys. Maybe we should have called for delivery and gone straight home.”
Palmer steps close to me. “Don’t tell me you have to deal with that crap all the time.”
I look down at her and wink. It’s kind of our thing now. “Nah, sometimes we win.”
She huffs out a laugh, which of course, is my intention. She has so much else to worry about, my drama is not her concern.
We arrive at our vehicles, parked side-by-side in the deserted lot, a single light pole illuminating the area. Natalie opens her door to the Escalade, but pauses with one foot on the running board.
“Hey, tomorrow’s Memorial Day, right? Let’s have a barbeque and hang out by the pool.”
Dylan nods his agreement. “Cool.”
Why not? The weather’s been warm and sunny since last week’s storm, and I don’t have a game. “I like that idea, bug. We can celebrate the start of your summer break.”
Palmer raises her hand. “But?—”
“You’re coming,” interrupts Natalie, and I’m impressed at how she shut down any of Palmer’s objections. “You don’t have work tomorrow, do you?” she asks me, but I’m already imagining slicking Palmer up with sunscreen.
“Nope. A day at the pool sounds nice.”
Dylan’s phone chimes and his brows pull together when he gives it his attention. Palmer zeroes in on him while he moves toward their car and gets in, his concentration centered on his screen.
I reach for her hand to pull her close. She evades my grasp with a quick look between Nat and Dylan, butnuh-uh. We’re not hiding. I’m in deeper and deeper with this woman every day, which means Natalie needs to know. I’m not sure how Palmerfeels about sharing whatever we call our status with her son, but I’m here to help if she wants it.
I move as close to her as I dare, and murmur for her ears only, “I want to see you in a bikini.”
She tips her head back and gives meher look—the one I love that’s somewhere between humor and exasperation.
“Sorry, Mighty Max, all my suits are granny-style.”
Natalie’s still standing in the open doorway to our SUV and yells out, “Hey, Palmer, the mall opens at ten tomorrow. Let’s run over and find something new.”
And fuck me, because our exchange was meant to be private.
Natalie slams the car door and comes closer. “I outgrew my favorite suit from last year, and if I try to wear it, my dad may have a stroke.”
I laugh out loud. “And just when I was about to put the kibosh onanothershopping trip, you go and find an altruistic and thoughtful reason why I can’t turn you down.” I reach out to put her in a headlock, but she’s quick and darts away.
“Plus, you’re a marshmallow,” Palmer murmurs before she turns to Nat in her normal tone. “I suppose I could use a new suit that’s not faded and stretched out. Be ready early, okay? I’ll pick you up from your house at nine forty-five. But I am not buying a bikini!” She wags her finger to emphasize her point.
With a quick smile, she leaves us, walking toward her driver’s side door and sliding in beside Dylan, and I actuallyfeelthe ache of not kissing her goodbye. I’m going to need another of those cold showers if I want to sleep tonight.
She bought a fucking bikini.
It’s some kind of orange and turquoise tropical print, low in the front, high on the sides, nothing but skinny ties holding everything together, andso muchexposed skin. The water is not cold enough.
