Page 66 of Curveball
She winks. “That sounds like a good start.”
She winks.
That night,I come in from the bullpen barely damp with sweat, my pants hardly smudged, and find a waiting text when I pull my phone from my locker. The message is from Palmer, and she must have sent it not long ago, right after the end of this game. It’s surprising, and . . . confusing. I’m not sure what to do with it.
Palmer Girl: Cookies or a cupcake?
I stare at the words on the screen for too many minutes, deciphering their meaning.
Is she going to make me dessert?
Or, is she flirting?
There’s subcontext here, right?
Or . . . maybe she just wants to know which I prefer.
Jesus, Murphy, have you forgotten how to communicate with a woman?
I shoot off a reply, and have instant regrets.
Fuck, did I do that right?
Will she think I’m flirting back?
Does she want that?
Now that my totally dumbass remark is in her messages inbox, I realize what I should have written.
I wanthercookies.
And I want this fun little game she started to continue.
Maybe I wasn’t lame, after all, because she does show up at my game. I wonder what her reaction was when she realized the ticket I left for her was in the WAGS section. But when the national anthem has been sung and the players retire to their dugouts, I step to the mound with my walkout song blaring over the loudspeakers and the fans chanting my name—and search for her in the seats reserved for friends and family of the team.
She’s there in one of the nearer rows, sitting beside Evan’s girl, Christy, a beer in one hand, nachos in the other, andwearinga replica home jersey, white with black trim. She sees me eyeing her and hops up and spins so I see the back.
My fucking jersey.My fucking number.
My heart beats in double time until I get it under control. She’s been to my game before; I’ve seen her watching me from the stands, so having her attend as one of the fans shouldn’t be such a big deal. But knowing she’s here because I invited her—because I want her here—I am pumped. Let’s go!
After six innings, I just want this goddamn game behind me. Tripp has already made the trek to the mound twice to calm my sorry ass down, Eddie joined him once, and now, Declan is on his way out. After a decent first two innings, the last four have been downright embarrassing. No matter what I say I’ll change, what promises I make to do better, I’m useless tonight, and it’s his job as manager to yank me from the game. I wish he could have pulled me an inning ago, before that rookie from New York got a big fat piece of my change-up and emptied the bases.
I climb from the mound and meet him in the dirt. He twists his neck, his head on a swivel until he spots Palmer leaning forward, her focus on us. He lets his gaze rest there, on her.
“Hey, Murph, it’s kind of a clusterfuck out here. You got something on your mind other than baseball?”
Fucking Declan. He’s not pulling any punches tonight, not when the gap in the score is this wide. Not when Diesel’s been speed dating all night. It’s my fucking job to shut hitters down, not give them a fast pass to first base.
Tonight’s been my least successful appearance in a game since I got called up, and the press is going to rip me a new one in the media room. I’m known for being focused. In the zone. Fucking Mighty Max Murphy. But yeah, today, I just might have something else on my mind.
Chapter 22
Palmer
Dylan and I spend the evening gathering together everything he needs for his upcoming camping adventure. And though I can’tattendtonight’s game in person like Max asked, we squint at the baseball app on the phone screen to catch a glimpse of him at his game. He looks bored as he watches play unfold from the bullpen, sprawled in a folding metal chair, his legs so long he keeps shifting to sit comfortably. He warned me when I got Natalie that he won’t be playing, so I am prepared for that. Some guy named Zach starts instead, a closer comes out to finish the game, and the Terrors get the W.
When the last out is recorded on the board and the team is on their way through the tunnel to the locker room, I lift my phone to shoot him a funny message. He won’t see it until later, and it’s just something silly to lighten his mood and let him know I’m thinking of him. It can’t be easy to watch your team win a game and not be a part of that success. Not directly, at least.
