Page 68 of Curveball
“So, did you come alone?” This Christy must be talkative, and I swivel my neck to face her. There’s not near enough room in this fold-up seat to shift my entire body comfortably.
“Yeah, I’m here by myself.”
“You’re one of the WAGS, now, right?”
“WAGS?”
Damn it,Max, what did you do?
Clearly, he’s determined to get his way. I take a moment to pay closer attention to those around me—all the women and children around me—and yep, he positioned me right up front with his teammates’ significant others.
“Looks like it. Max said he’d get me a ticket for today’s game, and . . . well, here I am.”
“Oh, you’re Max’s Palmer!”
I raise my eyebrows cautiously at her eager tone. My face is suddenly hot, but it’s not from the sun or the eighty-six flights of stairs I recently climbed that’s causing it.Is there some sort of unofficial roster that I don’t know about?Ooh, Max is going to pay for this!
Christy flaps her hand, as if shooing away an unpleasant odor.
“Don’t worry about it one bit. You’re cool. I swear, these guys gossip worse than we women do. I’m with Evan, out there.” She shields her eyes with one hand and points to left field with the other. “And we have a great group here; most are very friendly.”
Christy spends the next several minutes introducing me to others who are sitting close. Many of the women have children with them, and it’s obvious that some of the women have their own little friend groups. I’m familiar with how cliques of all ages work, but nobody’s outright nasty, and most are actually welcoming.
The game starts shortly, and I have to admit, watching Max play from the stands, the warm sun bright and the smell of beerand ballpark food scenting the air, is much better entertainment than last night’s experience. The ladies around me all seem knowledgeable about the game, and many are vocal when we make a good play—or when they don’t think the umpire is doing his job.
He knows I’m here. As soon as I saw him searching the crowd, I hopped from my seat to show him my jersey. I bought it as a surprise for him, and a way to feel him close.
The first couple of innings go smoothly; almost boring, in fact, with few hitters reaching first base for either team. And then, the game turns.
The next several innings are . . . ugly. Even the women in our section are quiet. I want to cover my eyes and not watch as Max struggles through the other team’s lineup. I want to run down to the mound and give him a pep talk, or a hug. I want to let him know I want to ravish his body long into the night—but instead, I’ll take what time we have and get him to the airport for his flight to Michigan.
Sometime during the sixth inning, when he must be blessedly close to getting pulled, he takes a moment to peer into the crowd. To the thousands and thousands of fans wearing his jersey and shouting his name. I’m thinking he’d be happier if there wasn’t a single person in attendance, though. His play—usually in the prime position on the highlight reel for any sports news outlet—today, will sadly be excluded. And then, his gaze locks on me, holds, and I wave. I’m grinning, waiting to see how he reacts.
He winks.
My heart warms. I’m okay with sitting here, on display for everyone to see. As long as he can see me, too.
When the last inning is over, everyone in our section collects their belongings.
“Hey, new girl, you gonna meet your guy down in the family area?”
I look around. What am I supposed to do?
“Ignore her,” Christy says. “She’s giving you a hard time because you’re the only girl Max has brought to a game since his baby mama passed.”
I am?
“Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Go on without me, then. I need to be getting home anyway.”
It takes forever to reach my car, still on the far side of the parking lot. I start the engine and sit in the air conditioning, waiting for the interior to cool, and for a break in the line of traffic crawling past. I pull out my phone to message him something I hope will make him feel better after the disappointing last several hours. Then, I get a better idea.
I pull off my jersey and lower the sleeve of my peasant blouse down my arm so my shoulder and chest are bare, snap a somewhat misleading pic—and attach it to a short message.
Me: Socks on or off?
As soon as my text hits the ether, those insecurities that appear so reliably and make me doubt myself, are clamoring loud and clear.
Was that even seductive?
