Page 69 of Curveball
Will he understand what I meant?
And then, practicality sets in. Does he even know where I live?
Palmer Sloan, do you know what you’re doing right now?
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
I pull up my messaging app again and send him my address. For an intelligent woman, I seem to be turning this potentialmantrap into a comedy of errors. But I’m committed, now. This is happening.
Chapter 23
Max
Making the trek back through the tunnel to the media room after a defeat is no party—for any of us. After a clusterfuck like today, the team’s well-meaning back slaps and words of inspiration all fall a little flat. And the press doesn’t care about making us feel good; they’re here for sound bites. We give them what we can to appease their subscribers, shut the rest down, and take off for the lockers.
Hell, baseball is a season of failures. They know that. Losses hold a predominant role in the game. Later tonight, when the team is boarding the plane for Detroit, we’ll all be over it. This afternoon will be behind us, and tomorrow’s game will be forefront in everybody’s minds. But for the rest of today, I just want to forget it ever happened.
I don’t ever want to forget the sight of Palmer there, though, sitting with the rest of the girlfriends and cheering for me like I’m her man. The more life happens around us, with us, I realize I want her to think of me as hers. I want to be hers, too. Hers to phone on days like today, when I only want a friendly voice.Hers to go home to and bury my hands in her hair, then bury my cock in her pussy. It’s coming; we’ll get there. But the waiting is killing me.
I traipse out of the shower and across the concrete floor, one scratchy cotton towel slung around my hips and another draped over my dripping wet hair. I didn’t stop at my locker earlier for anything other than to strip down, but now that I’m there with the flimsy metal door open wide, I see my phone blinking with notifications. This isn’t unusual; I generally have several voicemails and messages waiting for me after a game—mostly good-natured ribbing from friends.
I pull the device off the shelf and take a peek, and this time, spot a couple of unread texts from Palmer. But as much as I’d love to sink into her body right now, I am not in the mood for our online game of Would You Rather. Nobeach or mountainsorspider or cockroach.I don’t give a fuck.
I press the icon with her pic—because of course she’s in my favorites—and hello . . . my girl has changed the rules to the game.
Is she fucking naked?
I now officially give a fuck—and laugh when I read the words she sent me. Then, my brain freezes and I suck in a breath.
Is this an invitation?
Her next message is directions to her house—toher—and . . .fuck yeah.
I’ve never dressed faster.
Her hair is still wet,too.
This is the first thought that pops into my head when she opens the front door to her cozy white bungalow with sunny yellow shutters. There is absolutely nothing sexy or evocativein the impression, but it’s the first thing that crosses my mind before she has a chance to say a word.
Dude, you are so out of practice.
“Max, hi. I didn’t know if I was supposed to leave the ballpark before I said anything to you, but . . .”
Her words trail off, and I’m left standing on her wood plank porch, my words caught in my throat. Her blonde curls are combed back off her face, tamed in a way I’ve never seen them before. She stands in the open doorway in bare feet, wearing an uncertain smile and a short cotton robe that’s sashed at the waist and falls nearly to her knees.A mom robe.
“Do you . . . um . . . do you want to come in?”
I have four hours before I need to be at the airport, and until then, the thing I want most is to get inside and get her under me. Or over me. Or on her knees in front of me, because, yes, it’s been a long goddamn time since I was with a woman. Even one who was essentially a booty call.
My dick is heavy and nodding his consent from inside my cotton joggers.
Hell, yeah, let’s do this!
I take a step forward, across the threshold into her softly lit house. Candles burn on low tables in the comfortable-looking living room before us.
That’s the way, old man. Getting closer.
“I . . .ahem”—I clear my clogged throat—“I’m glad you came to the game today.”
