Page 75 of Curveball
“Two whole hours till we reach the hotel?” I groan.
“Unless you want to join the mile-high?—”
“Stop right there.” I press my palm to his face to keep him from continuing, but he just nibbles at my fingers. “You want to sleep some so you have energy when I finally do get you to the hotel?” I let my mouth curl into a demure smile. “Old man?”
“Grrr. . .” He mock growls his frustration. “I’m the best old man you’ve ever had.”
I chuckle. “Nothing wrong with your ego,” I tell him, and then giggle out a laugh. One of the women passing down the aisle hears me, and nods approvingly. Step one to winning friends and influencing people? We’ll see.
With a possessive grip on my hand, Max closes his eyes, and before we’ve even taken off, his breathing is deep and measured.I think I’ll pull up my book and see what kind of mess the characters of my latest sports romance obsession have gotten themselves into, so I reach for my phone that’s still attached to the charging cord, and stashed in the mesh pocket at my knees.
Before I open my reading app, I see those unread notifications again—the ones I’ve been avoiding for days—and my mood plummets. I’m not ready to read them yet, but the pesky, curious messages from Alejandro still taunt me from my home screen every time I pick up my phone.
Chapter 25
Max
I am not mad about waking up to the sight of Palmer sound asleep beside me. There’s a lot about it that I could enjoy getting used to—that unbound cloud of blonde curls surrounding her face and covering her pillow, the sweet smile tilting up the corners of her pink lips as though she’s dreaming something pleasant, the sweep of long dark lashes fluttering on the curve of her cheeks. The gentle wheeze of her breath as she softly snores.
There’s also a lot about having a woman in my bed first thing in the morning that freaks me the fuck out, and it all boils down to expectations. Hers. Mine. They’re a jumble in my brain, and I have no idea why everything seems so urgent and uncontrollable. I scramble out of bed before I accidentally wake her up and am forced to deal with them.
The bedroom is dark with the blackout curtains drawn tight, but even if they weren’t, the sun hasn’t yet risen, and if I rely on the light from the alarm clock on the nightstand to guide my movements, Iwillbump into something. I haul my case into the living room of our suite to get dressed.
From past visits, I know this hotel has a kick-ass fitness center, and I take the elevator down, then use my key card to let myself in. The room is dark and cool, and blessedly quiet. My world will be full of noise from the minute I hit the locker room, so this is a nice reprieve. The motion-sensor lights click on, and I have the place to myself. I’ll get in a run and a few reps, maybe gain control over this minor freak-out that wants to take charge.
It’s nothing, right? A little apprehension about the series maybe, or concern for my play after that last disaster on the mound. It’s definitely not because there’s a woman asleep in my bed. In a hotel. In a strange city.
I’ve done that before. That has happened. Been awhile, but it has.
But it’s never been Palmer.
One game, years back, I watched from the dugout as a relief pitcher went at it with a cocky little shit at the plate. Back and forth, they egged each other on, with little shit crowding the strike zone and reliever brushing him back. In his final at-bat of the night, the hitter read the relief’s throw as a fastball and, waiting till the last, pivoted in for a bunt. The hanging curveball came in hot, failed to break, and crashed into his chest. Little shit went down, and left the field on a stretcher.
That pain in his solar plexus? I’m feeling that now.
But it’s never been Palmer.
The idea alone makes it hard to breathe. Impossible to fill my lungs with air, and it’s not because I’m three miles in on the treadmill. I yank the cord for the kill switch and, bracing myself with the side rails, drag in breaths as the conveyor slows.
Get it the fuck together, Murph. Get the work in. Get your head right. Get ready. Then, get back to the room for a little more cardio . . . Palmer style. I sayfuck itto the reps and do just that.
The door to our suite slow-closes behind me with an elegantsnick. I kick off my runners just inside, then reach up behindmy head to tug my wet Terrors tee up my sweat-dampened back and torso, and over my head of dripping hair. I push my running shorts down my thighs as I cross into the still-dark bedroom, then pull off my boxer briefs and socks, dropping all of it in a soggy pile, and halt. Palmer’s no longer in the bed.
Hot fog billows from the open bathroom door, which I normally would have noticed right away. But my mind is still in a spin, so many ideas and assumptions tossing about in a fucking freefall. The crash of water against shower tile draws me closer, and I pause to lean against the door jamb, appreciating the curve of Palmer’s form in silhouette behind the glass wall opaque with steam.
This isn’t frightening. It damn well doesn’t hurt. The sight of her, the smell and feel of her, in my space—in my life—is soothing. Restful. Comforting. It’s also exciting, and invigorating. And yes, sometimes maddening. But no, this is not scary at all. This is right.
The need to apologize to her sits in my gut like a grenade, benign as long as I treat it with caution. Deadly, if I’m not vigilant. I push myself off the wall and move toward the glass door of the oversized shower. She screams when I open it.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Max! You could have let me know you were back.”
Her hair is full of shampoo lather, her curls a soapy mass plastered to her skull. There’s some sort of white goop coating her face, and she brandishes a disposable razor like she plans to use it to take me out. I step into the arena and close the door behind me.
The voices in my head are loud, but my words are absent while I take this in. Takeherin.
Why her?
She’s beautiful.
