Page 95 of Curveball
Palmer Girl: …
Girl could call me on my shit without saying a word. But still, I waited to see what she’d send next.
Palmer Girl: Shower alone or with company?
Oh, now she was just being spiteful. She knew that answer, and I’d proven it to her. It was time to fight back.
Me: Reverse cowgirl or doggy style?
She didn’t answer. Did I take our game too far?
Me: ?
Palmer Girl: On my knees
Me: …
The woman was trying to kill me and I hadn’t even added her to my life insurance.
The last day in San Francisco, the final game of our away tour—and how the fuck did this happen onlyyesterday—was probably the hardest day to not behome. To not be available when news came out that affected me and Palmer as a married couple.As a unit.
Last night’s game was unremarkable. We won, but only because Zach and Carter both had solid performances and the offense brought their A game after a loss the night before. We had clutch hits and made critical plays, but nobody was a superhero and there were no major errors. There was nothing to put the press into a frenzy, but the buzz of anticipation was in the media room the moment I stepped in. I’ve been in this business long enough that I should have felt it coming—especially since I was asked in tonight, even though I didn’t pitch.
The briefing started rather benignly. Declan made his general comments about the game, Coach answered questions, the pitchers got grilled because writers had inches to fill, and Jake got a minute to relive an over-the-wall catch that denied San Francisco a run. Press got their quota of sound bites and the flashes had been going off since we all entered, so the socials would all have content. Then, from somewhere in the middle row, a local sports blogger yelled out and totally ruined a perfectly good Thursday.
“Hey, Max, Jake Webber,BBSF. We hear you got married recently. Congratulations. Tell us more about the lucky lady and why you’re keeping her hidden.”
“The fuck, you say,” I muttered as I stormed my way to the podium, to probably say something damaging that I’d regret with my next breath. Thankfully, Declan took my arm and shoved me from the room before I had a chance to do that.
“Call your agent. Do it now,” he demanded, then went back in to confront the hammering media. I never heard details of exactly how that went down, but Declan wasn’t bleeding.
I did the smart thing and put in a call to Flynn. His damn phone rang and rang with no response, and I left messages. The same message every time.
“Fucking call me!”
It wasn’t like Flynn to ghost me. So, as the team loaded the bus for the airport, as I ordered a whiskey at the bar to keep me from climbing the walls, and as I called Palmer, got her voicemail, and left her a heads up, I refreshed my phone like a crack addict, waiting for the story to hit.
Somehow, I made it onto the flight and back to Nashville without losing my fucking mind. I managed a little sleep on the plane, which was a miracle, and something I desperately needed since I was scheduled for the mound at home tonight.
My phone doesn’t ping with alerts about the news story until an hour after we land, so Dec must have worked his end like a badass. Now, all I want is a moment with my wife and a conversation with my agent. I get the latter when I finally get a return message telling me to call. I’m in my SUV, flying through pre-dawn traffic, and almost home when I call him back. I light into him as soon as he picks up.
“Jesus fuck, Flynn. Shit’s on fire and you’re on vacation?”
“Been a little busy around here, Murph,” Flynn grits out. I’ve never heard his temper before. But mine’s well-lit, too.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
“Before we begin, let me say that this all directly affects your wife. I’d like to pull her in on this call.”
I screeched up to my gate and jammed in the code. “I’m home. Give me a minute to wake her up.”
“Understood. I’ll give you a minute.”
I disconnect our call, rush into the house and up the stairs. Palmer’s sitting up in bed, her phone in hand, her attention on the screen.
“Jesus, Max, what’s going on? I saw a story that you got ambushed after the game. You okay?”
“I’m good, and I’m sorry you saw that before I got to talk to you. I’m talking to Flynn but he wants to talk to you, too. We’re all going to figure it out.” I reached for my laptop on my nightstand and put in the FaceTime call. Flynn answered immediately.
