Page 98 of Curveball
“Good girl. Now, come get a glass of champagne with me. We’re celebrating.”
“No, you need to make a speech and you want courage, and you want me to stand with you.”
“Girl, I don’t need liquid courage. And I want you to stand with me, always. I don’t need an excuse like a fancy little party.”
With his hand warm around my waist, we walk back toward the big tent the event coordinator had set up in the middle of the lawn area. Light from the chandeliers glows through the canvas walls. Twinkle lights are threaded through the branches of the big shade trees and help light our way.
We step inside and wind our way through the linen-covered tables, to a bar at the far side. Many of the people here are strangers to me, but everyone is elegant in their evening wear. We stop to visit with guys from the team and their wives or girlfriends. I’ve managed to make friends with several of them since I’m now attending more of Max’s games.
“Here you go.” Max hands me a flute, and tiny bubbles pop and fizz over my hand. He takes one, too, and we step away, nearly colliding with Jake Reynolds, who introduces us to his date.
The MC takes the podium near the orchestra, and clinks the edge of his glass to get everyone’s attention. The noise quiets and people wind down conversations and turn their attention to the stage positioned along one wall of the tent.
“Welcome, everyone. I’m Carl Billings, master of ceremonies for tonight’s event. Hope you’re all having a wonderful evening. I promise, there’s still plenty to come. To start off tonight’s program, it’s my pleasure to introduce local baseball celebrity, and our favorite advocate for youth sports, Max Murphy, our host. Max?”
To generous applause and a couple of loud whistles, Max climbs the two steps at the side of the stage, shakes hands with Carl, and then takes the mic.
“Thanks, Carl. And special appreciation to each of you who’s here tonight to support this little program of mine.” Flash bulbs go off as he begins his speech. He smiles benevolently at the few members of the press who were invited, and then carries on. “Those of us who are professional athletes didn’t start the game when we were adults; we’ve been playing since we were kids. Some younger than others, and some with more economic disadvantages than the rest of us. At Camp14, our goal is to provide equity, so any kid who wants to play has a way to make that happen. And anyone who wants to be involved as a youthcoach has the training and materials to make him successful. So, open your hearts and your checkbooks, folks. I’m coming after both.”
Amid a spattering of chuckles and more applause, Max hands the mic back to Carl and hops down the front of the stage, ignoring the short staircase at the side. A large projector screen hangs from the wall behind where he stood, and a slideshow begins—a montage of photos of smiling, happy children wearing red and turquoise T-shirts, and participating in events Camp14 has hosted in the past.
For as busy and full as Max’s life is, this foundation is an important part of his soul. He pours his own heart into it, and that’s apparent in his impassioned words, and the details of tonight’s event. I have to wipe a tear from my cheek as Carl makes an announcement that happy hour is ending and everyone should find their seats for dinner. There’s a chart on an easel outside the tent that indicates the table and seat number for each attendee.
All the planner’s careful preparations have come together nicely. It was a pleasure to be included and help make this gala a beautiful success. Even Dylan didn’t complain about pitching in as much as I anticipated. But then, this was part of his penance, and now his debt has been paid in full.
Alejandro has agreed to back down—well, except for one last power play. My relationship with Max didn’t start out on great footing, and even as our lives became more entrenched with each other, I never intended for my feelings to become an issue.
But come on, Palmer, how could you not?
Yeah, how could I not? I’ve spent the past ten years avoiding entanglements because I’ve learned how bad life can be when they backfire. How did I manage to conveniently forget that, just because my baseball guy looks good in snug white pants and knows how to make my body sing?
Could it be because Max is done avoiding entanglements, too? If he’s unhappy or impatient about having me and Dylan in his house and in his life, he has an odd, confusing way of showing it. Case in point, the matching Escalade parked beside his in the driveway. Nothing like a brand new Cadillac to saywoman,the clock is ticking.
Well, Palmer, only one good way to find out.
When dinner has been cleared away and the orchestra is gearing up for those who wish to dance between placing bids on auction items and mingling with the other guests, I wander the crowd, stopping to say hello and chat with others about the foundation, until I run into Max.
I find him seated at a table with Tripp, Cheyenne, Jake and Tahlia, I learn her name is, since I didn’t catch it earlier in the evening. They’re all laughing and joking like they do when the guys get together. I’d normally join in, but tonight . . . well, tonight, Max and I need to have a conversation.
I move to stand behind him, my hand on his shoulder, memorizing the warmth of his solid muscles, in case I’ve misread our relationship and tonight I not only destroy my memories of this gala, but also the rest of my life.
He reaches up and takes my hand, his thumb sweeping over my finger from habit.
“You want to sit?” he asks, even as he’s pulling out the seat beside him so I have the option.
“Not right now. I wondered if you had a minute.”
He pulls out from the table, straightening his tie and his jacket as he stands.
“Y’all excuse us for a minute. I think the lady wants in my pants.”
Tripp and Jake burst into laughter, and even Cheyenne and Tahlia chuckle softly. I just shake my head and hope the next fewminutes go the way I want. These people are friends now, and I’d miss them if I wasn’t around after tonight.
With our hands linked, Max leads me out of the tent to a bar stationed a short distance away.
“Another glass of champagne? This time, we are celebrating. It’s a beautiful night, I have a beautiful woman with me, and the event seems to be a huge success.” He hands me a glass and clinks the lip of his glass against mine. “Thank you for all your help.”
He takes a sip, and then leans in to kiss me. I close my eyes and savor the taste of his lips on mine—the tartness of the wine and a little sweet from whichever dessert he ate one single bite of.
