Page 2 of The Curve
“Yeah. But I’m not staying for long. I’m injured,” I call to his retreating figure.
There’s a shake of his head and a wave of dismissal as he heads for her.
My right hand runs through my hair and then cups my mouth, checking for funky breath.Shit. I know it’s all good. Why am I trying so hard? She didn’t give me a second look after the first one said she wasn’t interested.
I can’t step from behind the column because these little shits will stampede me. So I wait. And wait. Why is this taking so long? Come on, Brick. I risk being discovered and peek my head out further. Here they come.
“I’ve got a few friends I’d like you to meet,” he says approaching.
The girl’s having trouble holding eye contact. But the mother isn’t. Her beautiful pale green eyes are locked on mine. It has the surprising effect of sending a jolt up and down my spine, settling squarely on my dick. Wow. There’s a small smile accompanying her stare but not in a flirtatious way. It may be just good southern manners.
“Hi! I’m Atticus,” I say holding out my hand to the young girl.
Her warm delicate palm slips into mine. We shake. She’s too embarrassed, or excited, or maybe nervous, to respond. It’s always one of the three that tongue-ties a fan.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Mallory.”
“Pretty name for a pretty girl.”
But instead of a smile I get a frown. She’s not buying my sincere compliment. That was a bust. She gently pulls her hand back.
“And you’re Charlotte, right?” I say to the woman in my bestI think you’re hotvoice.
She extends her hand. “Yes. Hello.”
Her voice. It’s honeyed, as my father would say. We shake but she releases before I’m ready to let go. I’m not picking up any interest whatsoever. What’s happening? Come on, I’m using my best material and widest smile.
Brick’s distracted by the coach waving him over. “Sorry, I have to take care of something.”
He gives Charlotte a pat on her back then walks away. Good. Now I can do my thing without my brother busting my chops later.
“I’m always happy to meet Maverick fans. What if I sign your ball for you, Mallory?”
She hands the ball over and I look at the woman. “Can you hold my ball?” I say leaning forward a little. “I’ve got a broken wing.”
Nothing. No smile or amused chuckle at the innuendo. Nada.
“Sure.” She takes the pen the girl carries, uncaps it and passes it to me.
“Honey, hold the ball for Mr. Swift,” Charlotte says to her daughter, ignoring my request.
The ball’s passed back to the girl, and she steadies it with both hands. “I’m a big fan, Mr. Swift,” she says softly.
I sign and then look up at her face. “Really? Call me Atticus, we’re on a first-name basis now. Did you two see me get whacked by the ball last month when we were playing the Astros?”
Now the kid’s smiling. She nods her head. “I was watching on TV, but not Mom. I thought I heard the crack of your bone.” She touches her clavicle.
Turning to Charlotte, I hand her the pen. “How come you weren’t watching?”
Her face starts blushing and I can almost see the wheels working as she tries coming up with an answer.
“I think I was on the phone when I heard the announcement you’d been hurt. I missed that part of the game.”
A satisfied grin says she thinks she’s sold me on the excuse. Mallory keeps quiet, but the eyes tell me her mother’s fibbing.
“So you’re a fan then?” I say challenging her story.
