Page 44 of The Curveball
“Okay, if my movie deal never comes, you are to blame.” I take a quick drink of cider. “What about you? What comes after when your geriatric knees give out, and you can’t don the jersey?”
“I’ll die.”
It takes me from behind, a laugh that turns into a gag. I cover my mouth with my elbow and meet his eyes. He’s grinning as he scoops up some pasta. There is a brightness to his gaze, as if drawing out my laugh is the highlight of the night. How he does it, I’ll never know. Griffin has a way of making me feel like the gem of the room, and he doesn’t even say a word.
He leans back in his chair, studying his plate for a long pause. “I’ve given the future some thought, and it’s hardly glamorous like some of the guys. I have no doubt Parker will stay on as a coach when his shoulder gives up. Dax would love to scout. Ryder will never quit. He’ll be the first seventy-pluser player in the MLB to spite the statistics.”
I laugh because it’s true. Ryder Huntington is grumpy enough he’d flip the age stats the bird and say he’s playing until he dies.
“Waiting.” I tap his shin with my toe under the table. “What’s your plan?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re not allowed to laugh.”
“You’re not allowed to boss me around, temporary boyfriend.”
“Just boyfriend will do, thank you.” He grins at his plate and pauses for a few breaths before lifting his gaze back to me. “I want to coach kids. I guess I’m a little like my family and sort of thought I’d have a mini-me eventually. That’s what I see. Coaching my kids while living on my trillions, of course.”
“Of course.” My voice is soft. I’m captivated, and I wish I wasn’t.
“The foundation has shown me how driven kids can be. High school, little league, I don’t care. That’s what I want to do.”
Under the table, my hands run over my knees wiping the moisture from my palms. He’s so . . . wonderfully, dangerously unexpected. The answer to be a little league coach to his future children, to invest in nothing but family, rams into my heart and pierces me deep enough I’ll have a forever scar.
“I hope you get it,” I whisper. Griffin looks at me with a new intensity. His smile is still there, but only slightly. There is a burn in those golden eyes, and it lifts the hair on my arms. I hurry to clear my throat and look away. “I think you could do a lot of good for kids, you know?”
“You do a lot of good too,” he says with a shrug.
“Right.”
Griffin pauses his fork halfway to his mouth. “You do. Your book helps people.”
“I write romance, Griffin. I’m not like you who can say you did something that almost never happens.”
He’s decent enough to consider what I’m saying instead of brushing it aside like an afterthought. “Playing in the MLB is a dream for a lot who’ll never reach it. Which is exactly why I don’t take the privilege for granted.”
I jolt when his big, callused hand falls over one of mine on the table.
He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t pull back, his eyes hook into me and demand I hold his gaze. “But you give people an escape from reality, Wren. Sometimes reality sucks. I’m not sure you realize how much books can change people.”
“Griffin,” I say with a groan. “You’re talking like I’m Agatha Christy, or C.S. Lewis, or—”
“Marci Grey,” he interrupts. “I’m talking like you’re Marci Grey, aka Wren-Freaking-Fox.”
What’s happening to me? My fingers twitch under his hand, like they’re yearning to curl around his, to hold tightly. My tongue dances behind my teeth, a clear sign my mouth is lonely and wants to be occupied elsewhere. Maybe with Griffin’s.
If I had any brains, I’d leave the conversation with a nice ‘thank-you’ then hole away in my room and forget the waterfall-sensation in my stomach ever took place, but I don’t. I have no will, no desire to leave.
“I don’t make that much of a difference, but that’s okay. Not all of us change the world. I’m grateful to do something I enjoy.”
“I’m glad you get to enjoy your job too, but you’re still wrong.” Griffin drops his gaze to the table. His grip tightens on my hand. “Can I tell you something? I don’t talk about it a lot.”
No longer a waterfall of turbulence, my stomach locks up. A delightful sort of pressure to see a more stoic side of Griffin, a touch of vulnerability. I’m not sure he’s ever been more attractive, and I’m practically salivating to be brought into his personal bubble.
There is something wrong with me.
“I’m good with secrets too,” I whisper.
He chuckles. “It’s not a secret really, more a touchy subject. My mom—” He clears his throat. “She, uh, she’s in remission right now for breast cancer. It was pretty aggressive and metastasized to some of her joints a couple years ago.”