Page 62 of The Curveball
“I’m trying.”
Griffin stops walking and brings the back of my hand to his lips, kissing me there. Officially, I no longer have a stomach. It is somewhere splattered behind me it fell out so fast. Lips half parted, I can’t look way from those honey-pot eyes.
“I’ve got you, baby.”
I’m the definition of stunned-stupid. I gulp—literally gulp—when he lowers our hands again. My skin prickles in delicious heat. I’m wearing a tank top, but the collar wraps around my throat, hiding my upper chest, and all at once it’s sweltering.
When it happened, I’m not sure, but my heart is beginning to beat to this man’s drum.
Why did I blurt out he was mine to begin with? Ha. I know exactly why. My traitorous subconscious wants it to be true, she wants to take a massive risk, and somehow, she’s convinced my brain and cynical heart it’s a good idea to embrace every moment of this temporary arrangement.
It has to be temporary, right? He’sGriffin. A beautiful, successful athlete with endless opportunities and women who’d line the streets to get a shot.
He’s sweet to me. Friendly. Gentle. He makes me feel important, but he’s known to do those things to everyone. When the season starts again, I have no doubt his first love will push all others aside and we’d go back to being indifferent acquaintances.
I tried to keep my feelings platonic, tried to play it off like there were no strings attached, but here I am catching moments where I look at him and see a thousand mornings waking up drooling on his knee. Or holidays, or dozens of big family dinners.
My chest cinches. I’m dooming myself to a world of pain. I know how this story ends, and it’s not the sexy, outgoing athlete settling down with the introverted writer who was living in her car.
We round the corner and are surrounded by endless thwacks of bats to balls, the slap of leather landing in gloves, and the lovely odor of teenage boys who’ve sweated too long.
A loud crack at the first batting cage is followed by Parker’s deep laugh. “That’s it, my guy. That’s it.”
He goes up to the net and fist bumps the tall, muscular kid in the batting cage. “Got a g-g-good piece of it that t-time.”
Griffin cups his hands around his mouth. “Thatta boy!”
Parker whips around, and Mason Walker lifts his gaze.
“Hey, Griff!” Mason waves.
I wave when he greets me next. A senior in high school, I have no doubt someday Mason will be on the field with the Kings. He’s a brilliant player, and close to Parker, Griffin, and the other guys.
They’ve been working with him and his high school teammates ever since his cousin who raised him married the producer of the band Perfectly Broken several years ago. Parker’s brother-in-law and childhood best friends make up the group, but Mason bleeds baseball even if his family breathes rock and roll.
Griffin tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the net. “Mase, your dad texted us that you applied to Colorado and Texas. Nervous?”
Mason slips the batting helmet off his head, and his eyes land on my hand clasped with Griffin’s, but he doesn’t dwell on it. “A little. I’m hoping for a scholarship. D-Don’t really w-w-want to try out, you know?”
“You’ll get it, my man.”
“Hey, Wren,” Mason says. “Jay w-wants to know when your next book is coming out.”
Jazzy—Mason is the only one who calls her Jay—is his cousin-mom, and it’s flattering how much the ladies of the rock star world have supported my book. I don’t know them very well, but it’s sweet knowing they’re reading my work.
“I’m hoping by Valentine’s Day.”
“Cool.”
“Did I hear right? You’re applying for college?”
Mason flushes. He’s tall for seventeen. No doubt, someday he’ll rival Griffin in broadness and bulk.
“Yeah,” he says. “Finally.”
“I think my heart will break not seeing your cute little face all the time.” Griffin presses his fist to his mouth, pretending to tear up.
Mason laughs. “Yeah, well, come see some of my future g-games and help me impress the co-college girls.”