Page 2 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

FREYA

Idrum my fingers on the steering wheel, creeping forward ever so slightly in a vain attempt to will the traffic light into changing. But the cars in front of me stay resolutely still. I watch as another minute ticks up on the car clock and swear under my breath. I can’t afford to be late again. Suzette will skin my hide if I am.

For a nurse, she’s maybe the least understanding person I’ve ever met. She has kids too. You’d think she would at least have a little appreciation of how annoying school-run traffic can be. Not that I actually have kids. I’m responsible for a kid, but he’s not mine. Matt is my kid brother, a product of our parents’ complicated relationship and years of drama that I do my best not to think about.

He’s probably the love of my life, though. I would do anything in the world for him, including, but not limited to, cooking his every meal and raising him like he was my own. Plus, a twelve-year age gap between us means he’ll always be a little baby to me.

But I won’t be able to keep providing for us if I lose my job because of stupid school traffic again. I should just make him take the bus home after baseball next time. At least then I’ll probably only hit traffic one way, because his school is on the way to the hospital. Carpooling with him seemed like a great idea at the time but I’m starting to rethink that plan.

The light changes, finally, and I glare at the car in front until it starts crawling forward. I only just make it through the light before it turns red again, and just as I start actually putting my foot on the gas, I make a right turn straight into more traffic.

The hospital is literally three minutes away from here, but my phone is telling me that traffic is going to make it more like fifteen. All I can do is sit here and watch as the time keeps creeping up and up, and hope that breathing in the fumes from the car in front of me isn’t going to give me carbon monoxide poisoning. As much as I enjoy doing the evening shift, the traffic part sucks.

As I crawl past a parking lot, I do some mental math, an idea occurring to me. I’ve sat in this traffic before, and I know the map isn’t lying to me — it probably is about fifteen minutes to where I want to be, despite it only being two blocks away. But if I pulled into this lot and ran for it, it would probably only take me five. I’m not too unfit, so I could definitely make it, even if I don’t really want to run. Still, it’s the difference between being ten minutes late and half an hour.

I flick on my blinker and dive into the lot, and to my relief manage to find a spot. I give myself one heartbeat to sit and take a breath, then get out of the car and slam the door shut. Parking only costs five dollars here, and as I cram coins into the machine, I consider doing this more often. It’s just a shame this parking lot has a maximum of three hours, because even if it was fifteen dollars for nine, that would still be vastly cheaper than hospital parking, which I still have to pay despite being a staff member.

This does mean that I have to remember to dash back over here during my break and move the car, but it’s worth it because the red car that was in front of me has moved maybe twenty-five feet since I parked. I reach into the car to grab my backpack and sling it over both shoulders.

With one hand, I grab a strap to keep myself steady, and with the other, I pull out my phone to text Suzette. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was hell.

As I get going, I keep my phone in my hand, glancing between it and the path, hoping that I don’t trip on a branch or something. I’m half-expecting Suzette to call, but she doesn’t. She just replies with a thumbs-up emoji, and I nearly put my phone away — except then three dots appear, and I just know she’s typing out paragraphs and paragraphs of things I’ve done wrong this week and demanding “correctional action” for all of them.

She’s lucky that I love my job, because she sure as hell makes it difficult sometimes.

As I round the final corner towards the hospital, my lungs are burning. It’s not even funny how out of shape I am. I keep telling myself I need to work out more, but between Matt and my work hours, I never seem to find time. And anyway, I’m on my feet all day at work. Surely that counts as exercise? The nausea rising in my throat is telling me a different story, though.

Panting and sweating, I glance down at my phone again, only looking up to wipe the sweat from my eyes, and because I’m not paying any attention at all, suddenly the man is right in front of me and, with a yelp, I smack straight into him and send us both crashing to the ground.

CHAPTER 3

JACKSON

The woman lands on top of me in that movie-worthy-straddling kind of way, which would be funny if she wasn’t pinning my arm to the ground at a weird angle. I cry out in pain as we hit the ground, scraping my face against the sidewalk as I turn to try and get away from her.

“What the hell, dude?” I yell as my senses recover enough to push her off me, sending her sprawling to the ground beside me. The movement of doing it sends a shockwave through my arm and jars my elbow in some of the most acute, blinding pain I’ve ever felt. It grips me like a metal claw covered in spikes and poison, and I clutch my arm in agony. “You’ve broken it!”

“Don’t be so dramatic!” she snaps as she pushes herself up, dusting the dirt from her clothes and retrieving her backpack before she softens and reaches out her hand to help me to my feet. I take it without complaint, taking deep breaths to try and ease the pain. She frowns at me and says, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“Well, you should watch where you’re going,” I mutter, wincing as I explore my elbow with my fingers. I don’t think it really is broken, but every tiny pressure sends another shot of agony up my arm.

“Let me see,” she says, reaching out to me. I snatch my arm away from her with a hard glare, but she insists with her own stern look. “I’m a nurse. Let me see.”

“Some bedside manner you’ve got,” I sigh as I give in, letting her take my arm in her hands so she can peer at it.

“It’s looking bruised already,” she says, her face twisting into the kind of frown that I can only call bad news before she catches herself and wrangles her expression back to neutral. “I’m on my way to work right now. Let’s get you to the hospital where a doctor can have a look at it.”

“No!” I say sharply, pushing her away again. “I’ll be fine. I just have to shake it off.”

“I don’t think this is a shake-off injury,” she says with more authority than she has a right to have. But before I can say anything smart in reply, she pokes me in just the right place that it makes me want to crumple back to the floor and wait to die. I growl, not trusting myself to speak in case I say something I’ll regret. “Come on.”

She gestures ahead of us, and I know I have no further arguments I can make against following her, which makes me even grumpier. At least she’ll probably give me special treatment and get me in with the doctor faster, which is about the only positive I can see in this whole situation.

“I have a job, you know,” I say as we approach the hospital. It’s an ugly building, a gray cube of a high-rise, no doubt filled with diseased and dying people. Nothing about it is cheerful at all. There’s a reason I try to avoid going. And anyway, the team doctor looks after me well enough that I don’t usually need anyone else.

I can’t think about the team right now. The idea of not being able to go back to play is worse than unbearable. The game is my whole life. Being told I can’t do it will be like tearing my soul out. “I can’t miss work,” I add. “I can’t lose time just because a clumsy idiot fell on top of me.”

“You might not have to. We don’t know how bad it is yet,” the woman says gently in that practiced kind of tone that doctors and nurses use because they’re not allowed to shout at their patients.

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