Page 21 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

Sophia laughs knowingly. “Tell me about it. I’m a teacher.”

I shiver at the idea. “Oh, God. You’re braver than me.”

“Don’t be silly,” she laughs. “You’re a nurse. You’re braver than I could ever be. I just have to deal with kids — you have to deal with everyone.”

“That’s true enough.” I laugh too, glad to be bonding with someone here. As I do, I’m acutely aware of Jackson staring at me. Does he feel like I’m an imposter just as much as I do?

“All right, sit yourselves down and I’ll bring the rest of the food through.”

“Mom, let me help,” says John.

“No, honey, you sit down,” Tegan says, shaking her head, but John follows her through to the kitchen anyway while the rest of us all sit down. Sophia gets the kids settled, and Jackson and I share another long look over the table.

I can’t really think of anything else to say, so I just bite my lip and stare down at the embroidered edges of the tablecloth. I feel like I’ve passed a test, which is good, but I don’t particularly want any more attention to be drawn to me.

This is family time, after all. It should be precious, even if it’s weird.

Tegan and John return with salad and pasta, and sandwiches that she places in front of the kids. Their eyes light up in delight and they immediately reach for them, batting each other out of the way to try and get the most triangular one. They kind of remind me of the way I imagine Matt and I would have been if we’d only had a year between us. If we’d had a whole childhood to grow up together through.

But we never needed it. We’re already symbiotic enough, and I have a feeling that if we’d had the chance to act like this when we were young, we’d be more psychic than we already are. I try and push these thoughts away. There’s no point in wishing for something you don’t have. Matt and I have each other now, and that’s what counts.

Jackson grumpily starts piling gnocchi onto his plate, which earns him a knowing look from his mother as he starts eating. He ignores it.

“So, you’re injured?” asks John in a way that’s equally curious and confrontational.

Jackson purses his lips. “Yes.”

“But you’ll be back in time for the playoffs?”

“Yes!” Jackson snaps. “That’s why I’m resting now.”

“It’s good of them to give you a personal nurse,” says Sophia, glancing at me. She’s sitting next to me, and I can feel the questions brewing. Jackson just shrugs, and I avoid everyone’s eye, not quite willing to admit that my looking after Jackson wasn’t exactly on the orders of the hospital.

“It’s good service,” says Jackson, and I pretend not to notice the way he looks at me.

I’m pretty sure Tegan notices, though, because she says, “Jackie’s finally found another friend.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he huffs, a faint pinkness creeping onto his cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him embarrassed before, and it’s kind of a cute look on him.

Gently, I kick him under the table to catch his attention. John and Tegan have moved on to talk about his job, some high-flying business thing from what I’m overhearing of it. But I don’t really care about that. I’m here for Jackson.

He looks over at me, and I smile, hoping that seeming brighter than I feel will infuse him with a little more happiness too. It might just be my imagination, but though he doesn’t stop scowling, his frown seems to lighten a little.

And then he rolls his eyes at his brother, and I bite my lip, amused. This is a side I’ve never seen before, and I think I like it.

CHAPTER 13

JACKSON

“Fly me, fly me, fly me!” yells Paul, reaching up his tiny hands towards me.

“Sorry, buddy,” I say. “Uncle Jackson’s elbow’s hurt. Means I can’t lift anything up at all.”

“Oh.” He frowns, his eyes wide and watering. Dammit. This is why I don’t hang out with these kids anymore. The level of guilt-tripping they can achieve just by opening their eyes is astonishing.

Well, at least that’s one of the reasons. Painful as it is to admit, I guess it annoys me to see John and Sophia and their perfect family, grinning away with their careers and their children. Everything is just oh so rosy for them — and here I am, a so-called professional baseballer who can’t even win a single significant trophy.

“Tell you what,” I say, crouching down. “Let’s play ball.”

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