Page 45 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

So, what do I do if Jackson gives me no choice?

With a shrill beep, the alarm goes off and I jump, smacking my hand into the cabinet. “Shit!” I yell.

Then I stand up and look before I can think about it.

I stare at the tests in horror, my stomach dropping to my feet. I know I’ve been ignoring Jackson unfairly, but now the message isn’t just going to be, “Hey, I don’t feel like coming to the game,” but instead, “Hey, I don’t feel like coming to the game. Also, by the way, I’m pregnant with your baby. Surprise!”

About a thousand different drafts of that text fly through my head, and not one of them sounds any good. I want to burst into tears, but I’m too numb to do anything.

And before I can get anywhere near crying, there’s a knock on the bathroom door and Matt bursts in, his mouth dropping open as he takes in the scene before him.

Shit.

CHAPTER 25

JACKSON

TWO HOURS EARLIER

Iswear that whatever Freya has done to me, it’s like she’s put a curse on me. I check my phone every forty seconds to see if she’s replied to me yet, but I haven’t even got any read receipts on it. She is totally ghosting me. Matt’s read my message, but he hasn’t replied either. Why?

This whole thing is making me feel insane. Why won’t Freya answer me? I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s not off partying, celebrating the fact that she never has to see me again. But I also hope she’s not upset by it all.

Oh, I just don’t know what to think! This sucks.

I don’t want to be pushy, but it’s been three days and nobody has said a word to me — and I haven’t even double-texted either of them. I’ve thought about it, but I haven’t done it. That means it’s definitely time for another thoughtless act.

I pull up Freya’s contact and text her quickly, Hope everything’s okay before I can back out of it. Unfortunately, habit makes me put a kiss at the end of that text. Urgh, I should not have done that. Too late to take it back now.

I don’t really know what I’m expecting after that. Well, I do. I’m expecting a response. And I don’t get one.

I have training in the afternoon, and I spend all day trying to forget everything and focus on playing ball. I throw some great pitches and some shit ones and try not to let all the creeping doubts about being ready to win the World Series snake into my brain. I know these thoughts are part of the reason I’m playing so badly.

But at least some of it is Freya, too.

After practice, I get to the changing room and immediately run for my phone to check it. Still nothing. Maybe she’s dead. No, she can’t be. I’ve seen her posting on social media. Maybe she’s getting back at me for all those times that I ignored her in favor of playing ball. I get how she feels now.

It absolutely sucks.

And, yeah, she doesn’t owe me a response but I still would like one, at least to know that she’s alive — and so I can tell her I’ve learned my lesson. To tell her that, okay, baseball is always going to be important to me, but that I would think harder before letting it consume me.

Would that even be good enough, though?

In another act of almost complete thoughtlessness, I pull up Matt’s contact and decide to text him as well. Hey, haven’t heard from you in a few days. Just wondered if you were all okay. As soon as the message sends, I feel like a complete idiot. Is this really what my life has come to? Chasing a girl through her brother?

I get changed and have a hot, hot shower, ignoring the other guys yelling at me about wasting water. They can cope. I don’t get out until I hear utter silence in the changing room so I can towel off and get changed in peace. I take my time with it all, not wanting to be disturbed, enforcing some screen-free time to try and clear my thoughts.

Then I drive home, doing my absolute best not to think about any of it. The last thing I want is to die texting and driving, so I leave my phone well hidden in my bag. My fingers are itching for it, but I will be responsible. I will. There’s nothing that can’t wait ten more minutes.

The second I pull into my garage, I grab my phone, unlocking it before the door has even shut. Matt has read the message but not replied. All right, that’s it. Without really thinking, I slam the call button, furious for no reason.

Matt picks up pretty quickly. “Hi, Jackson,” he says, disinterested, like he’s being forced to call an uncle he doesn’t like for Christmas.

“Matt. How are you?” I say, trying to infuse my very best charm into the phone line.

“Good. How are you?”

“Fine,” I lie. “How’s Freya?”

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