Page 1 of The Curveball

CHAPTER1

WREN

Wren Fox soundslike a circus name. Or an alias for someone in the Witness Protection Program.

Unfair, since my twin brothers have normal names. Darren and Carter. Their vanilla names are probably linked to their ability to lead normal lives.

I did not say perfect. The twin terrors aren’t perfect. But they don’t stroll through life like a feral cat in a rainstorm.

No doubt, at least sixty percent of my jumpy disquiet can be linked to my twin brothers and my circus name. For a solid year during my formative years, the two fools told me I was named after a faceless ‘real’ mother who left me at one of the many carnivals Vegas hosts each year.

My mom didn’t appreciate that one.

Then, when that stopped getting a rise out of me, it turned into me being named after an exotic dancer on The Strip.

After I started refusing to leave the house, afraid I’d run into a dancer with my face, my Auntie Cleo—my brothers’ mom—made them take me out for the day, wherever I wanted to go.

The best part was, they had to use their own allowance money.

The idiots never teased me about my name again. Truth be told, I never gave it much thought again. Until today.

Right now, it feels like the most exciting thing about me.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard the name Wren spelled like the bird,” Alvin says from the seat next to me. The analyst for the Vegas Kings is utterly transfixed on the spelling and tone of my name. “Most people simply spell it R-E-N. Was your dad a big bird guy, or is it a family name? It’s fascinating learning the origins of names, don’t you think?”

“Um, my dad didn’t name me.” I shudder at the thought. “My mom said she thought of it because she swears a wren landed next to her the day before she had me. It was during a difficult time, so she took it as a sign of something good.”

“Fascinating.” He shakes his head and takes a massive bite of his relish-soaked hot dog. Seriously, anymore green goo and it’ll basically be a spiced pickle on a bun.

I chuckle and pick at a few kernels in my box of popcorn.

Of course, Alvin Lister would analyze the origin of names and find its place in the evolution of my entire personality. Analyticsiswhat he does for a living, and it seems like he’s trying to figure me out before, well, before we go on our first date tonight.

I guess he couldn’t wait and took the liberty of walking over to my seat behind home plate to shoot the breeze. How much small talk does the man think I have? When I woke up this morning, I had grand plans to save certain questions for this evening.

Now, I’m forced to dig into my reserves. If he keeps talking, I’m going to run dry and be a blank-faced meat sack, shoveling her face withRocco’sfamous cheese curds with no brainpower to utter a sound except the grunt of foodie pleasure.

I’m catastrophizing.

Alvin takes a loud swallow of his hot dog and opens his mouth to continue the conversation, but he’s stopped when a wild hand smacks his shoulder. “No more talking.”

Alice Hunt shushes us and turns her big, glassy eyes back to the field. She’s a ball of sugar and rainbows most days, but my college bestie can become a rabid porcupine if you mess with her superstitions.

She requires complete silence when the Kings are down by a run, bases loaded, two outs on the board, and the Kings need one epic hit to bring home two runners for a win. One more hit could either secure a win, or seal the doom of a loss for our—I meanher—boys. Not my boys. I’m the resident steamy romance writer who uses those tight baseball pants in entirely different ways than they were intended.

These aren’t my boys.

Still, I shoot Alice a grateful look. I’d never admit it to anyone, but before Alvin inserted himself into my day—hours before our scheduled date—I was entirely absorbed in the tension of this game.

Since I showed up last season to do research for myHome Runseries, a bit of Burton Field has nestled deep in my bone marrow. I think by now it’ll need to be surgically removed if I ever listen to my agent and write a hockey romance.

Alvin apologizes and shoves the rest of his pickle-dog into his mouth.

The announcer booms Dax Sage up to bat, and the crowd bellows their support for the shy first baseman.

My fists clench and unclench over the tops of my knees.

“Sage has a batting average of—”

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