Page 2 of The Curveball

“Shh.” Alice looks like she might be preparing to smack Alvin with her baseball glove she insists has good luck properties.

Alvin snaps his mouth shut again and decides against delivering batting averages and statistics. They matter not when baseball superstitions are in full swing, after all.

There is a heady thrill that bleeds from every blade of grass, every grease sizzle on the grill, every crack of wood over the leather on a ball. The anticipation of a win, or a loss, is its own brand of oxygen in the stadium. The die-hard fans understand it, and from March to October they breathe nothing but Vegas Kings.

People like Alvin enjoy a day at the ball field, but never immerse entirely into the sweat, blood, and tears that comes from a lifestyle of a courtier of the Vegas Kings.

Courtier—it’s what I call the fans.

Burton Field is the court. The fans are its courtiers. Somewhere in the last eighteen months I became one.

A loud crack of wood echoes across the stadium. Gasps and groans follow. My stomach flops over like a flipped pancake.

Dax got a sliver of the ball, but . . . a foul.

“Come on, Daxy!” A woman behind me wails. She’s decked from head to toe with Kings paraphernalia. From the ball cap on her head right down to her black and gold Kings’ shoelaces on her feet. I know she’s his oldest sister, though still younger than him. She’s the only married Sage, and her police officer husband is stoically clapping for his brother-in-law while the three younger Sage girls lean forward, watching.

His sisters are sweetly shy and at every home game. They’re dedicated, and only his married sister is old enough to vote out of the brood.

His youngest sister is barely thirteen, and claps wildly with her backward ball cap and ketchup dripping off her lip. “Dax! Dax! Dax!”

I grin, pull out my phone, and add a few notes to create a family for my new main character. Maybe a foster sibling—or stepsibling—she feels terribly protective about.

Another crack and the crowd’s collective gasp follows as the hit goes up, and up, and up. I let out a squeak, fist over my mouth, when the enemy catcher—yes, enemy, this is a court/kingdom situation—flips back his mask and tracks the foul ball.

A breathy sigh rattles the stands when the crowd relaxes after the catcher is forced to beeline it down the third baseline, then misses the foul by a hairsbreadth.

My knee bounces when Dax lines up to the plate once more. One more strike, and this game is done.

“He’s going to crack.”

“Shut up, Isa,” Emmeline Sage, the youngest sister, snaps through another bite of hotdog.

“I’m just stating the fact. He’s going to crack.”

“Enough, Isabelle,” Dax’s oldest sister snaps at the middle sister.

I’d laugh, but I’m too focused on the pivotal moment. Fifteen-year-old Isa is right about one thing—the pressure on Dax in this moment must be crushing.

The pitcher lines up. He stretches his arms out. His knee curls up into his abs like he stepped in something smelly. Then silence until . . .

Another crack.

The stands erupt in roars for Dax Sage to run his booty to first base, some in more colorful words than others.

Truth be told, the ball didn’t make it far. A line drive toward the pitcher. I don’t know if it’ll be enough to get ahead. Maybe a tie?

I didn’t realize I’d shot to my feet, screaming the same as the others, until Alvin deftly hands over my cell phone that slid off my lap.

What did a cell phone matter right now?

The designated runner for Parker Knight sprints for second. The left fielder, Hank Lewis, tramples over third. But the one everyone on the enemy team is focused on is the runner from third making a risky run for home.

Griffin Marks. Vegas Kings catcher. A fan favorite.

The bane of my meager existence.

If the Vegas Kings are a medieval court, then Griffin Marks would be the rakish duke who twists the ladies’ hearts in terrible ways.

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