Page 17 of The Curveball

I shake out my hands, then bend a little at the waist, so I meet Wren’s eyes. “I’ll stand at the window the whole time. A few feet away. If you want to leave, say our safe word, and we’ll take a breather.”

Do I notice how Anna and the nurse shift uncomfortably? Yes. Let them judge, I don’t care.

The barest hint of a smile tugs at Wren’s mouth. “Oxford comma.”

“Exactly.”

Wren gnaws on her bottom lip. Honestly, I’m starting to worry she’s going to draw blood, but I keep quiet and place my hand on her shoulder again, simply letting her mull everything over.

I’ve got some odd fears myself. Hospitals, for one. Like Wren, I’m over here cringing at the disinfectant smell, the beeps, and the constant sense of pain everywhere. The last time I went to a hospital was to see Parker’s new nephew, and I almost had to take a freaking Valium to do it.

I don’t likeTrue Crime, it makes me paranoid, and the stupidSkittle’scommercial voice. The one that whispers in that horrible, terrifying stalker-tone, “Taste the Rainbow”. I’ve got things, so I get it if she needs to let a fear of scans sink in.

I’ll stand here like a sentinel until she’s good.

Another two minutes is all it takes before Wren clears her throat and gives Anna a nod. “Okay.”

The nurse practitioner gives me an eyebrow lift as if I should know what that means. Pretty sure the mental verbiage only works with Wren. After a minute, Anna sighs. “Are you coming?”

“No question,” I say with a fierce determination.

Wren sort of shifts under my hand like she’s uncomfortable, but I see what she’s trying to hide. My mom will tell everyone I’m incredibly observant—a good skill for a catcher to have—and what I see is the tiniest flick of a smile on Wren’s mouth. She’s happy I’m coming, but definitely doesn’t want anyone to know it.

Anna insists Wren sit in a wheelchair. It raises a few hairs, but props to Anna, she holds her own until Wren is seated and a nurse starts to wheel her away.

“Griffin,” she says, the lilt of a panic under her voice.

This woman is going to break my heart if she keeps looking at me with that doe-eyed desperation. She doesn’t say anything more, but the way the skin over her knuckles pulls so taut it goes white, I get it.

With a squeeze to her hand, I smile. “I’m right behind you, Birdie.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the Birdies, and we will have words about it,” she whispers, “but . . . thank you.”

She’s whisked away in the next heartbeat.

Anna taps my shoulder. “This way, Mr. . . .”

“Marks. Griffin Marks.”

She pauses, scanning me from head to chest. I’m still dressed in my Kings warmups with my backward hat and wrapped fingers on my left hand where one of Parker’s pitches hit wrong in my mitt.

A small wrinkle gathers over Anna’s nose as she smiles. “My husband is a fan, and I’m on emotional ice cream duty tonight for the big baby. Sorry about the loss.”

I scoff. “Yeah, thanks. This whole night is sort of messed up now.”

Anna gives me a sympathetic smile. “We’ll take good care of your girlfriend, Mr. Marks.”

She takes the lead toward the observation room for the scan. I follow and don’t even bother correcting her.

CHAPTER7

WREN

A solid concussion.No stimulation for at least two days. I’m basically supposed to sit there and avoid any screen, even reading a physical book is out.

I’ve been brought down to the level of staring at shapes in a ceiling from the stern, fear-mongering hospital lords people call health practitioners.

I might be doped up on pain pills, but I’m all at once imagining Anna in chain mail with a scroll declaring her power over my life to a court of nurses and aids who bow only to her. Never mind that the idea of sitting still for so long makes me nauseous. I refuse to let them know my stomach is all toiled up in knots, because nausea is apparently not good with concussions. They will not gain one more ounce of ammunition against me.

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