Page 3 of The Curveball

That isn’t to say Griffin sleeps around, or anything, but he does have heart twisting down to a science. One smile and girls fan their faces. One high five and the guys think they’re besties.

Watching him, my heart does the twist. Uncomfortable, like falling too fast.

I don’t want to be forced to focus on his delightfully broad upper body that sits beautifully proportionate to the lower half. A book boyfriend body to be sure.

He’s dangerous, and now that I’ve known him for a while, he’s aggravating.

No one else will agree with me, but I have my reasons.

Still, I can’t help but clench my teeth and watch his every stride without a blink. The ball snaps out of the enemy pitcher’s hand, aimed at the catcher who’s guarding against an invasion of all the approaching Griffin-ness about to slam into his walls.

Catcher versus catcher.

“Come on, Griff.” The whispered plea slips out and I do nothing to stop it. I’m too absorbed in the slow-motion action unfolding before my eyes.

Griffin dips his head. Arms shoot out. The ball smacks into the catcher’s mitt. The enemy catcher is stupidly four steps off the plate. They’reneveroff the plate. My stomach tightens and a daring smile starts to carve over my lips. We have a chance.

The field spins in slow motion as the other team’s catcher starts to stomp his way back to his position.

All he needs is to touch the plate before Griffin. But Griffin is fast. Almost Ryder Huntington—the shortstop—fast.

The chance is miniscule, but it hangs in the air like a rain-filled cloud about to burst over the catcher bearing the brunt of the fate of this game.

Two more heavy steps, then Griffin dives into the dirt. The other catcher lunges for his place.

I hope the opposing catcher misses his mark. It was his fault for stepping away from the plate. Griffin never would’ve left his mark with a runner on third.

Frankly, Griffin deserves to win this battle for the pure negligence of his enemy.

A great cloud of red sand bursts over the two players. The umpire hovers over them like a marble statue. No matter what happens, that man is not moving until he sees the outcome of the battle at home plate.

I’m not sure I’ve taken a breath.

Not because I’ve started to bleed black and gold, but I’m having a hard time admitting it’s more because Griffin hasn’t moved and is still sprawled out on the plate. A flash of irritating worry floods my system. Ridiculous since I know,I know, he’s not moving because they all freeze until the ump makes the call.

The cloud of sand dissipates. No one moves. No one breathes.

With a slight nudge forward the umpire makes his assessment. Then he squares his arm, makes a fist, and roars, “Out!”

Different responses ripple across the stadiums like an ocean wave. Tears and laments, curses and threats. The team manager throws his hat and kicks the stone wall of the dugout, spitting a slew of expletives that cause Dax’s oldest sister to cover Emmeline’s ears. The risk of sitting so close to the team, I suppose.

At the plate, Griffin slams his fist against the white slab and tears off his batting helmet.

The familiar, boyish, slightly dopey smile he wears on the daily is absent.

I hate that my heart sinks on his behalf. I hate that my first instinct is wishing I could squeeze his book boyfriend worthy arm and tell him it would all be okay.

I hate that I feel anything at all, because Griffin Marks is the risk of all risks. He’s the sort that makes girls feel, that makes girls slip into a whirlwind and come out worse off in the end.

But as dangerous as he is, my heart still fissures a bit for the loss of Griffin’s charming smile.

That’s the game.

The Kings lost.

The season is over.

CHAPTER2

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