Page 4 of The Curveball

GRIFFIN

In three seconds,Ryder Huntington is going to throw his bar of fancy soap at my head. Bring it on, big guy. I’m pretty sure those bars are made from kitten milk, so I bet it’ll be softer than feathers.

His threatening scowl, the way he clenches his fists until his knuckles go white, none of his moodiness does anything to deter my perfectly pitched hum ofWalking on Sunshine.

To be honest, his broody irritation has me convinced he needs to have his day brightened even more.

I hum louder, gurgling some water from my shower. The sound reverberates off the walls in the clubhouse, and frankly, makes the vocal performance more epic.

Vegas Kings logos are everywhere. On the towels, the ceiling, in the tiles of the shower room floor. The bright lights of Las Vegas surrounding a wooden baseball bat only brightens my disposition.

I freaking love this team.

“Marks. If you don’t shut up in three seconds . . .”

What did I say about the three seconds? It’s always three seconds.

Marks, if you don’t start catching balls in three seconds . . .

Marks, if you don’t get down in here in three seconds. . .

Marks, if you don’t hug me in three seconds . . .

I snort at my own inside joke. The day Ryder asks for a hug will be the day I hate baseball.

Never happening.

“Ryd, don’t kill this for me.” I shut off my shower nozzle and shake out my hair like a dog. Fast and effective, and according to each of Dax’s four sisters, the wild, luscious-lock look works for me.

“Kill what?” Ryder snaps, shutting off his own nozzle. He narrows his dark eyes. “We lost, you douche. Done. Seasonover.”

Ouch. The loss is a sucker punch, and it’s like a rusty nail in the bottom of my foot that I’m the one who gets to shoulder the last out this year. I hate when I get the last out in a game. But to get the last out of the season-ending game? It’s the freaking worst. The exact reason I plan to keep humming sunshine songs for at least two weeks.

“I know.” I tell him as I wrap a white towel with the Kings logo around my waist. The need to find a positive string to cling to takes over. “But what a season. It was the best. We played hard, I had a freaking awesome batting average, and you were like a missel at short—pew,pew—” I add some hand gestures with my sound effects. “I’ve never seen you move so quick, man.”

Ryder’s face is so discolored he looks like plum pudding. The guy needs a chill pill in a major way, and what better guy to give it to him than his buddy?

“Look, am I disappointed baseball is on hold for the next five months? Sure.” I cozy up to Ryder, pause to brush some water droplets off his shoulders, then bop his nose with my index finger. “But you’ve got to look at the big picture, my man. It was a killer season. Now, we can take the few mishaps, toss them into our training—you know Skye is already on it—and next season we’re going all the way!”

I broaden my smile and shake his shoulders.

If possible, Ryder’s frown deepens. He shirks me off. “I hate you.”

“In a way that’s more like you love me. I get it, big guy. I really do.” The bare skin back slap echoes through the shower room. “Glass half-full, Ryd. Promise it’ll change your life.”

He rolls his eyes, but,but. . .yes!

It’s there. The tiniest, microscopic speck of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

I leave him with a wink to remember me by, and hurry to get dressed. I plan to ride this high all the way toRocco’sfor a platter of Ultimate Nachos with my people.

Dressed in my black Kings sweats, I strut—full on strut—into the hallway. Half the team is still meandering up to the surface where somber fans will be waiting to give their boys sympathy hugs or, for those loose cannons, they’ll probably scream about how much we suck right now.

I choose not to listen to those people until they go sleep it off.

There really isn’t a need to rub salt in our wounds. True, I’m grinning, I’m pumped, but no one likes to lose. I live for the Vegas Kings.

Besides my mom, there isn’t much more I care about than my brothers on the team. And when I say my brothers, of course, that extends to all their families, loved ones, and so on. Oh, and the crew of the field. The statisticians, the concessions folks . . . you know what, everyone involved in the whole of Burton Field belongs in my circle.

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