Page 6 of The Curveball

I open my long arms, smiling like an idiot, and wait until Skye melts into my giant hug. “Couldn’t have done it without my favorite Yogi trainer.”

She pats my back, her head still on my shoulder. “Don’t skip those knee stretches or your meditation, bud. We need to keep you well-oiled for next season.”

“Yes, ma’am. Already can’t wait.”

Skye pulls back, smiling. “You’re my favorite to talk to after a loss.”

“Hey.” Parker glares at me.

“Sorry, Knight,” Skye says. “But Griff doesn’t mope like the rest of you guys. He takes a loss as a learning opportunity. It’s nice.”

“I’m not moping,” Parker says. “Does it look like I’m moping?”

Skye hugs his thick arm. “Only because Lex, Bridge, and Gare are coming home tomorrow and you’re excited to see them.”

Parker tilts his head, but in the end gives a nod of agreement. “Still doesn’t mean the game matters less.”

“It’s okay to love more than baseball. No one’s saying you’re not the sexiest, most devoted pitcher in the league.” Skye kisses him again because—newlyweds—and starts to tug him toward the stairs. “We better hurry. I promised Wren we’d be atRocco’sbefore she gets there. See you later, Griff?”

“Hold on. You promised Birdie what?”

Skye shoots me a look like my mom used to when I got under her skin. “She’s going to sock you in the nose if you keep calling her Birdie, and I promised her we’d be at Rocco’s first. She already feels awkward.”

“Why are we the buffers tonight?” Parker pouts. “I’m not in the best mood.”

“See.” Skye jabs her thumb at his chest. “Mopey.”

“Buffers? Stop using vague sentences. What are you doing tonight that—I assume—is going to one hundred percent mess up our traditions and doom our next season before it ever begins?”

Skye blinks back to me. “We’re not screwing up any of your overly superstitious traditions. Parker will step foot in Rocco’s, he’ll order the same nacho platter with an extra side of guacamole, and he’ll slap the doorframe twice when he enters, and when he leaves. The difference is—” She pauses, like she’s hesitant to give me details, “Wren is joining us with a date.”

Wren Fox. Our resident romance novelist. Wren joined the stands to gather research for a new sports romance novel. Her book published last January and, in my eyes, was a hit. The acknowledgements included thanking the Vegas Kings, so the team owner—Dallas Anderson—gifted her season tickets for more ‘research’.

She’s wispy, petite, and loves to wear high necklines, even in summer. When she isn’t glaring at me, her eyes are a unique sage-green, and her hair reminds me of the brown of autumn in the mountains. Threaded with a bit of gold, but not so bright it’s blonde.

Wren is the sort of woman who’s hot and doesn’t know it. Somehow her obliviousness makes her even hotter.

Now, she’s bringing a date toRocco’s? Date, as in an outsider infiltrating a Kings community end-of-season tradition? This guy she’s bringingmust bean outsider. If anyone involved in Burton Field was making plays on Wren Fox, I feel like I’d definitely know.

And if he’s not from Burton Field, he hasn’t been vetted.

This calls for an intervention.

“See you guys later.” I spin on my heel and head back into the bowels of the clubhouse. I’ll be leaving a different way tonight.

Skye makes a dramatic, throaty groan. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Griff,” Parker calls out to my back, “leave it alone. You’re only going to make her hate you more.”

I wheel over my shoulder. “First, I resent the wordhate. No one hates me, let’s get that straight right now. She’s simply taking extra time to warm up to me. I applaud the woman for being cautious.” I adjust the strap on my shoulder and step back. “But she’s clearly lost her ability to be cautious now. If we’re having random dates showing up at our spot, there are ground rules she ought to know.”

I’m pretty sure Parker cusses at me, or maybe it’s just a laugh, either way I don’t wait around for them to talk me out of this.

If it gives me another opportunity to show Wren I’m not rotten like she seems to think I am, so be it.

I don’t need to be liked.

But it feels really freaking good when I am.

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