Page 43 of Curveball

I head over to the woman and ask her to dance. She immediately agrees. It takes all of half a song for her to agree to take me back to her place. I grab her hand and we exit the bar. As we get into the Uber, I tell her, “I promise you’ll come several times tonight, but no kissing.” I stare out the window and think,I save my kisses for one special woman. My wife.

At eight o’clock thenext morning, we’re in the team gym at the stadium. It’s a beautiful, state-of-the-art facility. It’s empty except for the five of us.

I can’t help but smile. “You guys weren’t kidding. The young guns don’t work out early.”

Layton nods. “They’ll trickle in at some point. Halfwill be hungover. Coach will bust their balls about it, and they’ll straighten out for a few weeks until the cycle begins all over again. Eventually they learn. Or get old like us where it takes two days to recover.”

I nod. “Well, Cheetah, that means technically you were the last to arrive.” He walked in just after me. “You’re going to have to give us a random fact.”

He rubs his hands in excitement. “I was up half the night looking things up. There’s some crazy shit out there, but I found my favorite. Snakes can smell with their tongues.” He makes a V with his fingers and suggestively flicks his tongue through it. “Luckiest fuckers on the planet.”

The guys all laugh while my mind flashes to Ripley’s strawberry smell and taste. It feels like forever since I’ve had it on my tongue.

My daydream is broken by Layton asking me to spot him for squats, which I do. His leg muscles are huge. I suppose that’s normal for a catcher. “Dude, do you walk around with a bag of bricks on your back every day?”

He shrugs. “A job hazard, I guess.”

“I get it. My sister is a catcher too. Her quads are strong.”

“That’s cool. She any good?”

I can’t help but smile. These guys are clueless about softball, as are many baseball players. “Honestly? She’s probably the best in the country. I think she’ll be on the next Olympic team.”

His eyes widen. “Wow. I guess she must have a pretty good arm too?”

I smirk. “Like you wouldn’t believe. She probably throws about as hard as most major leaguers.”

“I need to check her out.”

“Their season starts later than ours. Usually around July first.”

“Cool. Maybe we can catch a game if it works with our schedule.”

“I would love that. I haven’t been able to see her play in person in a long time.”

We spend the next hour spotting and cheering each other on as we lift. At some point, the loud metal door to the gym opens. Cougars’ manager Dutton Steel walks in. Admittedly, I’m a little starstruck. Dutton was widely considered one of the best baseball players ever with a certain path to the Hall of Fame. At least until his life took a turn for the worse. When he was in the prime of his career, his wife was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. He notoriously walked away from the game to care for her, and then when she eventually passed, to care for their young children. About five years ago, when his youngest left for college, he re-entered the baseball world as the manager of the Cougars.

The other guys all fist-bump him. Their affection for Dutton is immediately apparent to me. That’s refreshing. In Houston, we had a revolving door of managers, which is often the case when a team underperforms.

Dutton, who’s also in workout clothes, is still in great shape. He’s got darker hair, which I can see is just starting to gray a bit. I’m guessing that he’s about fifty years old.

He holds out his hand to me. “Quincy Abbott. So fucking happy to have you here. You’re the missing piece to our pitching puzzle.” He looks around at the other guys. “Though I’m already skeptical of your judgment considering the company you’re keeping.”

All the guys chuckle and Dutton smiles. I like that they have a jovial relationship with him.

I shake his hand in return. “It’s an honor to meet you, Coach Steel. I’m beyond excited to be here.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Call me Dutton.” He motions for me to follow him. “Come spot me so we can chat.”

I follow him to a few benches in the corner, out of earshot of the rest of the gang, where he proceeds to add more weight to a bar than I’m capable of bench pressing. I’m about to tell him that I can’t lift that much weight when he lays down on the bench and starts lifting it himself.

I stand behind him and do my job as a spotter. “Damn, you’re strong.”

He shrugs. “Exercise has always been an outlet for me. Tell me, how are you acclimating to Philly?”

“I only just got here, but those guys have been welcoming. More than welcoming. I appreciate it.”

He nods. “Good. It must be hard at your age to pack up and move across the country. You got a family?”

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