Dirty Curve

“What the fuck, Meyer?” My shoulders hang, my tone beaten, even to my own ears.

She pinches her lips closed, slipping past me and unlocking her door.

Helpless, I watch as she gently rolls Bailey’s stroller inside the apartment.

Slowly, she faces me, and it’s not hard to see it’s the last thing she wants to do.

A sharp pain punches my gut and I stretch my torso to ease it.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to pick up the phone?” I step closer.

“I don’t have a lot of time right now.”

“Not even for me?”

A shaky breath flies from her lips and she looks everywhere but at me. “My schedule’s jam-packed and—”

“Am I not on your schedule, ma?”

“No, actually. You’re not ...”

I was joking, but the finality in her tone stirs something inside me and my muscles grow tight. “What?”

Slowly, her head lifts. “You’re not on my schedule anymore, Tobias. Your grades are up. You’ll go back to working with your team during study hall hours. That should be enough to get you through finals.”

“All right ...” I draw, unease making my pulse pick up. “Whatever, fine, it doesn’t matter, but tell me when I can see you? I can come early or late. Walk you to class or to drop off Bay. Whatever works for you, I’m there.”

Meyer’s eyes cloud and she looks away.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” I step forward, but her words have me jerking to a stop.

“You’re not my student anymore, Tobias.” Her voice cracks, and I’m too fucking stuck to register what she’s saying until she’s closed the door in my face.

My chest grows tight, the rest of my body following as I force my feet to slide backward. With each step, my confusion grows and by the time I reach my truck, still running, idle in the space where I parked it in my rush, my chaotic mind grows frustrated.

I’m not her student anymore, she said. Well, so fucking what?

I’m her man.

She’s my girl.

And Bay ...

I swallow, stumbling a bit as I drag myself into the driver’s seat.

I’m not sure what just happened, but I know something’s not right.

She’s pulling away, pushing me away and I don’t understand why.

She’s ...

I ...

My frustration bleeds into anger and I’m far past pissed as I reach Coach’s house, a two-story home a couple blocks from campus.

There’re a few cars out front, but I don’t care. I bang my fist on the door, and I don’t stop.

It doesn’t take long for him to open the door, and as he does, over his shoulder, I spot the rest of the coaching staff sitting around a card table, cigar smoke filling the place.

“Why am I off her schedule?”

He steps out, closing the door behind him. “Son—”

“Why am I off her fucking schedule?! You need to force her to put me back!”

“You need to calm down.”

“I can’t! Give her back to me!”

His head tugs back, his frown deepening. “Give her back ... son, she was your tutor, nothing more.”

Before I can think, before I even know what I’m doing, my fist flies, connecting clean across his jaw.

His head snaps to the side and I snap the fuck out of it.

My face falls, and I dart toward him. “Coach, I—”

He jerks away, flinging my hands off him. “Go home.”

“Fuck!” I shout, running my hands along my head and spinning to face him again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I said go home. I don’t want to see you until it’s time to take the field tomorrow.” He glares, spitting blood to the side. “Find somewhere else to dress out.”

“Yes, Coach.” I swallow, a familiar feeling surging inside me, making my temples throb and body heavy.

Regret is a motherfucker, and that motherfucker knows me well.

q

The ball leaves my hand with a hiss, and Echo’s knee drops to the dirt as he slides right to snag it.

“Ball two,” the ump calls out.

Echo’s throwback has more heat on it than normal, but I ignore it.

Jaw clenched tight, I point my left foot forward, leaning over until my shoulders are parallel with my knee. Ready to pitch from the stretch, I look right to left, letting the bastards on first and third know I haven’t forgotten about them.

Echo calls for a curve, but I shake it off, as I do his next, until he gives me what I want.

A fast ball.

With a deep breath, my nostrils flare and I wind back, releasing a fucking cannon, but this time, Echo’s glove hits the dirt.

Ball low.

Fuck!

I grind my teeth together, stretching the cords of my neck and get set again.

Again, Echo tries for the curve, but I jerk my head and his chin lowers.

He’s getting pissed, but I don’t care.

My game, my ball, my fucking pitch.

I release on a hiss, and once again, the umpire calls out a ball, and the motherfucker walks to first.