Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  I bite my lip to contain a laugh as I visualize the few sports stars I’ve seen speak…or should I say stutter through interviews. Drew is either really articulate or can memorize scripts like it’s his job.

  “Too much?” he probes.

  “It was a bit much,” I admit. “But, that’s not it,” I start, pausing to find the words to explain my inside joke without sounding stereotypical. “Like I said, I don’t have much sports exposure, but from what I recall athletes don’t typically sound…” I trail of and look up through my lashes as I hesitate, trying to think of a better way to phrase my thoughts, but ultimately give up. “Well, you’ve seen post-game interviews,” I tell him.

  “What are you getting at?” he asks playfully.

  “I’m wondering who wrote that for you. And I’m very impressed you remembered it all.”

  His eyes light up with humor momentarily before he abruptly wipes all emotion from his face. “Are you inferring that athletes lack intelligence?” he questions, trying to sound wounded.

  “I call it like I see it,” I shrug.

  “I’ll have you know that I was valedictorian of my high-school,” he proclaims.

  “Referencing your high-school glory days doesn’t do much to prove your point,” I reply.

  “And,” he continues, ignoring me. “Even though I was drafted out of high-school I did attend two years of college where I majored in engineering and had a 3.8 GPA,” he states proudly, straightening his posture and even puffing his chest marginally in indignation.

  In jest I raise my arms to suggest surrender, though it’s obvious I’m simply pacifying his ego. Glancing out the corner of my eyes I can tell he’s amused.

  “What exactly is it that you do?” he asks.

  “I’m an industry analyst. I look at new and emerging technologies, researching companies that may be in the M&A market,” I say.

  “That sounds interesting. Does that mean you have to travel a lot?” he asks.

  “I will,” I confirm with a heavy sigh. “I use to travel all the time, but this is my first trip in years. I just started working again after staying home with my kids since they were born. It’s the only time I’ve been away from them,” I explain with guilt and sadness in my voice.

  “That must be hard. How many kids do you have?” he probes.

  “Three kids. Two girls and one boy.”

  “Is that a picture of them?” he asks, gesturing to the picture that I’m subconsciously fidgeting with.

  Nodding, I look fondly at the picture and trace a finger across it from one side to the other before passing him the picture.

  “They’re good looking kids. You look like a happy family,” he says, and then hands the picture back to me.

  “Yes, they are. They’re my world,” I declare, ignoring the happy family portion of his comment. We used to be. “What about you? Do you have any kids?” I ask.

  “No, not yet. Or, at least none that I know of,” he pauses to gauge my reaction and then bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding. No, I really don’t. Someday, if I’m lucky,” he admits then tilts his head towards me and adds, “It’s a big commitment, or so I’m told.”

  “You have no idea,” I say.

  I’m not sure how long our eyes lock, but it seems like eternity. He must share my thought that the conversation has become too somber as he quickly redirects it back to the technology, wanting to see what my preferences are.

  I shrug dismissively. “I brought a book; I think I’ll be okay for a while.”

  He glances at my book disapprovingly and shakes his head. “What, you have something against reading?”

  “Oh come on, I’m interested to see how it works.”

  Before I know it, he’s reaching across the small space between us, grabbing my left hand. He presses my fingers into a ball and sandwiches my thumb between his thumb and pointer finger. Again, I’m amazed at how tiny my hand is in comparison to his. He places my thumb on my remote and I see him glance up to read my expression. Somewhat amused, I watch him inquisitively.

  “Do you always touch strangers?” I question, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand and the way I have to remember to breathe.

  “You’ve been upgraded to acquaintance,” he winks. “This is completely appropriate.”

  Captivated by how infectious his charm is, I turn my attention to the screen. A few minutes pass with no screen update. While his information loaded within seconds, my circle is barely half full.

  And that’s when I notice.

  In the anticipation of my profile loading I hadn’t realized Drew still holding my hand, on which he is repetitively drawing small circles with his thumb. I speculatively glance from my hand to his face and am unable to deny the current of energy flowing from where we touch, and how quickly my heart is pulsing. God, if his hand on mine feels good I can only imagine what…no, don’t go there. Despite what he says, this is not appropriate. I flex my hand and observe surprise register on his face as he releases his grasp. He appears taken aback by this seemingly unintentional action. Patiently waiting for him to come back to the present, I observe a range of emotions sweep across his face, too quick to decipher. Finally, he sheepishly meets my gaze only to flash an “I’m innocent” smile with matching dimples.

  “Is that your secret weapon or something? Don’t tell me that actually works,” I tease once the butterflies have died down.

  I think he truly looks embarrassed, which is odd given how flirtatious he’s been. As not to make the next few hours uncomfortable, I quickly return the subject to my preferences.

  “Ok, so let’s see what my demographics think I’ll like,” I say, disinterested but need to focus on something other than him.

  He leans forward and presses the icon on the screen that says TV shows. This opens up a screen to two other icons that categorize preferences into current shows and ‘blasts from the past’. He selects the icon for ‘blasts from the past’ and the following options appear: Beverly Hills 90210, Melrose Place, X-Files, Seinfeld, ER, Baywatch and Frasier, to name a few. He quietly laughs and I watch him give me a slow, concentrated once over. Is he trying to figure out my age?

  “These shows could have been identified as preferences for several generations,” I state, a little too defensively before hitting the live camera icon that transitions from the planes location on a map to a live aerial view. It’s as if we can see through the floor to the earth. The scenic foliage and landscape are so breathtaking at this height and speed, that I become temporarily entranced.

  “Then those weren’t the shows you watched in…”he pauses, “college?”

  “Huh? Oh, I didn’t say I didn’t watch them. But they could apply to anyone born between the late-70’s and mid-80’s. How hard is it to pair the age on someone’s license to the most popular shows of a certain time period anyway? It’s applied statistics.”

  “You’re just upset that it implies you belong to a more mature audience,” he teases.

  I glare at him with contempt and hit the button on my chair to swivel towards him. “Let’s see what your demographics reveal about your age. Perhaps the engineers who created the algorithms for this program gave you the benefit of the doubt and went with your age rather than your maturity level.” Reaching across him I press the same sequence of icons and watch his selections populate: The Sopranos, The Real World, South Park, Bevis and Butthead, Survivor, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Ha, he has 90210 on his list too!

  “Wow, this is worse than I imagined,” I say feigning concern. “I’ll agree that The Soprano’s was a great show, but the others are horrible. What’s worse, is that these were not selected for you…they were selected by you,” I gasp.

  For a moment, he stares at me expressionless. A small pocket of turbulence jars us, breaking our silence as we erupt into a fit of laughter.

  With ease time passes by and within two hours of takeoff, I feel as if Drew and I are old friends rather than mere acquaintances. Attempting to make good on his e
arlier offer to teach me about baseball he tries to educate me on RBI’s and the purpose of the shortstop position. I quickly loose interest much to his disappointment. Instead, we talk about how he became a major league baseball player, his love of Boston and the fans, and the perks his job has brought him; the best perk being he was able to pay off his parent’s mortgage and buy a place for his younger sister.

  A few Red Sox fans approach our row and ask for his autograph. Drew smiles big and signs their airplane napkins and even makes small talk. But when they walk away you can tell he’s relieved. He admits that he appreciates the fans but misses his privacy. He also tells me that fans can be your biggest advocates or worst enemies, and the fans in Boston are like fans on steroids – when they love you it’s amazing, but when they hate you – look out. While I can’t relate to the fans as he describes it, I confess my shared love of Boston, which is where I grew up. That leads to a conversation about our favorite restaurants, and places and things to do in the city. I learn that he is from the small town of Hammondsport in the Finger Lakes region of Upstate New York. It’s where most of his family still lives and his favorite place to go in the off-season. And while he claims he wouldn’t change anything because he enjoys what he does, I can tell from his tone that something in his life isn’t perfect. He definitely has more depth than I gave him credit for when we first met and I can’t help but want to know more.

  It feels slightly wrong, but I decide to allow myself to forget the turmoil in my personal life and enjoy feelings that I haven’t felt in some time.

  Chapter Four

  Game Changer

  Drew

  Breanne sets down her book and removes her suit jacket, exposing an impeccably fitted green blouse and then excuses herself. She stands and I appraise her perfectly proportioned hourglass figure, which until now was a mystery. For a trip that I was not looking forward to, this has turned out much better than I could have expected.

  From our first exchange I was attracted to her; long dirty-blonde hair, cool hazel eyes, perfectly shaped lips and a lively personality. The image of her petite and curvy frame, coupled with the scent of her damp hair and the feel of her soft skin causes my pulse to quicken. I can’t help but let my mind wander to combine them into a different context. Interestingly enough, I am unable to fit her into my mental flipbook and I quickly attribute this to the fact that she is far from my usual line-up. I’ve learned more about her in our first five minutes of conversation than I even care to know or remember about other women. And I still want to know more. In fact, I wish she’d come back already.

  I know she’d see through my games. Actually, I’m positive she already does. I wouldn’t say she’s out of my league, but she’s definitely going to be a challenge. She’s witty and unexpected. We’ve bounced between playful banter and flirting to serious discussions and she never misses a beat. She’s not put off by my smartass remarks, and she doesn’t shy away from giving it back to me. Looking out the window I shake my head and laugh at the realization that this makes me want her even more. I’m not sure it will lead anywhere, but I’m determined to get to know her and spend more time with her. As I’m racking my brain for how to do that she returns, giving me a kind smile.

  “While you were gone I was thinking,” I begin as she takes her seat.

  “Did it hurt?” she deadpans.

  “Not as much as your insults. Damn,” I reply, and she giggles.

  “I’m trying to help you stay grounded. Young athletes have a tendency to let fame go to their heads. I’d hate for that to happen to you, being that you’re so humble and all,” she explains, batting her lashes innocently.

  “And you said you didn’t follow sports,” I quip, trying to hide my enjoyment in her smart comments.

  “I don’t. But I do read the newspaper and I have enjoyed a gossip column once or twice.”

  “Touché,” I reply, hoping she hasn’t read any about me, or my conquests.

  “So, what’s on your mind?” she asks.

  “Apparently not much,” I say. “You should know you’re killing my self-esteem.”

  “Tell me you’re not one of those guys who can dish it out, but not take it.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I can absolutely take whatever you want to give me,” I tell her. If only she knew what I wanted, and how bad I wanted it. “Why do you keep turning the conversation back to me? You’re making me do all the talking.”

  “And here I thought you just liked to talk about yourself,” she playfully responds, deflecting my invitation for her to talk yet again.

  “I’m trying to get to know you. Most women would appreciate my effort,” I tell her.

  “I think we already established that I’m not most women. Sorry,” she shrugs. I shake my head at her in disapproval and she laughs. She, most certainly, is not like other women. “It’s called redirecting,” she says after a beat.

  “What?” I ask, not following.

  “Changing the subject or moving on to something else. When you have kids you become a master. It’s like encouraging ADD to avoid meltdowns or uncomfortable conversations.”

  “And you thought you’d try it on me?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Try? I’ve been doing it for two hours. I’d call that a success.”

  In silence I scowl at her, determined to wait her out until she caves. I’m tempted to ask her if I make her uncomfortable in a good way, but don’t want to push it. She puts her book to the side and places her hands on her lap, giving me an exasperated look.

  "Help me out,” she asks with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “What do the other women you harass usually talk about?" She thinks she’s going to offend or deter me and I can't help but enjoy this…she’s adorable. "Wait, let me guess. You already know me better."

  "Well, in some ways," I confirm with a wink.

  "Oh God! You can't be serious. Please stop talking!"

  "Besides 'Oh God' and begging, there isn't much talking," I admit.

  "Is that supposed to impress me?"

  "No. The fact that I want to have a real conversation is supposed to impress you."

  “You’re obnoxious,” she sighs. She’s trying to stifle a smile and I know she’s enjoying our banter just as much as I am.

  “I think you meant charming,” I retort and quickly move on. “So have you been to San Francisco before?”

  “No, it’s my first time. How about you?” she asks. I’m temporarily sidetracked by her words…I am desperately craving a first time with her.

  “I’ve been there a lot. It’s a great time of year to visit. I’m sure you’ll be in meetings most of the day but you should try to get out and see some of the sights,” I encourage, planting the seed.

  “I wish. The only sights or daylight I’ll be seeing will be through a window, if I’m lucky enough to be in a conference room with windows,” she replies. “Besides, I don’t make a habit of socializing with clients and I’m not the kind to venture off on my own in a strange city.”

  Jackpot!

  “If you want, I’d be happy to show you around, or we could grab dinner,” I offer, hoping I don’t sound too eager.

  Breanne stares at me for a moment, conflicted. “Thanks, but I don’t want to be a burden. I’m sure you have plans.”