Christmas Curveball

Sometimes dreams shift into something more when least expected.

With his life at a crossroad, this Major League Baseball player must choose between continuing his dream or facing the harsh reality of leaving behind the only thing he’s ever loved—the game. What he doesn’t expect is the curveball fate throws him.

Christmas Curveball is an unrequited love romance novella based on second chances mixed with Christmas spirit.

Javier 

The afternoon sun beats a path across the citrus groves that does nothing but taunt my thoughts. I flip the rental’s visor down and try not to reflect on how different life would’ve played out had I stayed in Falksflore, Florida. But how can I not think about it when each passing row of orange trees is a stark reminder of how I would’ve worked those fields.

Maybe I’m too harsh. These fields have been the source of employment for many families throughout the years—mine included, no matter how hard I tried to make my family move. It’s just … this wasn’t the lifestyle I wanted.

I wanted the dream.

I wanted to play baseball.

I still do.

“Show me the money,” blurts through my speakers and draws my attention back to the road. I really need to change my agent’s ringtone. I’m not nineteen anymore.

“You best have good news,” I say, despite not holding much hope. Coming off a critical injury while being a free agent doesn’t bode well in my favor.

“The three-year contract with the Yankees looks like a done deal providing you pass their physical.”

I mull over this information. Three years isn’t bad considering my current circumstances, and I wouldn’t have to move. I’d just be trading one team’s logo for the other. But face it, the Yankees only want my bat. Fuck being a designated hitter. I want to play every day in the outfield where I belong.

“If it’s the only opportunity I get, I’ll have to consider it, but push other teams. Surely, there’s a need for an outfielder somewhere.” What I want is to stay with the Mets.

“I’m working on it, but face it. You’re not a spring chicken anymore. The men coming up are talented and hungry. They’re not...”

“Washed up, broken has-beens like me?” I fill in his sentence.

“I wasn’t going to say that. I meant they’re not as risky and come with a cheaper price tag.”

“I’ll take a price cut. I don’t care. Just get me out on the field.”

“I’ll try my best.”

My gaze flits back to the last row of orange trees before entering Falksflore. This time of year, the fruit is in various stages for harvest. Just the fact of knowing that information justifies my reasoning for taking the hit to my salary. A career plagued by injuries does that to a person.

“Get back to me.” The clip to my tone may be harsher than I intended, but I don’t care. I never wanted to plant roots in this town.

“Will do. Don’t give up hope. Being a designated hitter isn’t a death sentence. Sitting at home is.” On those parting words, he disconnects.

My sigh hangs heavy in the air as I roll into town. The highway segues into the main road, which runs through the heart of town and feeds the local businesses. I take in the dilapidated storefronts I’ve seen since I was a kid. Not much has changed. It’s the same desolated town I remember with scant traffic and deserted sidewalks. The difference between here and the hustle of New York City is staggering.

But there is a bright side. If small-town vibes are your jam, then this town has you covered. Giant Christmas wreaths decorated with candy canes adorn the garland-wrapped light poles. The enormous display windows showcase various Christmas themes. One thing’s for sure, Falksflore folks sure know how to add charm. The setting looks like the townsfolk pulled it straight from a Norman Rockwell painting, minus the snow and upkeep buildings. After spending ten years away from this place, I almost forgot how it feels to celebrate Christmas in Florida. I got used to the bustling shoppers and cold winters.

That is until January when spring training starts.

I stop at the single traffic light in town. While drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, my attention strays to the woman stepping out of Queen Ann’s—an antique store that’s been in business since I was a kid. Arms full of shopping bags, the woman cuts right, giving me an excellent view of her backside. The frayed denim shorts barely cover her ass cheeks and display miles of light brown skin. I’ve imagined those never-ending toned legs wrapped around my waist. My gaze travels up to that perfect ass that starred in a countless number of teenage fantasies. It belongs to none other than Mercedes Veras. 

The one girl I let slip right through my fingers.

Sort of. We never went out, but that didn’t mean I never wanted to. Back then, I was too shy and too nice to pursue anything. Mercedes had been my best friend since we were toddlers. It took me a while to gear up to ask her out, and right as I built up the nerve, Pedro happened.

The light changes to green, but I keep my foot on the brake pedal and watch the tips of her jet black hair brush against the swell of her back with each confident step. Her white ribbed shirt hugs those curves of hers that, admittingly, have filled out rather nicely. She’s no longer the girl from high school. This chick is all woman.

After debating whether I should pull over and talk to her, I decide against it. I’d rather have our first encounter more meaningful than outside an antique shop. Besides, it’s not as if time is an issue. I have that in spades this trip. I shift my foot to accelerate right as a bicyclist whizzes past the passenger window and jumps the curb. My eyes grow big as he barely misses Mercedes before skidding to a stop. The brush-by must’ve been closer than I realize as I watch in horror as Mercedes’s body drops to the concrete, the content of her bags spilling around her.

Shit.

I speed across the intersection and whip the car alongside the curb. Mercedes’s back faces me, muting their conversation. I have half a mind to give the kid a verbal lashing for his lack of carefulness, but he takes off as I race up behind her.

“Mercedes, are you okay?”

Eyes warm as melted brown sugar stare back at me, and the entire world comes to a halt.

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