Page 5 of Curveball

“Thanks,” I said. “It is what it is.”

I’d only been home a couple of hours and was already exhausted from the sympathy and concern. I just wanted to be alone with my horses—but then another car pulled up.

Ava hopped out of the car and nearly ran me over, flinging herself into my arms and narrowly avoiding my bad arm.

“Walk! I’m so happy you’re home, and you’re okay,” she said, squeezing me tight.

I laughed as I worked my way out of her embrace.

Ava had always moved through the world with unapologetic confidence. Bold, magnetic, and entirely unashamed of taking up space. Where Addison was steadiness and quiet awareness, Ava was instinct and ease, saying exactly what she wanted and expecting the world to adjust accordingly.

She was a lawyer—sharp, strategic, and impossible to corner—and she carried that same precision into every part of her life. Fiercely independent and brutally honest about her boundaries, Ava didn’t cling or overexplain. She decided.

“Easy, Avs,” I laughed, trying to breathe. “I don’t need you breaking a rib too.”

She winced. “Oops. Sorry.”

We hung out in the barn for a bit while I groomed Ranger. Well, they talked, and I groomed Ranger. Socializing wasn’t really in me right now, but I knew it made them feel better. Dean eventually caught on and suggested iced coffee.

Smart man.

Once they left, I exhaled.

Finally.

I called my parents, swearing I would be at the winery tomorrow to see them. I just didn't have the energy for them today. Weston texted me later in the day, saying he was coming by with a pizza from Primrose Slice and beer for dinner.

I could deal with my big brother.

Honestly, in times like these, when I was pissed off and in a bad headspace, Weston was probably the only person I actually wanted to be around. He just knew how to handle me when I was like this, always had. I didn't show this side to many people —I was always the easygoing, fun-loving brother. That was what was expected. When this side came out, people never knew what to do with me.

But Weston did.

He walked in, dropped the pizza on the counter, popped two beers open, and handed me one.

“You look like shit, little brother.”

I scoffed. “Thanks.”

“It’s okay not to be okay,” he said bluntly. “You’re allowed to be pissed. This fucking sucks. Stop pretending everything’s fine so everyone else feels better.”

Well. Shit.

He wasn’t wrong.

I sighed. “I am pissed. This was supposed to be our year. And I don’t even know if I’ll come back from this. All I want to do is hide out here until I’m healed. My head’s a mess, man.”

Weston sat down on one of the barstools, resting his massive forearms against the counter. My older brother was huge. We were close in height—I was six-foot-four, he stood closer to six-foot-five and never let me forget it—but that was where the similarities ended. I was in peak athletic shape, a professional pitcher at the top of my game, but Weston was built differently. Thicker. Harder. Like his body had been forged for endurance instead of performance.

He was a Navy SEAL, and it showed in everything from the tattoos covering his arms to the controlled, deliberate way he moved through the world. Most people found him intimidating as hell, quiet and unreadable. But I knew better. Weston didn’t waste words. When he showed up, it meant something. Weston was fiercely loyal and deeply protective.

“You’ll be back,” he said, steady and certain. “You’re a fighter. This isn’t the end. Not even close.”

I clinked my beer against his. “Thanks for coming over, West.”

We spent the rest of the night eating pizza, drinking beer, watching sports—and not talking about my injury.

And that was exactly what I needed.