“His father and I have a complicated history is all, and we’re all adjusting to him being home now. I mean, not that we’re sharing a home, or sharing anything, just . . .” She gets flustered and scrunches her face before looking to Roddy’s sister for help. I turn my attention to Winnie.
“To make areallylong story short, basically, my brother is a dumbass. He had a chance to go pro right out of high school, and he took it. Daisy and he had been together since their freshman year of high school, and when Roddy left, Daisy was pregnant with Jake. He knew, and he could have put off going pro, stuck around and played a couple years at the college level, but he took his shot instead. And well . . .”
Winnie holds out her open palms to either side of herbody as her shoulders rise. I quake with a silent, single laugh, my gaze bouncing between the two of them.
“So Jake was a . . . what . . .secret baby?” I can boil most of life’s situations down to key fiction tropes. I can work with this if that’s the case here.
“Not exactly,” Daisy says.
So perhaps it won’t be so easy.
“Jake was no surprise. And Roddy saw him when he was a baby. He made it just in time—” Winnie begins to explain.
Daisy shakes her head, cutting Winnie off.
“He was late for the birth. Always late,” she says with a short huff and roll of her eyes. When her gaze meets mine, I suddenly feel closer to her. There’s something kindred about having men disappoint you in life. For me, it’s been my father. For Daisy, it seems the great Roddy McKinney has ample flaws.
“I’m guessing he wasn’t around much while Jake grew up?” I pry.
The two women share a quick look, then laugh.
“He wasn’t around at all,” Daisy says, bringing her gaze back to me. She leans to her side a smidge, resting both arms on the seatback next to her. “If you can get those two to talk, I’ll throw you a party to end all parties at Earl’s, all drinks on me.”
That’s right. I had heard she owns Earl’s.
“Hmm.” My eyes squint as I mull over her challenge. I know she’s being facetious, but I do love a prize. “You should know, when it comes to getting drunk, I have very expensive taste.” I hold my hand out again, and Daisy shakes a bit reluctantly this time, giving me side-eyes.
Winnie puffs out a laugh.
“I better be invited,” she adds.
“Oh, you will be,” I say, smiling at my new acquaintance. I need friends around this place.
“You get those two talking, I’ll pull out all the top shelf shit, Campbell.” Daisy’s eyes widen, and I wonder if it’s skepticism or hope stretching out her expression. Either way, I hope to surprise her.
For the next seven innings, I don’t take a single note. I watch the game through Daisy’s eyes, and in doing so, I see something I had entirely missed.
Roddy is brilliant, yes. He hit a double in the fifth that drove in two runs, and his veteran presence anchors a defense that easily could have fallen apart behind a shaky rookie pitcher. But while Roddy is the sun everyone seems to revolve around, his son is the gravity holding the edges together.
I focus on Jake in the bullpen for most of the game. He isn’t simply sitting there pouting. When the backup reliever, a nervous twenty-year-old named Martinez, throws a wild pitch that bounces off the brick wall, Jake stands up, walks over to the young kid, and calmly shows him a few adjustments to make with his arm slot and the way he’s falling off the mound. He’s down there, out of the spotlight, coaching the guys who don’t get the same attention as hotshots like Hunter Reddick. He’s taking care of the forgotten bullpen, the kids who are too intimidated to talk to a Hall-of-Famer. He’s their anchor, doing invisible, thankless work in the shadows while his father soaks up the applause under the stadium lights.
When the game ends in a comfortable five-two victory for the Mavs, the crowd erupts. Roddy gets the attention from the in-game emcee, and the few reporters who made it out here for the game swarm him as soon as he’s done being humble in front of the crowd.
Daisy stands up, shoving her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. Winnie does the same.
“I’m rooting for you, Campbell,” she says with a wry smirk.
“I appreciate that.” I chuckle as I nod toward the field. “And thank you for showing me what to look for.”
An hour after the final pitch, the stadium is dead. The lights are mostly dimmed, casting long, eerie shadows across the empty green seats. The grounds crew has already finished grooming the infield, leaving the scent of damp earth and cut grass lingering in the air.
I stand near the steps of the home dugout, the zipper on my hoodie pulled all the way up to my chin. My fingers are numb, but I can’t leave. Not yet.
I hear the deep voices and swear-laden banter boom from the tunnel before Jake and a few of the other young players step onto the concrete.
“Got a minute?” I prepare myself for rejection, but he surprises me.
“Sure. Go on, Jay. I’ll catch up later.” He waves his teammate on, then leans against the dugout entrance with his massive black equipment bag slung over one shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans, a grey hoodie, and his signature scowl. His jaw has a day’s worth of stubble, and his broad shoulders are rigid, perhaps carrying a weight that has nothing to do with baseball gear.
