He lets out a long, loud sigh.
“Yes?” His voice is a low, gravelly rumble. “The locker room is empty. The reporters left twenty minutes ago. If you’re trying to corner me for a joint interview with tonight’s big superstar, you missed your window.”
“That make you feel better?” I’m done being bullied byJake. I need him to work with me, and to get there, I’m going to have to show him I’m not easily intimidated.
“A bit.” He shrugs one shoulder, and his eyes narrowed on me with this intense, calculating gaze he usually reserves for a base stealer.
“I was watching you tonight,” I finally say.
He lets out a harsh, dry laugh, shifting the weight of his bag.
“Sure you were.” He holds my stare for a beat, unflinching. “Everyone out here was watching the McKinney behind the plate.”
“Not me,” I counter.
I take a few steps toward him, stopping just short of his massive frame. The scent of soap, leather, and a hint of wintergreen tobacco wash over me. Up close, out of his usual baseball uniform or practice clothes, Jake is imposing. He has his father’s height, but his build is thicker, more rugged. I’m just glad his cowboy hat isn’t out tonight. I think I’d be doomed if it were.
“I was watching the bullpen,” I add.
My admission seems to catch him off guard. His jaw tightens, and the cynical smirk he had plastered on his face fades from his lips.
“The bullpen.”
“Yeah. I saw you with Martinez in the sixth. I saw how you helped him recalibrate his release point without making him feel like an idiot. I saw you catching for the guys who were trying to choke down their nerves. And I saw how you handled the pitchers who came out of the game deflated.” I take a breath, looking up into his dark, guarded eyes, doing my best to remain stoic . . . strong. “Roddy is a great leader, Jake. No one can deny that. But you . . . you’re a greatteammate. You’re the heart of the guys who don’t make the headlines.”
Jake stares at me, and for a second, the defensive armor he wears like a second skin cracks, revealing something incredibly raw, vulnerable, and maybe a bit tired. He looks away just as quickly, his gaze drifting over the empty field.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, his voice dropping so low it’s almost swallowed by the wind. “Teammates don’t get you called up to the show. Stats do. Reps do. I’m sitting on a bench while he plays dress-up with my life.”
His gaze snaps back to mine, and his guard is still lowered. I see the flash of pain.
“That’s exactly why it matters,” I urge, stepping closer, instinctively reaching out to touch his arm before catching myself and pulling my hand back. “That’s why you need to trust me, Jake. You think I want to exploit your family drama? I don’t. I hate it. But right now, the narrative is that you’re a brooding, ungrateful son who is jealous of his dad’s final season.”
Jake’s eyes are glued to mine, and they flash with sudden, dangerous heat. “I don’t give a fuck what the press thinks of me.”
“Well, you should!” I snap back, my own frustration bubbling to the surface. “Because the front office reads those articles. The scouts watch those social videos. If they think you’re a clubhouse cancer, they won’t promote you, no matter how hard you work out here. Let me tell your story, Jake. Not the story about life as Roddy McKinney’s son. Let me tell the story aboutyou.
“Yeah, your namesake might be the way we get them to listen, but once they do, that’s when I get to show them the guy who is holding this team’s pitching staff together from awooden bench in the bullpen. Let me show them your worth.”
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the stadium’s electrical grid. Jake doesn’t move. He simply stands there, looming over me, his chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths.
Then the tension in his shoulders seems to bleed out. The hard line of his mouth softens, just a fraction, twisting into a look that’s not a scowl, but something entirely different. Something dangerously close to a smirk.
He steps closer. One step. Two. Until the tips of his boots are almost touching my sneakers.
“You’re really bossy,” he murmurs, his voice losing its gravelly edge, turning smooth and entirely too intimate for an empty baseball stadium. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
My heart does a stupid, erratic flip. I ignore it.
“It’s called being assertive. It’s in my job description.”
“Is it?” He leans down slightly, bringing his face closer to mine. Up close, I can see the amber flecks in his dark eyes, and the warmth radiating off him is making me completely forget about the night chill. “Because you look like you’re about to stomp your foot and fire me.”
“I can’t fire you; you don’t work for me,” I stammer, cursing myself for the sudden breathlessness in my voice.
Jake shifts his equipment bag, his knuckles grazing against my arm, sending a jolt of electricity straight down my spine. His gaze drops to my lips for a split second before returning to my eyes. “You think you can handle my narrative, huh? You think you’ve got me all figured out because you watched me catch a few warm-up pitches?”
“I know I can,” I say, trying desperately to sound professional while my heart hammers against my ribs.
