I notice the flicker in Jake’s eyes when Connor uses the wordsrising starto describe him. I hope this shows him the value of interviews like this.
Roddy smiles, an almost nostalgic look in his eyes. “This game? It’s life, Connor. It’s the only thing that has ever made sense to me.”
He turns to Jake, and I brace myself.
“For me, it’s about tradition,” Jake says, his voice smooth, clear, confident. He looks directly into the camera lens, delivering a flawless, media-friendly smile that makes him look like a hometown hero. A breathy laugh slips out of my mouth, so I cover it with my palm. I had low expectations of him. I admit it. I thought I would need to do a lot of media training to get him better at this interview business, but damn if he isn’t a natural.
“Growing up, baseball was the invisible bond between us,” Jake continues, glancing at his dad with a soft smile. “To get the chance to suit up on the same team as my dad, to share a bullpen with a guy who has a legacy like his before he hangs up his cleats? It’s a dream come true. It’s a special kind of magic.”
His answer is perfect. And I shouldn’t feel the chill across my neck from it. But it happens anyhow. And next to him, Roddy’s smile falters, a crease forming between his brows.
We both know those words are a lie. Every single bit of it. Jake is bitter, maybe justifiably. He’s been hurt by theyears of neglect, the empty bleachers, the father who chose stadium lights over his own son’s childhood.
But Jake keeps going, effortlessly turning on the charm. He’s playing the part of Roddy McKinney’s son, his carbon copy. And while I am sure it will help his brand, and by extension, his chances on the team, my stomach sours.
“I feel incredibly lucky. Sure, when I was a kid, he wasn’t always there for the big games. He was out on the road, chasing pennants. But I always understood. I knew he was doing what he had to do for the game, and having him here now . . . it makes up for all of it.”
Connor beams behind the camera.
“That’s beautiful, man. Seriously. A special pair, a special story.”
The conversation continues to flow as Roddy shares a few stories from his early years as a rookie, and at one point, the two men chuckle about shared histories with the same high school coach, though their experiences were years apart. The entire interview is flawless. I couldn’t have scripted it better myself. Thirty minutes pass in a blink.
“That’s a wrap!”
My spine snaps straight, and I twist my palm to check the time on my phone. I can’t believe we made it through.
“Thanks, Connor,” I say, my voice quavering with a bit of relief as I stand up. “Let me walk you out.”
Connor packs up his tripod and mic, and I join him toward his car, which is parked alongside mine in the driveway. He gushes the entire walk.
“Campbell, seriously, thank you. This is going to make a great story, and my numbers are going to spike. The McKinneys . . . man, they really have a special bond. You can just feel the mutual respect.”
“Yeah. Special,” I say through a tight smile, shaking his hand. “Send me the rough cut before it goes live.”
He nods, and while I know he won’t take any notes I may have for edits, at least I’ll have a chance to head off any issues I might spot on a second viewing. I head back toward the property, my sneakers dragging in the dirt. The morning sun is fully up now, and the cloud cover is gone. It’s going to be a warm one today. As I approach the wooden picnic table, I stop just outside the shadow of the oak tree, unsure what to expect when I rejoin them.
Roddy is still sitting on the bench, his head bowed. Jake is standing.
“That was really good to hear, Jake,” Roddy says, his voice thick, rough with emotion. He looks up at his son. “I’m glad to hear your feelings aren’t all negative. That the past . . . that you understood.”
Jake shakes with a quiet laugh and turns his back to his dad, rubbing his palm over his mouth and jaw. He shakes his head and turns back around, looking down at his father. His performance is over. The act vanishes in a heartbeat, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp sneer.
“That was all pretend, and you know it,” he says, his voice lowering. “That was for Campbell and her media job. Don’t go fooling yourself into thinking we’re good just because I know how to play a part for the press.”
Roddy looks like he’s been struck in the chest. “Jake?—”
“I’ve got practice,” Jake snaps, turning on his heels.
He marches away from the table, his stride long and angry, and as he cuts past the oak tree, his dark eyes slam into mine. He doesn’t say a word, but the look he gives me is heavy with accusation, a silent indictment that slices right through me. He hated that, and I made him do it. He did it for the promise of getting his turn for once. And if I don’tmake that happen for him, then I’m no better than the guy who disappointed him in the first place.
A heavy weight of guilt settles deep in my stomach. I forced him into that box. I made him stand there and lie to his father’s face, weaponizing his childhood trauma just to manufacture a heartwarming headline.
Yet, as I watch him walk toward his truck, his broad shoulders squared against the world, a fierce, conflicting ache tightens in my throat. I want this for him. I want the front office to see past the brooding, defensive walls he’s built around himself.
I want to show the world the man Jake McKinney is. If only he would let me.
SEVEN
