He laughs and drops his free hand in his pocket as his head falls back.
“Fair point. It’s quite a scam I’ve got going with them, getting the parent team to pay my bills. You think I can get them to pick up the electric bill too?” He quirks a brow, and I laugh, shaking my head.
“I do not. No.”
He steps into the office, lowering his voice just a fraction as he glances over his shoulder before bringing his gaze back to me. “Keep this momentum going. I’ve got some incredibly big meetings lined up over the next couple of weeks,and numbers like this make this place look very, very attractive.”
I nod, reading between the lines.Big meetingsis likely code for the impending sale of the Mavericks.
“I’ll see you in Arkansas,” Kevin adds, adjusting his briefcase.
“You’re traveling to Little Rock?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I can’t quite hide my curiosity. “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you still grind out the travel for away games? If you’re not going to be connected to the Mavericks much longer, aren’t you tempted to take your weekends back?”
Kevin’s lips bunch in thought as his head tilts, and a wave of what looks like sudden, quiet nostalgia washes over his face. He looks out toward the empty corridor then back to me, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“There’s just something about them. I might be done with the business side of things soon, but I think I’ll always root for this crew. They’re in my blood.” He gives me a reassuring nod before his expression shifts back to boss mode.
“Drive safe tomorrow.”
“Thanks. See you there.”
He disappears down the hall, his footsteps fading into the quiet building. His sentimental words put a weight into my chest.In my blood.It must be nice to have a career that fills you with that kind of loyalty, even when you’re ready to leave it behind. I wonder if I’ll feel the same way thirty years from now. Though I hope it’s not about Sweetwater. I wouldn’t mind feeling bittersweet about leaving an executive job with, say, the Red Sox or maybe the Cubs.
I sigh, shutting down my browser tabs and grabbing my tote bag to pack up for the evening. Just as I reach for my car keys, my phone vibrates against my desktop.
The screen flashes with my father’s name.
Eric Hines.
My stomach twists on itself, and I freeze, staring at the flashing name, a different type of heavy sigh escaping my lips. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but I know exactly how my father operates. He doesn’t do voicemail. Not for his clients. Not for judges. And definitely not for me. If I don’t answer, he’ll just keep ringing back on a loop until I do. It’s a tacky strategy, but somehow, it’s become incredibly effective for him in all walks of life.
Defeated, I swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear. “Hi, Dad.”
“Campbell. Glad I caught you.” His deep, clipped baritone echoes through the line. He doesn’t waste time on warmth, skipping right to his usual script. “How are things in the minors? You missing the law yet?”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You know I don’t, Dad. I’m really happy here.”
He lets out a dry, dismissive tsk.
“I just hate to see a high-dollar education go to waste, sweetheart. All that time at Vanderbilt, finishing at the top of your class, just to write social media captions for a baseball team that plays in a town without a proper steakhouse.”
Frustration flares hot under my collar. I squeeze the edge of my desk, my knuckles turning white before I exhale and loosen my grip. “What do you want, Dad? I’m actually right in the middle of wrapping up a very busy day.”
“Just checking in,” he says, though his tone shifts into something a bit more calculated. If there’s one thing law school and being his daughter have taught me, it’s reading people. And I read him like a book.
“Tell me about your team. How successful has the season been so far? From a business standpoint, I mean.”
The sudden interest definitely feels strange coming from him. Eric Hines doesn’t care about sports unless he’s sitting in a corporate luxury suite closing a deal. Still, the defensive professional in me can’t resist the urge to brag, to prove to him that I’m not failing. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.
“Actually, we’re doing incredibly well,” I say, my voice beaming with confidence. “I just booked a major feature story for our catchers and his father. Maybe you’ve heard of them, or at least the dad . . . Roddy McKinney?”
He remains silent, and I shake my head, wondering why I bothered with that exercise. My father barely knows who Babe Ruth is.
“Anyhow, it’s drawing massive national eyes to the club’s digital footprint.”
“National, huh?” my dad asks, his interest seemingly piqued. “When does the segment air? Is it on ESPN?”
“No, it’s not network television, Dad,” I explain, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It was done by a digital content creator. It went live on his video platforms this morning.”
