Coach Shuster is standing near the luggage bays, checking a clipboard under the harsh halogen parking lot lights. He looks up, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline as I stop right in front of him.
“McKinney.” His voice is flat. “You lost? Roster stayed the same as yesterday.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my chin up, my voice steady. “I’m not here to fight you on it, Coach. I know I’m not on the card. But I want to go to Little Rock anyway. I’ll carry bags, I’ll coach in the bullpens, and help mentor the young guys. Whatever you need. I just want to be there for the team.”
Coach stares at me for a beat. He looks down at my duffel bag, then back up to my face, a slow, unreadable expression shifting across his weathered features. A faint trace of approval flickers in his eyes.
“Mentor the young guys, huh?” He chews at the inside of his cheek, then cracks a rare, slight smile. “I see you came packed with everything you need. Looks like you weren’t planning on taking no for an answer, huh?”
I breathe out a thick laugh.
“No, sir.”
He jerks his thumb toward the open bus doors.
“Get your ass on board.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
A massive wave of relief expands in my chest as I climb the rubber-rimmed steps into the dimly lit bus. The interior smells like stale coffee and a dozen different types of men’s shampoo. As I walk down the narrow aisle, my eyes instantly meet Roddy’s. He sits in a row near the front, looking up at me with an expression that I think is a mix of surprise and possibly relief.
I don’t blink. I keep my hat brim low and my face entirely blank as I pass right by his open spot, walking all the way toward the back until I find Jayden. I drop into the seat next to him. Jayden doesn’t say a word, but he extends a closed fist. I bump my knuckles against his as he gives me a silent,proud of you, dude.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, my thumb hovering over Campbell’s name. I want to text her to tell her I’m on the bus, but I catch Jayden looking out the window and shove the phone back into my jeans. It’s bad enough that my best friend is currently embroiled in a very obvious, highly risky fling with our female hitting coach. I keep my mouth shut about it because I love the guy, and I truly think he doesn’t realize I know. But watching him navigate that minefield makes me hyper-aware of how quickly a player-staff dynamic can blow up in your face. I don’t need Jayden asking why I’m texting the PR director—who I’ve said on multiple occasions I can’t stand—at five in the morning.
By the time the bus pulls into the hotel parking lot in Little Rock, my knees are stiff and my shoulder throbs with a dull ache. But the second I step out into the brightArkansas sunlight, the first thing I spot is a Mercedes parked near the lobby entrance.
Campbell is already here.
I drop my bag near the curb and immediately step toward the luggage bays under the bus, throwing myself into giving the other guys a hand. “I’ve got the gear, boys,” I call out to the rookies, grabbing heavy equipment bags and hauling them out onto the pavement. “Pass ’em up.”
As I hoist bat bags, buckets of balls, and catching gear onto the curb, I glance toward the hotel lobby entry. Campbell stands by the glass doors, looking sharp and professional in a tailored white blazer paired with tight jeans and towering heels. She’s talking animatedly to Coach Shuster and Kevin, the team owner. She must feel the heat of my stare because her eyes shift away from Kevin and lock directly onto me. My lip quirks up with a slight, uncontrollable smirk.
She lingers behind as the coaches and Kevin head inside into the air-conditioned lobby. As humid as Oklahoma is, it’s got nothing on this climate.
“Man, Jake, seriously, thank you,” one of the young rookie catchers, a kid named Miguel, says as he grabs his gear bag from my hands. “I really appreciate you showing up to support us this weekend. Especially after . . . you know.”
I swallow the last lingering bite of my pride, forcing a genuine smile onto my face. He doesn’t know any better. Hell, I’ve only got him by like five years, but whatever.
“Absolutely, Mig. Show ’em what you’ve got this weekend, yeah?”
He beams and heads inside, and I let the lightheaded rush of wanting to pass out over how unfair this feels washover me. As the crowd thins, I realize I’m not alone by the bus.
Of course Roddy waited.
His hands shoved deep into his jean pockets, he walks over to me, our denim and boots making us look like we dress from the same Levi’s catalog. I suppose we do. He stops a foot away, looking at me with a serious gaze, his mouth a straight line. Without a word, he pulls his right hand out of his pocket and holds out his open palm.
I look at his hand, then up at his face. Reluctantly, I reach out and shake it. His grip is tight, rough, and entirely familiar. It’s mine, only seventeen years from now.
“I know this was hard for you to do,” he says. “To swallow your pride like that and get on the bus anyway. It speaks volumes about your character. That kind of shit can’t be taught.”
He looks down for a fraction of a second, his chest swelling with a deep breath. “I wish I’d been more like you when I was your age.”
The praise feels good—too good—which means my natural defense mechanism instantly kicks into overdrive. I can’t stop the sharp, bitter barb from slipping past my teeth. “Yeah, well . . . I wish I had known you then too, Roddy. But you were, you know . . . on the road trying to be great.”
The words hit the air like a physical slap. We hold each other’s stare, the silence stretching out between us, tight and painful. I itch to take back the words. He blinks, and I sense he wishes I would. A pang of regret slices through my gut. I nearly open my mouth to say, “Sorry,” but before I can utter the word, my father drops his head and nods.
“I’m just proud of you, is all,” he mutters quietly as he passes me, not lifting his gaze to meet my eyes. A fewseconds later, the glass doors slide shut behind him as he heads inside.
