I stand by the empty bus, the weight of the interaction sitting like a stone in my stomach.
“That was a really big step, Jake.”
I turn around. Campbell stands by the valet podium, her arms crossed over her chest, watching me. The breeze catches a few loose strands of her hair, blowing them across her face. I walk over to her, wiping my palms on my jeans.
“I’m proud of you,” she says softly, a genuine, warm smile lighting up her eyes.
“Thanks for the lesson,” I murmur, shrugging one shoulder and stepping close enough that the young punk working the valet can’t hear us.
She blinks, her brow furrowing slightly. “What lesson?”
“The one that got me to get out of my own damn way for once,” I say, repeating her words form early on. “I wouldn’t have done this before I met you.”
A long, lingering stare stretches between us. She swallows hard, her eyes darting to my lips for a fraction of a second before she forces herself to take a half step back, breaking the spell.
“Go get checked in, McKinney,” she croaks, her cheeks flushing a soft, beautiful pink.
I did that to her. And it feels better than getting out of my own damn way.
The first game of the weekend is an absolute, unmitigated disaster, even if the scoreboard claims we won.
By the time the team piles back into the hotel lobby, it’swell past dinner time, and everyone is completely exhausted and wearing a collective scowl. We scraped by with a one-run victory, and the team vibe is toxic. We scored plenty of runs, and Hunter pitched a hell of a game, but the passed balls and dropped third strikes behind the plate led to baserunners, which led to runs.
“Fucking brutal behind the dish tonight,” Hunter grumbles as we walk through the double doors into the lobby. “The blocking was garbage. I was throwing half my sliders into the dugout. God, I was glad when Roddy finally went back in to clean up the mess in the eighth.”
I keep my mouth shut, carrying a heavy bag of extra bats into the side entrance for the coaching staff. I don’t say a word, just do the grunt work, helping Coach Davis unload the rest of the gear from the undercarriage of our bus.
“McKinney. Hold up a second.”
I turn around, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm. Coach Davis drops the bag from his hand onto a rolling cart, then crosses his arms over his chest.
“I’m glad you made the trip, Jake,” he says, his voice rough but sincere. “It shows you’ve got real integrity. It tells me you think about a hell of a lot more than just what’s in it for you.”
Internally, a wave of guilt hits me.Well, I kinda did this because it would make me look good, but okay.
I keep my face entirely straight. “Thanks, Coach. Just wanted to help.”
He nods, a knowing, and maybe slightly amused glint entering his eyes. He leans in a little closer. “Tell me something, McKinney. Is there a chance you snuck your own gear bag onto the bus this morning?”
A slow, smug smirk spreads across half my face. I don’t deny it.
Coach Davis lets out a hefty chuckle and shakes his head. “Yeah, I thought so. Fucking ballplayers.”
He taps my good shoulder with his clipboard. “Suit up tomorrow, Jake. You’re starting. I’m giving you the first two innings behind the plate. Let’s see what you can do with Martinez’s slider.”
A massive, violent thud hits the inside of my ribs.Starting.
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll be ready,” I manage to say, keeping my voice professional until Coach turns and pushes the cart holding the last few bags into the lobby and down the hall toward the coaches’ rooms.
The second he is out of sight, I practically bolt to the side patio that still smells of someone’s lit cigarette and let out a raspy, breathless laugh, pumping my fist wildly into the empty night air.
Two innings. A real, clean shot.
I pull out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen as I text my mom.
Jake: I’m starting tomorrow. First two innings.
Her reply comes back almost instantly, the text practically radiating her warmth. She’s behind the bar right now, probably refereeing dumb fights between the locals who drink too much.
