Campbell scrunches up her face as she chuckles.
“Oh, no. That’s bad. Please tell me if my jeans are ever riding too low, would you?” she replies. She’s being clever, but my damn hot cheeks are making it hard for me to keep my manners in check.
“No, ma’am. I’m afraid if I see your jeans low, I’m going to like it.”
Her smile falls, and fast. Then she takes a noticeable step backward. It’s not like I lied. I told her I was an asshole. My mom hates that sexist shit.Fuck, Jake. Think before speaking.
“I’m Jake, by the way. Mc?—”
“I know who you are,” she says, a hint of a smirk playing at her lips. My shoulders relax. Maybe I didn’t absolutely dig myself a grave with that jeans comment. Of course . . . I know why she knows who I am, and it’s not because of anythingIdid.
“Right. I guess I should get used to that this season. If he sticks around, that is.” I stop short of rolling my eyes.
“Oh, I thought this was your dad’s final year. The way I understand it, he’s here to pass the torch and be the veteran player who spreads his wisdom. Between me and you, I betthey put him on staff to coach in Sweetwater. I’d say he’s here for the long haul. I mean, they’ll retire his jersey in Texas probably, because, well, he’s Roddy McKinney. And he’ll have to leave for that. But he’ll be back.”
“We’ll see,” I say, backing away while I’m ahead. Or at least before I go back under.
“What makes you so sure?” Her eyes narrow on me, and her mouth falls into this gentle curve as if she’s genuinely curious. I got used to folks around here knowing my story.
“Oh, I’d put it about the same way you did before. Because, well, he’s Roddy McKinney.”
I shoot Campbell a half-smile before spinning on my boots and heading toward the clubhouse locker room to change and try my damnedest to be useful enough to keep around.
TWO
CAMPBELL HINES
So that’s Jake McKinney.
He’s a little rougher around the edges than I expected—not exactly the typical ballplayer type. I’m pretty sure those boots of his were caked in mud, and rather than a ballcap, he showed up to the field in a black felt cowboy hat.
Interesting.
I drop my leather tote into the rolling chair behind my desk before pacing between my desk and the white board covered in scribbled important dates for the season. I twist on my heels and snag a dry erase marker from the metal tray, tapping the capped end on my tight lips a few times before pulling the cap off and writing Jake’s name on my long list of things to do. I follow with one more name, Roddy McKinney. Jake’s dad. I finish by circling them both, because this story doesn’t sell without both of them.
A swift knock on the metal door jamb for my office startles me, and I flip around to come face to face with my current boss, Kevin Torkelson. His family has owned the Mavericks organization for sixty years. It’s one of the olderaffiliates in the division, the Torkelsons having taken over for the Miller family who founded it in 1902. This team and the stadium have a fairly rich history. I was excited to get placed here. So many stories to tell.
My position is tricky. I have to be loyal to the franchise in Texas first, but building success and driving dollars to the affiliates comes in a close second. And I have a feeling selling this father-son reunion in a place like Sweetwater might just be the perfect spark to drive attention—and as a result, fans—to the ballpark and the town around it.
“Good morning, Campbell. You’re in early.” Kevin leans into my open door and drops his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He fits this place with his Levi’s and sport coat, black boots, and bolo tie.
“I promised you the best press ever, so I need to get to it,” I say with a tight smile.
He chuckles as he enters my office, pulling out the chair on the opposite side of my desk and nodding for me to take mine. I draw in a deep breath because I don’t want to get comfortable here. I plan on heading out to the field to pitch my story idea to Jake and his father, and I want to catch them before things get busy.
I compromise by leaning on a palm on my desk then tossing my recapped marker back into the metal tray.
“Impressive,” he says when I manage to land it perfectly.
I shrug.
“I played a little hoops in high school.” I blow on my nails and brush them on my blouse, not sharing that I mostly rode the bench. I love sports—all sports—but my coordination has limits.
“Well, now I know what to get you for your office welcoming gift,” he says through a short laugh, pointing toward my open door. “One of those little hoop things.”
I smirk, but don’t drag the conversation on more. Kevin clears his throat and rubs his palm along his gray, neatly trimmed beard.
“Anyway, I won’t take up too much of your time. Just a few things we didn’t really get into when we had your orientation meeting the other day. There are things . . . I wouldn’t call them secrets, but for the sake of our conversation, let’s just say they’re confidential pieces of information.”
