“No,” Kevin says quickly, a greedy, sharp smile breaking across his face. “No, quite the opposite, actually. It looks like I might end up selling the franchise for a hell of a lot more than the initial valuation.”
He shuffles a stack of documents on his desk.
“The buyer is looking to bring a massive amount of regional development to the area surrounding the stadium. Think major change and amenities. So many amenities!”
Kevin flashes his hands out in front of his face, as if he’s spelling the words out in invisible fireworks. My professional curiosity spikes.
“What kind of development? And by amenities, do you mean hotels? Can you get me up to speed so I can prepare a strategy for our marketing response?”
“Soon, soon,” Kevin dismisses, gathering a leather portfolio and his car keys, I presume for his next meeting. “I’m still hashing out the nondisclosure boundaries. It’s sensitive, because, well . . .” He stretches his arm out, and I assume he means because this town is going to go nuts when they find out.
He sets a thick manila folder on the edge of the desk while he grabs his coat. As he does, the top document inside the folder slips out by an inch.
My heart stops.
Right there, printed in sharp, expensive black ink in the center of a piece of legal letterhead, is a distinct logo that I could draw in my sleep. The stylized, sharp outline of a lion’s head has been a part of my life since as long as I can remember.
Hines & Associates.My father’s firm.
Before I can fully process the visual, Kevin scoops up the folder, seemingly oblivious to my sudden paralysis. He throws me a warm, distracted smile.
“You’re doing great work, Campbell. Seriously. I’m going to make sure the team in Texas knows exactly how vital you are to this organization.”
“Thanks, Kevin,” I manage to choke out.
He bustles past me, disappearing down the hallway in a blur.
I stand frozen in his empty office, my chest tightening.No. There’s no way.I tell myself I’m just paranoid. I’m just projecting my father’s suffocating presence onto my workspace because of our lunch and the phone call. And the cagey things he said. And the coincidences.
So. Many. Coincidences.
I rush back to my own office, my heart drumming a frantic beat against my ribs. I sit at my desk, my fingers trembling slightly as I pull up a web browser. I type in my father’s corporate URL.
The page loads. And there, staring back at me from the top left corner of the screen, is the exact same corporate logo. The outline of the lion’s head.
A cold, uneasy dread pools deep in my stomach.
“We’re helping a client with a rather significant land deal in the area.”My dad’s voice echoes in my head from yesterday.“Just some state land and ranchers swapping acreage. Standard bureaucratic shuffling.”
He lied to me.
He’s been coming to Sweetwater and secretly working on this deal. It isn’t just a simple land swap, and it isn’t a coincidence. My father’s firm is representing the mysterious buyer trying to acquire the Mavericks.
I stare at the lion’s head on my monitor, a sickening wave of anxiety washing over me. What kind of development are they planning? And what happens to the team—to this town—if someone comes in with bold plans that break what makes Sweetwater . . .Sweetwater?
FIFTEEN
JAKE
We’re keeping the throttle turned down today, and I’m glad because the sun is baking the dirt out here. It’s the day before the home stand against Tulsa, and since Roddy and I are splitting the catching duties down the middle this weekend, Coach wants us to save our legs and arms. No grueling blocking drills, and no throwing to second till our shoulders ache. Mine never seems to stop, so I welcome a day off that doesn’t raise eyebrows.
I refuse to show up for a stretch and call it a day, though, so for the last hour, I’ve been working on getting a better read on the curve. I drop my bat against the netting and wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove. I’m about to call it a day when my dad steps under the netting to gather the balls with me.
“You’re looking good. You open to one tip?” He arches a brow, and I fight against my well-trained instinct honed by years of telling him to buzz off.
“Sure.”
We load the bucket into the machine, and I step into thehitter’s box while my dad moves off to the side, shielded by one of the older L-screens. I manage to rip through the first curve the machine throws, but the next one takes an ugly dive that tangles my legs and makes me feel foolish.
