He stops me with a sharp laugh, so I pull my brow in.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. Just . . . I don’t know if I’m aheroaround here. Depends on who you ask, I guess.”
Okay. So, not a hero. Mental note to dig into his history a bit deeper.
“Well, the high school has to celebrate you, I’m sure.”Please say your alma mater reveres you, a tiny bit.
“Oh yeah, Coach Blackwood and I just had a beer the other night. We’ve stayed close,” he says, suddenly sucking his lips in and leaning forward. “But don’t mention that beer. He’s not supposed to be sneaking those.”
He winks, and I relax a little at the sight of his charm coming through. This is the Roddy I expected.
“Secret’s safe with me. Just don’t say that in front of the press,” I joke.
We both laugh, and an easiness is setting in along with a sense that my window is closing.
“I’m sure Jake is excited to play with you, too,” I blurt out.
The way Roddy’s smile freezes and his eyes grow distant fills my stomach with rocks. Kevin’s warning plays in my head:Good luck with that.
“You’d have to talk to Jake about that. Hey, though . . . great to meet you, Campbell. Anything I can do to help you tell some stories about this place, just ask, a’right?”
“Great,” I say, my wide smile holding in the big ask I think is probably for another person.
With a nod and a smile, Roddy heads down the tunnel to the clubhouse, and I turn my sights to the bright sun-painted field in the other direction.
The smack of ball hitting a leather mitt draws my eyestoward the bullpen just in time to see Jake prop his catcher’s mask on top of his head as he rests on one knee and tosses the ball toward our number one pitching prospect—Hunter Reddick. I begin walking toward them, holding my breath so I can overhear their conversation as I approach the fence. Jake is chuckling, and the similarities between his laugh and his father’s is impossible to ignore. There’s a warmth to it.
Hunter spots me first, dropping his arm to his side and adjusting his grip on the ball as he bangs it against his hip. Jake follows his gaze and jets to his feet when his eyes reach mine.
“I can’t be in trouble with the press already, can I? I’m pretty sure I haven’t talked to anyone,” he says with a casual laugh.
“No, no. So far, you’re just fine,” I say, my gaze drifting to his glistening golden forearm muscles. A younger Roddy McKinney is quite a thing of beauty. I wonder whether he realizes just how much the two of them look alike.
“You know . . . I ran into your dad,” I say, getting right into it. I’m not sure what I expected, but the slight quake of his chest accompanied by a puffed-out laugh wasn’t quite it.
“He send you over here?” Jake’s eyes squint against the sun.
I shake my head.
“Not at all. I was already heading your way.” I mash my lips, smoothing out my lip color that I fear is melting under the harsh glare of the morning sun. This place is a different kind of hot.
“Well, you got me. What can I do for you?” He glances toward Hunter, holding up a finger. I shouldn’t be interrupting their session like this, but I need to strike now if I want to pitch this story to the big outlets today.
“Chris Olsen is interested in doing a piece on you andyour dad forThe Break Down.” It’s a fib. I haven’t sold Chris on the idea yet, but I know he’ll leap at the chance. His show does a lot of pieces on family legacies. I bet he’ll want to turn this into one of his long segments, in fact. B-roll here in town and everything. A great sales piece for the franchise.
Jake’s gaze drops to the ground as he chews at the inside of his cheek.
“Chris Olsen, huh?”
I can’t tell if that’s an interested tone he’s using or one of apprehension.
“Yep! And you know what a spot on his show can do for your personal brand. All of that translates into playing time, and?—”
“Not interested,” Jake interjects, dropping his helmet down and stepping back behind the bullpen plate. He swirls a finger toward Hunter before dropping into his crouch.
“Not interested?” I’m flabbergasted, and my words come out a little louder than I’d prefer, but what the fuck? Nobody in any game on this planet says no to a feature onThe BreakDown. Nobody!
“Yep. Thanks for asking, though. Go ahead, Hunt. I’m ready.” His focus is on the pitcher sixty feet and six inches away.
