How tough was this Tulsa team?
I breeze through the questions, then brace myself for the onslaught from the media. A few affiliate stations are out here, and the question about what it’s like playing with my dad comes out right at the top. I stick with my go-to answer, the one that seemed to work well with Connor’s piece, but I add a little bit more about learning from his legacy. It comesout naturally, despite the fact it popped in my head on the fly. I think, though, I mean it. He may not have been here as a dad, but he did carve a pretty great path for me to follow when it comes to this game. It doesn’t kill me to say that out loud. And the slight grin I catch on his face as he watches from afar feels good to see.
I muddle through the rest of the questions on the field, wondering where the hell Campbell is. We have a media room, and usually she lets a handful of questions through post-game before ushering everyone into the press room for a more formal process. Outlets are packing up, though, and the print reporter from OKC just flipped his notebook shut and is already playing back the sound he got on his phone.
I make my way back to the dugout to gather my gear, catching sight of my mom along with my Aunt Winnie standing a few rows up from the field entrance. I pack my bag, then bypass the locker room for now, instead stepping into the stands to talk to them. It becomes clear quickly that my job, however, is to listen. Aunt Winnie is fired up, her face flushed red with an anger I know all too well from the McKinney side of the family. My dad’s parents live in Texas, but they visit us for every holiday. And Winnie’s expression right now is a close match to the one Grandpa Chester makes when he’s talking politics.Animated. Loud. Frightening.
Winnie has a piece of paper gripped tightly in her hand, and she’s waving it around as she gesticulates. Finally, she points it toward me.
“He needs to tell his little PR friend up there that I intend to fight this!” Winnie snaps, pointing a finger in the direction of the front offices while keeping the sharp edge of the paper trained on me.
I rest my bag on the arm of a nearby seat and put onefoot on the concrete step as I furrow my brow at her, puzzled.
“Winnie, calm down. I’m sure Campbell is fine with you fighting whatever it is.”
“Oh yeah?” my aunt barks, eyes wide. “Did you know it’s her father’s firm handling this entire sale business, Jake? And did you know they plan on tearing down everything south of your shitty apartment all the way to historic Old Town where the Blackwoods live?”
The breath leaves my lungs in a single silent blow. I feel like I just took a fastball straight to the sternum.
“What?” I manage to choke out.
“You heard me!” Winnie rages, waving the paper more. “You know what? That’s what I need to do—get with Sarah Blackwood. This is exactly the kind of stuff she’s good at, fighting bad policy. I’m sure she’s already on it. There’s no way a notice didn’t go to them, too. They plan to flatten the road leading right up to their front lawn. Goodbye tree-lined streets.”
I stand there, completely stunned, my brain struggling to process the words coming out of her mouth. Campbell’s father’s firm. The lion’s head. The document on her desk today right after we . . .
I shake my head, unable to believe it, but Winnie shoves a folded packet of printouts into my chest, and I’m forced to sit for a moment and riffle through them. It’s a breakdown of county zoning filings she’s already pulled up online. My eyes scan the text, the legal jargon, the name Hines & Associates stamped all over the acquisition files. Nausea grips my stomach, followed by a burning, icy sting of total betrayal.
Campbell knows. She has to have known all along. Her father was just here.
I leave my mom and Winnie in the stands, marching straight to the locker room where I strip off my gear and step into the shower so the hot water can calm my angry heart. I relish the burn it leaves on the back of my neck. I linger behind at my locker, too, stalling until the rest of the guys pack up and leave. There’s only one other soul in here, and I’m pretty sure he stayed behind for me.
Roddy tosses his duffel bag over his shoulder, pausing next to me as I sit facing my open locker. I’ve been staring at it blankly for minutes, processing the facts. He takes one look at my face and sighs.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, kid.”
“It doesn’t look good, Dad,” I say, my voice dangerously flat. “Not at all.”
He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, and my body sinks with his touch.
“The one thing I’ve learned over a lifetime of blowing my lid, Jake, is that you should listen first. Hear her out.”
I stare at him, then let out a rough breath. “Yeah.”
He nods and heads out, leaving me alone in the quiet, musty space. I grip the strap of my gear bag and stand, trying to take his advice to heart. He was there with me when Grandma Maggie handed us that letter. He must have already had this talk with Mom at the bar, and I’m sure Aunt Winnie came in hot with info. That’s her style.
If my father is calm about this, I should take his cue. There are lots of unknowns. But also . . . it’s Campbell’s father’s firm. That’s simply a fact. And it’s my family’s roots being bulldozed. All our roots. It’s hard to ignore those incredibly personal points.
I force myself to walk out to the main concourse, and when I hit the lobby, my breath catches in my throat. Campbell is sitting on one of the benches near the wall of honordisplayed by the entrance. She has a thick pile of papers resting on her lap, tucked securely under her laptop, and her fingers are frantically patting the top of the computer’s casing. She’s jittery, and when she looks up, her dark eyes seem frantic.
She looks . . . guilty.
I don’t say a word, instead swallowing the words that want to rush out of my mouth. They won’t be nice, and there’s something to that saying about not speaking at all when you don’t have nice things to say. Rather than engaging, I keep my eyes straight ahead and brush right past her, an internal war ripping through my chest.
She leaps up from the bench after I pass, the papers rustling as she rushes behind me, tracking my heavy boots as I head for the exit doors.
“Jake! Please, let me explain.”
I let out a harsh, bitter laugh, my bad manners getting the best of me, and I spin around to face her under the harsh fluorescent lobby lights.
