“We can’t. But I want to,” he mutters, his voice barely audible over the chatter of the guys behind us.
“I know.” My chest tightens just as his hand relaxes its grip.
“You’ve got that look your grandfather gets when a bull clears a fence—the one where you’re already figuring out which fence post you’re going to use to break its neck.” Roddy turns his head slightly, his expression deadpan under the dim bus lights. “We have three games against these guys. Scouts are deep in the seats this weekend. You break away to go play hero at a law firm, and you flush everything you’ve done since Campbell turned the lights on you right down the toilet.”
I swallow the bitter truth pill, staring at the back of his neck as we shuffle down the steps into the Roadway Inn parking lot. We wait by the undercarriage of the bus for our gear, the hot exhaust only adding to the humidity, causing sweat to drip down my cheeks.
“I bet he’s sitting in some steakhouse right now toastin’ a bunch of investors, along with his client, Mr. Billionaire whatever, with twenty-year-old scotch while Mom and Winnie are printing flyers at the library.”
“And Campbell is currently drafting a counter-offensive that will turn his own legal department into a circular firing squad,” my dad adds, stepping from the curb to grab my bag for me. Our eyes meet during the exchange. “We keep our heads in the box, Jake. That’s our job this weekend. We protect the game. We let her protect the town.”
I look at him for a long beat, searching for the anger I know he’s hiding behind that stoic mask. It’s there, buried deep in the creases around his eyes, but it’s disciplined.
“Fine,” I mutter, adjusting the strap of my gear bag. “We focus on the game. Fucking wise old man.”
He punches out a harsh laugh, and I roll my eyes.
He grabs his bag, and our steps sync up right away as we head into the hotel lobby.
“Let’s go get some terrible hotel food and pretend we don’t want to burn this city to the ground.” His words might be wise, but they don’t do much for the fire in my belly.
The heat inside Nashville Ballpark is oppressive, the humidity hanging over the turf like a damp wool blanket. The stands are empty during warm-ups, minus a few early-bird fans and a cluster of guys in matching polo shirts carrying radar guns and clipboards. Hunter’s throwing this weekend. The scouts are here for him. Still, it’s hard not to fantasize. The Texas rep is right behind the dugout, watching our pitchers throw their long-toss routines.
I’m sitting on the turf near the right-field foul pole, my legs stretched out in a V, reaching for my left toe. My dad drops down a few feet away, his old knees cracking loud enough that I hear them.
“Jesus,” I mumble.
“Just you wait,” he warns.
This has become our routine—the quiet window before the stadium speakers start blasting pop music and the rest of the roster spills out for batting practice.
“Daisy tells me Campbell practically moved into the apartment before the bus even cleared the county line,” my dad says, his voice casual, though his eyes are dancing, tracking me, waiting to read my expression. I give in. I can’t help the small, lopsided smirk that breaks through my game face.
“She brought three bags and a laptop stand that looks like a piece of space equipment. My closet is entirely out of commission. I’m currently keeping my socks in a protein powder tub.”
Roddy lets out a rolling chuckle. “Sounds about right. A woman like that doesn’t do anything halfway. I’m glad to see it, Jake. Truly. Glad things are working out with her.”
“You only like her because she made me forgive you.”
The words come out before I can filter them, honest and blunt, hanging in the sticky afternoon air like a fastball that missed the glove.
My dad’s body stiffens mid-stretch. His hands stay locked under his foot, but his head snaps up to look at me. The casual buddy persona evaporates in a fraction of a second, leaving the man who spent a decade staring at me from photos posted on social media drowning in his own regret.
The silence between us stretches, and it’s the kind ofquiet that makes my chest ache. I can see the wheels turning in his head, see the sudden weight of more than a dozen years of missed birthdays and unreturned phone calls pressing down on his shoulders. He looks like he’s about to say something monumental, something that will completely shatter the tenuous peace we’ve built over the last month.
“Don’t make it weird,” I say, my gaze drifting toward the outfield wall, my face heating despite the sweat already pouring down my neck. I hold out a closed fist between us, keeping my arm straight. “I might take it back later. Probably not, but don’t push your luck.”
My dad doesn’t move for a second, but I keep my fist out for him to accept.
“I’ve still got a lot of shit to work through in my head,” I continue, my voice a little uneven. I don’t like how vulnerable I sound, but I push through it. “Those years don’t just disappear because we had a good week at the plate, or because you gave me some solid advice. And those feelings are still there even if we’re bonding over knocking out rich people’s teeth. But yeah. If I’m being honest, it’s nice having you here. In my life. And I forgive you, Dad.”
He swallows hard, his jaw working as he looks from my face back to my hand before finally reaching out and dropping his fist on top of mine. The contact is brief. Digestible. It’s what I can handle for now.
“Okay, kid,” he utters. And that’s where we leave it.
He stands up, arching his back in a final stretch, and tosses a baseball toward my glove. “Get your gear on. These Nashville hitters like to crowd the plate. You need to establish the inside corner early.”
“Got it.”
