The sheer amount of self-doubt rolling off him is suffocating. It’s the residual poison of disappointment. I’ve been there. Hell, if I let myself, I can spiral right alongside him when I think about the promotion I passed up on principle. I’d still make the same choice, though. Again and again. And Jake would too, otherwise his body would make it for him.
I catch his chin with my hand, forcing him to turn his head until his eyes are locked onto mine. I zoom right past my soft, comforting girlfriend voice and instead opt for the one that once made twenty-two separate real estate executives sweat through their custom suits during my internship days at my father’s firm.
“Listen to me, Jake McKinney. You recently caught for five different pitchers over nine innings with zero passed balls. You hit two doubles and walked off a game against the best bullpen in the league. The scouts aren’t stupid. They didn’t watch you play for a month and then delete their notes because you have a temporary bout of tendonitis. Taking care of your body isn’t a failure, it’s part of the job. So suck it up, and when the time comes to hit the dirt, make sure your ass is ready.”
Jake blinks at me, his jaw working, but the hard, angry, defensive line of his shoulders drops a few inches.
“I am not letting you quit on yourself,” I continue, my voice softening as my thumb traces his cheekbone, smoothing over the rough stubble there. “And neither is this team. Roddy believes in you. Daisy believes in you. The guys in that dugout are currently terrified because their leader is sitting on a couch instead of behind the plate. Youare the backbone of this club. When the job came open, you stepped in and took it. You just have to let me be your captain for three weeks. Can you do that?”
He stares at me for a long, quiet beat, his breathing slowing before a lopsided, sheepish smile touches the corners of his lips. He leans his head forward, resting his forehead against my shoulder, his long exhale warm against my neck.
“You’re real bossy when I’m injured,” he murmurs.
“You’re being nice. I’m bossy all the time.” I lean down and kiss the top of his head, my heart swelling with a strange possessiveness I’ve never felt before. “Now, finish your chicken and eat the damn broccoli. I have to check my email.”
An hour later, Jake is fast asleep on the bed, his breathing deep and even, the ice pack safely removed and replaced with a warm compress. I am sitting at the kitchen counter, my fingers hovering over my keyboard as I review the public zoning contracts Winnie sent my way this morning, when my phone buzzes.
The caller ID displays a name I didn’t think I’d see again for months, if ever.
Kevin Torkelson.My former boss. Persona non grata around these parts.
I glance toward the bed to ensure Jake is still out for the count, then slide off the stool and walk into the small bathroom, pulling the sliding barn panel shut behind me. He emailed a few days ago, something about needing me to sign something formal for my exit interview, which I will not be doing. I swipe and quickly press the phone to my ear, my voice cool and my tone hushed. “Kevin. I received your emails, sorry. I just haven’t had the time?—”
“Campbell, please,” his voice gasps through the line.
This isn’t the happy-go-lucky retirement-bound Kevin who tried to give me a promotion to keep me quiet. This Kevin’s voice is trembling, his breath coming in short, erratic pants that sound a whole lot like a panic attack. I can hear the distant, hollow echo of a concrete corridor behind him, alongside the low hum of industrial fans.
“Kevin? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m at the ballpark,” he whispers, his voice cracking with sounds like fear. “I’m in the auxiliary press box behind section 204. The stadium is empty. The team is off today. Please . . . you have to come down here. Secretly. Don’t tell Jake. Don’t tell Roddy. Just, please. I don’t know who else to call.”
The legal side of my brain instantly notes the red flags.It’s a trap. He’s trying to get you to sign a non-disclosure agreement, or he’s trying to mitigate the damage from your resignation.But there’s something about the sheer panic in his voice that seems impossible to fake.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I say flatly before ending the call.
I slip out of the bathroom, scribbling a quick note for Jake on a piece of paper.Running to the grocery store for more garlic, back soon. Don’t move your arm.I hate that it’s a lie, but the last thing Jake needs to be doing right now is tailing me on a wild goose chase. I slip my keys into my pocket and head out the door.
The side entrance to the stadium is unlocked, so I slip in that way. The concourse is a ghost town. Without the lights and the crowds, the empty concession stands smelling faintly of stale popcorn and day-old beer, there’s a creepiness to this place. My boots echo loudly against the concrete as I trudge up the ramp toward section 204. I half expectsomeone to pop out from behind a row of seats and scream, “Gotcha!”
Of course that doesn’t happen.
When I push through the heavy glass door of the auxiliary press box, the sight inside stops me dead.
Kevin is sitting on a metal folding chair, his head buried in his hands. His expensive linen suit jacket is tossed onto the counter, his tie pulled loose, his hair completely disheveled. On the desk in front of him lie three thick, blue-bound legal folders stamped with a logo I would recognize anywhere: a lion’s head.
He looks up when the door clicks shut. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale and sunken, looking like a man who hasn’t slept in a week. Or perhaps is midway through a massive bender. He doesn’t smell like a drunk, so I don’t think that’s it.
“Thank you,” he coughs out, standing up so fast he knocks the chair on its side. “Thank you for coming, Campbell. Seriously, thank you.”
“What is this, Kevin?” I ask, staying near the door, my hands tucked into the pockets of my jacket. “If this is an attempt to negotiate a severance package or a non-disparagement clause after my resignation, you can save your breath. My father’s firm doesn’t have the leverage to force my hand to do shit.”
“No, no, no,” he stammers, waving his hands frantically, tears visibly welling in his eyes. “It’s not that. God, Campbell, I didn’t know. I swear to you on my life, I didn’t know what I was signing.”
I step closer to the desk, my eyes tracking the legal documents. “What are you talking about?”
“The sale,” he whispers, his voice breaking entirely as his shoulders drop. “The team acquisition contract withSummerhill Executives. When they brought me the paperwork, I was blinded by the massive payout. They offered me a bonus that not only secured my retirement, but made me feel like a wealthy man.
“Running this team has been like being on a huge hamster wheel, and the idea that my wife and I could maybe finally reap the rewards, well, it was more money than I’ve made in my entire life working in the minors. I thought I was just signing a standard ownership transfer. A new billionaire wants to upgrade the stadium, buy some new turf, and increase the marketing budget. I figured it was a win for everyone.”
