He reaches out, his fingers trembling as he flips open the blue folder, pointing a shaky finger at a densely packed page of code-like legal provisions.
“I didn’t read the fine print,” he cries, a tear finally spilling over his cheek. “I didn’t understand the binding language in the annex clauses. The eminent domain riders. Campbell, they authorize the development group to leverage county code 14-B. It gives them the right to condemn and bulldoze half the town. The historic district, the Blackwood property, the pasture south of the complex—it’s all in there. They’re going to flatten Sweetwater, and my signature authorized the filing. I’m Sweetwater’s worst traitor.”
A fury settles deep into my bones. This is my dad’s special move, hide the devastating structural damage in a sub-clause of an asset acquisition, use a massive financial carrot to blind a small-town executive, and lock the vice grip before anyone even realizes they’ve been trapped.
“He locked me in, Campbell,” Kevin mutters, slamming his fist against the desk, his face contorted in agony. “I went to his office in Nashville yesterday and tried to pull thecontract. I told him I wanted to void the transfer. And he just looked at me, smiled this cold, terrifying grin, and told me that if I breach the contract now, Summerhill will sue me for personal fraud.
“They’ll liquidate my assets, which, Campbell, ain’t much without this team and what they’re giving me. They’ll take my house, my savings, my wife’s teaching pension. Everything. I never intended to hurt this town. Sweetwater is my family. These people are my whole heart. I’ve known Daisy and Roddy since they were kids. I watched Jake grow up in the dugout. First Little League, then out here. And I just handed their lives, their legacies, over to a bulldozer for a retirement check.”
He buries his face in his hands again, his chest heaving with silent, heavy sobs.
I stand there, looking at this broken man, and the anger I felt toward him for the last several days begins to dissolve, replaced by a stinging empathy. He isn’t a villain. He’s just another victim of the Hines & Associates machine. Another casualty of a father who views human beings as numbers on a spreadsheet and relationships as litigation.
“Kevin,” I say softly, walking over to the desk and placing a hand on his trembling shoulder. “Look at me.”
He slowly lifts his head, his eyes filled with desperate, pathetic hope.
“I’m so stupid. You were trying to tell me, and I was so busy living in my little bubble I only recently realized it,” Kevin whispers, his voice cracking. “Eric Hines is your father. Until three days ago, when the corporate registry went through, I didn’t even blink at the same last name. That’s why you were so skeptical of the promotion, wasn’t it?”
I nod, biting my tongue. It’s a strange feeling to be soembarrassed by your family legacy. I’m ashamed to be a Hines.
“I feel sick.” His voice is nothing more than a broken murmur. “I want to make it up to you. To everyone. If I ruin Sweetwater, I don’t have a home left to return to.”
I look down at the blue-bound folders, at the fine print that has terrified this man into submission. A tiny smile touches the corner of my lips. It’s the same smile I saw in the mirror the morning after I wrote my resignation letter.
Eric Hines is a brilliant lawyer. Probably one of the best in the country. But he has one massive, fatal flaw—arrogance. He believes that because he is playing against small-town managers and local farmers, he doesn’t need to check his flank. He assumes that because his name is stamped on the folder, nobody will have the courage or the legal training to fight back.
But he forgot that he raised me.
“He didn’t miss a loophole, Kevin,” I say, my voice steady, ringing with an unshakeable confidence that makes him stop crying. “Because under property law, you can’t close a loophole that doesn’t exist yet. But he did make a mistake.”
Kevin blinks, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “What mistake?”
“He assumed you were alone.” I tap the silver lion’s head on the folder with my index finger. “He locked you into a legal vice grip because he knows you don’t have the capital to fight him in a courtroom. But he doesn’t know that you’ve handed these documents to me. He doesn’t know that Save Sweetwater currently has the entire county zoning history, the traffic impact assessments, and a public relations strategy that will turn his billionaire client’s development into a toxic asset before they can even break ground.”
I pull the blue folders toward me, sliding them into my tote bag one at a time.
“Don’t panic, Kevin,” I say, looking directly into his eyes, ensuring he hears the absolute certainty in my voice. “You didn’t mean to hurt this town, and you are going to help us fix it. You are going to stay inside the front office, play the role of the compliant, stressed-out GM, and feed me every single memo, email, and correspondence your new owners send through.”
He looks at me, the terror in his eyes slowly morphing into resolve. He nods once, and hard.
“Anything. Whatever you need. Just stop him.”
“Oh, I will.” I sling the heavier tote bag over my shoulder, excited about the added weight, and head toward the door. “I’m going to turn his own contract into the cage that traps him. Go home, Kevin. Get some sleep. He may have won the game, but we’ll take the series.”
TWENTY-THREE
JAKE
The standard blue-and-orange Mavericks pullover scratches against my neck, a brutal reminder that I’m wearing team gear, not a game-day uniform. Sitting on the bench of our own dugout while an afternoon game rages ten feet away is a special kind of hell. At least when I was in the bullpen, I was busy.
It’s only been a week since the team doctor officially benched me, and while the pain in my shoulder has simmered to a dull, bruised ache, my mind is practically tearing itself apart trying to stay invested.
Campbell is right. I keep reminding myself of that. I’ll get back in there soon enough. I’ll work harder. I’ll come back stronger. But damn, it’s so hard not to give in to the useless feeling that accompanies being on the IL.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, knotting my hands together as my dad blocks a tough slider in the dirt behind the plate.
“Way to stay big, Rod! Great block!” I yell, forcingenergy into my lungs. It’s a conscious choice. If I let myself sink into the dark, self-pitying hole that’s been yawning wide open since Nashville, I’m useless to everybody.
