“McKinney.”
I turn my head to see Coach standing at the top of the dugout steps, his clipboard propped against his hip. He signals me over with a quick jerk of his chin. I jog up the steps, careful not to let my right arm swing too much. I’m literally doing everything I can to not just obey doc’s orders but to be his prized patient.
“Training staff gave me the updated timeline this morning,” Coach says, squinting out at the field. “We’re heading out for the three-game stretch in Wichita on Thursday. You don’t need to pack your bag. Stay here, get your physical therapy done twice a day. You could use a day off anyhow, huh? Just rest and?—”
“I’m traveling, Coach.” My response is instant, the words cutting through before he can even finish. “I want to be on that bus.”
Coach Shuster meets my eyes, his bushy eyebrows rising. “You can’t catch, you can’t throw, and you damn sure aren’t hitting, so don’t think you can worm your way into breaking protocol. Why the hell would you want to spend eight hours on a hot bus to sit in a visiting dugout?”
“Because I know the Wichita pitching staff,” I insist, shifting my weight. “I’ve been in this league longer than half our roster. I can sit with the younger guys, walk them through the charts. I did the work a week ago, figuring I’d be in the lineup. Don’t let that go to waste. I don’t need a healthy shoulder to be useful, Coach. Let me mentor where I can.”
An appreciative smile slowly etches into his face as heslaps his clipboard against his leg. “That’s admirable, Jake. Truly. A lot of guys get slapped on the injured list and turn into ghosts. I’ll make sure the clubhouse knows you’re coming, and I’m going to tell the hitters to tap into your IQ. Besides,” he adds, offering a rare, genuine nod of approval, “you’ve been seeing the ball better than anyone on this squad since before the bursa flared up. Your eyes are still a weapon.”
“Thanks, Coach.” The validation settles a tiny piece of the chaos in my gut.
As I turn back toward the bench, Coach Kessler, our hitting coach, catches my eye from the far end of the rail. She hooks a finger, gesturing me to the bat rack.
“I was watching your cage work from the other day, McKinney,” she says, her voice low over the crack of a bat on the field. “You’re keeping your weight entirely centered on your back hip now. No drifting. You’ve make some major tweaks over the last month, and I’m proud of you. Just . . . I noticed. People notice. They’ll remember.”
I lean against the concrete wall, a faint smile touching my lips.
“To be honest, between your stance adjustments and my dad’s constant chirping in my ear about my using myMcKinney legs, I managed to piece together a halfway decent swing.”
Kessler chuckles, shaking her head. “McKinney legs. That’s good. I’m gonna use that. And you’ve done more than piece it together, Jake. You owned it. Don’t lose sight of that while you’re healing.”
Her praise acts like a sudden shot of high-grade fuel. The dejection that’s been pinning me down releases, replaced by a sudden surge of adrenaline. For the rest of the game, I don’t sit. I pace the length of the dugout, giving peptalks, slamming my left hand against my dad’s chest protector every time he heads in after an inning, and hyping up every guy who crosses the chalk.
When my dad jogs into the dugout after catching the final frame to secure a 4-3 win, he looks exhausted, sweat soaking through his graying hair. He unbuckles his shin guards, and I hand him a fresh bottle of water.
“The breaking ball was hanging in the eighth,” I tell him quietly. “You adjusted well by calling the high fastball to set up the slider.”
He takes a long drink, his eyes tracking mine as he sprays water into his open mouth, then nods once, a purposeful movement that carries the weight of an unwritten contract. He pats my shoulder when he stands, leaving me with a slight squeeze that shows his pride. I pay attention. I’m good at what I do.
Time to get out of my own damn way.
The quiet of the post-game clubhouse doesn’t last long.
Our only warning that Kevin is walking in with the pending new ownership is the crack of the heavy oak door against the brick wall.
“That will come out of your settlement funds,” a tall man in a very expensive-looking tan suit says with a chuckle. The guy looks as if he accidentally took a wrong turn on his way to a Milan fashion show.
So this is Austin Summerhill.
Dripping with an arrogant, hotshot energy that practically screams tech-bro money, Austin clears his throat as Kevin claps his hands like a grade schoolteacher trying towrangle his classroom’s attention. Most of the guys take a seat, and the few heading toward the showers pause to lean against the wall.
“That’s him, huh?” my dad says under his breath. I nod and fold my arms over my chest. The two of us take up an entire bench.
Summerhill’s tan suit looks like it just came out of the press, the fronts crisply creased clear to his polished black shoes. I’m sure that outfit costs more than our entire team’s monthly food allowance. His dark hair is slicked back perfectly despite the Oklahoma humidity, and his faint beard is caught somewhere between actual facial hair and a shadow. The cut is perfect. And yeah, whatever, so he’s good-looking. Fuck him.
“Listen up, fellas,” Kevin calls out, his voice tight as he looks anywhere but at me. I’m sure he knows about Campbell and me, and he has to realize she told me about their conversation. I’m less sympathetic than my girl is.Well, Kevin? You made your bed, buddy.
“Guys, this is Austin Summerhill of Summerhill Executives. I know a lot of you have been hearing the rumors . . . it’s true. My time at the helm of the Mavericks is coming to a close. Being a part of this team, taking on my family’s legacy, watching so many of you guys grow, the past players, present ones . . . damn.”
Kevin gets choked up, and I’m sure it’s genuine, but I can’t seem to stretch my mouth from the pursed flat line it’s in.
He clears his throat before uttering, “Sorry.”
“Anyhow, this is Austin. Our new . . .yournew majority owner. He’s just rolling through the concourse to check out the ballpark, get the lay of the land. And he wanted to stop in and say hi.”
