The reception from the team is lukewarm at best. Most of the guys are too busy peeling off their stirrups to care, though a few of the younger utility players are wide-eyed, staring anxiously.
“Does this mean the travel stipend is changing?” one yells from the back. “Are we getting better hotels?”
Summerhill just chuckles, a practiced sound, smooth like his expensive whiskey, I’m sure.
“We’re looking at all the operational logistics, boys. Keep your heads down. I’m pretty good at this business thing. I’ll see what I can do.”
I spin around to face my locker, lest I blurt out an ill-timed guffaw. I slip out of my warm-up shirt and grab a clean T-shirt, slinging it over my left shoulder. As the rest of the club scatters, I stand up and walk straight toward him. I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking intimidated by the custom fabric or the multi-million-dollar grin. I step directly into his personal space, holding out my left hand.
“Jake McKinney,” I say, my voice flat, glare set.
Summerhill takes my hand. His grip is firm, a physical display of his businessman superpowers. I clamp down with the strength of a man who spends his life squeezing baseballs and dragging farm equipment. We lock eyes, and for a few long seconds, an invisible, high-stakes battle of egos and pure male dominance plays out in the center of the clubhouse. Neither of us breaks. Neither of us blinks.
“McKinney,” he finally says as our hands part. His eyes scan the compression sleeve on my right arm before returning to my face. “Right, you’re Roddy’s boy. I’ve read your file.”
Boy. This motherfucker.
“Yeah . . . that’s me. Hey, I wanted to tell you . . . while you’re in town inspecting your assets, you should do yourselfa favor, check out Earl’s. It’s a great pub down on Main. You can walk there. I mean, if you walk. Maybe you’ve got a golf cart or some sh?—”
“I walk.” His tight smile is an F-you right back at me.
Good. Let’s go.
“Right, well. You’d like it, I think. It’s a great spot—all the local flavor. Really gives you the lay of the land. Best steak in the county, too.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. He gives me a subtle, calculated side-eye, clearly wondering exactly how much I know about his future plans. I hold my expression steady, though. Bluff mastered, poker face intact.
“Thanks for the tip, Jake,” he says, a faint, intrigued edge to his tone. “Maybe I’ll grab dinner there on my way out of town.”
He turns, following Kevin back out toward his office, or at least what’s left of it. We’ve all seen the boxes. The moment the door clicks shut, Roddy steps up beside me, letting out a chuckle that vibrates from his chest and into my bicep as he leans into me.
“You know your Aunt Winnie is currently sitting at the end of the bar with your mother, right?” Roddy mutters, a wicked grin breaking through his stubble.
I shrug.
“You just fed that billionaire straight to the sharks.”
I pull my T-shirt over my head, adjusting the cotton over my shoulder, and smirk. “I know.”
My dad and I walk through the front door of Earl’s and instantly drool at the scent of charred ribeye and friedonions. If I could bundle this aroma into a candle, it would be all I burned. The place is packed with the usual Tuesday night crowd—ranchers in dusty caps, a few of the players fueling up for tomorrow, mechanics from the shop down the road, and local families tucked into the booths.
Daisy spots us from the kitchen window, giving us a quick wave before texting Dad and asking if we want our usual. I nod and say, “Of course.” Dad texts her back, and she flashes us a thumbs up.
“Kitchen looks slammed tonight,” my dad says.
“I should get Campbell a to-go order when our food arrives. I promised I’d deliver.”
Campbell is back at the apartment, completely locked in her zone and finishing up her strategic plan, so it’s just the two of us taking a corner booth near the back jukebox. But the real show is happening twenty feet away at the end of the bar.
Austin Summerhill is sitting on a barstool, his expensive suit jacket draped over the empty seat next to him, his crisp white sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks entirely out of place, like a silver dollar dropped into a bucket of gravel. He’s just ordered a draft beer when the air in the room suddenly drops ten degrees.
“Oh boy,” my dad mumbles behind his palm as he rubs his chin.
My aunt Winnie marches out of the kitchen hallway, stopping about halfway down the length of the bar when her eyes zero in on her enemy. I figured she’d recognize him. Hell, she probably has a copy of his birth certificate by this point.
She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t glance around, and doesn’t give him a chance to take a single sip before she’s on him,finger pointed an inch away from his nose. Her face is set in a look of absolute, righteous fury.
From our booth, Roddy and I can’t hear their words over the clinking of glasses and the roar of the jukebox, but the visual is spectacular. Winnie’s hands wave in all directions, pausing occasionally to ball into fists at her hips. Her index finger stabs the air inches in front of his face. She’s probably letting him know that the town is organized and the resistance is real. That’s been her word of choice lately—resistance. I think she’s been watching too muchStar Wars.
