If only some of that charm rubbed off on Jake McKinney.
“Go ahead. Set up outside,” a soft, raspy voice says to my right.
I blink, pulled from my inner thoughts, and look at the woman sitting a few seats away from me. I’d squeezed into a rare empty pocket in the third row behind our dugout just before the first pitch. She must have snuck in behind me. The woman looks to be in her late-thirties or early-forties tops, with kind, tired hazel eyes and brown hair pulled back into a claw clip. Her Mavericks hoodie is worn, the blue faded from use rather than the intentional distressing we’re trying to sell in the team shop. She’s a true fan.
“Sorry?” I say, leaning toward her so she can hear me over the ambient chatter of the crowd.
“Oh, I was talking about Roddy,” she says with a smirk, nodding toward the diamond. “He always calls for the fastball outside on a 1-1 count to a left-handed hitter early in the game. He likes to see how far they’re willing to reach.”
I look back down at the field. Sure enough, the future Hall-of-Famer drops his fingers between his thighs and shifts his weight. I wonder if he even bothers with the PitchCom, or simply sticks with old-school hand signals. He pounds his glove exactly where the woman predicted. The pitcher throws. The batter reaches.Crack. A lazy pop fly straight to third base for an out.
“Wow,” I mutter, scribbling a quick note in my tablet. “You know your baseball.”
The woman gives a faint, bittersweet smile, her eyes never leaving the man setting up for the next batter behind the plate.
“I knowhim,” she says softly, almost to herself.
My PR brain, always on high alert, twitches. But beforeI can dig into what that means, Roddy chases down a foul ball for the third out behind the plate. The crowd roars, and he lifts his mask to reveal that signature McKinney smile. He makes it look so easy. All of it. And just as quickly, he shifts all the credit to the rookie pitcher, giving Hunter a healthy slap on the ass as they slip into the dugout. Suddenly, the energy in the dugout is vibrating with camaraderie.
That’s the Roddy McKinney effect. He’s a masterclass in leadership. He commands the field and orchestrates the game like a seasoned maestro. The only problem is the man he displaced to do it here.
I shift my gaze down the third-base line, all the way to the bullpen. Sitting on the wooden bench, his arms crossed over his chest and Mavericks cap pulled down so low his eyes are entirely in shadow, is Jake.
I’ve studied the stats. It’s not like Jake was set to be the star of the squad this season. The opposite, actually. He’s here because of sheer grit, and probably a healthy dose of stubbornness. I’ve asked around—the guy simply doesn’t know how to quit. He might not see how powerful that drive can be, but I do. He just needs to learn how to sell that quality to a roomful of stat-heads who don’t always pay attention to the nuances. Not all greatness can be read in numbers. Sometimes, it’s in the stories people have to tell.
“He looks off,” the woman next to me utters.
I glance back at her and see another woman has joined our row, and she’s wearing one of Roddy’s jerseys from his time in St. Louis, before he settled in and became a Texas legend. These ladies are real fans.Or maybe . . . more.I follow the gaze of the first woman, and she isn’t looking at Roddy anymore. Her eyes are locked onto the bullpen. Onto Jake.
“What do you mean?” I ask, my interest fully piqued.
“It’s nothing,” she says, recrossing her legs and closing her body off to me. I get the hint, but also, this lady should quit talking to herself out loud if she doesn’t want me being nosy.
I make eye contact with the second woman, and she shrugs, glancing to her friend then leaning across her lap toward me.
“She means Jake,” the other woman says. “He’s nursing his right shoulder. See how he’s leaning slightly to the left while he sits? He does that when his traps are tight. He won’t tell the trainers. He’s too stubborn.”
My heart does a strange, violent thud against my ribs, and I study both women, noting the delicate lines around their eyes, the familiar shapes of their jaws. I should probably be concerned about my media target lying about an injury, but there’s something here that has me stuck. Then it hits me.
“You’re family,” I breathe out with a subtle laugh, the pieces instantly snapping into place. I’ve done some digging, enough to understand why there’s so much baggage attached to Roddy and Jake’s relationship. This must be?—
“Daisy,” the first woman says, giving in to the warm smile that seems more natural to her than the cold shoulder she tried to give me. She stretches out her palm, and we shake. My eyes dash to the faded tattoo on her ring finger. It looks as if she attempted to remove something there.
“And I’m Winnie, Roddy’s smarter, prettier sibling,” the second woman says, taking my hand as soon as Daisy and I finish shaking.
“It’s really nice to meet you both. I’m?—”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Daisy says, chuckling and glancing at Winnie. “She’s Jake’s PR nightmare.”
I sigh as Winnie rears back and says, “Ohhhhh, so this is Campbell.”
“Glad to know I’ve at least made an impression. In my defense, pushing these guys to talk is part of my job, and Jake isn’t exactly an open book. I’m glad I met you both tonight, actually. I could use some insights when it comes to those two. Roddy and Jake? I simply want to get them to sit down for one interview, and you’d think I was telling Jake to prep for a root canal.”
Daisy breathes in deep, her mouth a fixed, hard line as her gaze drops to her own lap. She fidgets her hands together then stretches her palms out on her thighs before meeting my gaze again.
“Jake’s a great kid. Well, man, but he’s always a kid to me. You know,” she says, shrugging.
“Sure, sure,” I nod, getting comfortable sitting sideways in my seat. I’ve seen plenty of baseball. If I’m going to get anywhere with these two, I need to put all of my focus on this conversation.
