2. Campbell Hines
TWO
CAMPBELL HINES
So that’s Jake McKinney.
He’s a little rougher around the edges than I expected—not exactly the typical ballplayer type. I’m pretty sure those boots of his were caked in mud, and rather than a ballcap, he showed up to the field in a black felt cowboy hat.
Interesting.
I drop my leather tote into the rolling chair behind my desk before pacing between my desk and the white board covered in scribbled important dates for the season.
I twist on my heels and snag a dry erase marker from the metal tray, tapping the capped end on my tight lips a few times before pulling the cap off and writing Jake’s name on my long list of things to do.
I follow with one more name, Roddy McKinney.
Jake’s dad. I finish by circling them both, because this story doesn’t sell without both of them.
A swift knock on the metal door jamb for my office startles me, and I flip around to come face to face with my current boss, Kevin Torkelson.
His family has owned the Mavericks organization for sixty years.
It’s one of the older affiliates in the division, the Torkelsons having taken over for the Miller family who founded it in 1902.
This team and the stadium have a fairly rich history.
I was excited to get placed here. So many stories to tell.
My position is tricky. I have to be loyal to the franchise in Texas first, but building success and driving dollars to the affiliates comes in a close second.
And I have a feeling selling this father-son reunion in a place like Sweetwater might just be the perfect spark to drive attention—and as a result, fans—to the ballpark and the town around it.
“Good morning, Campbell. You’re in early.” Kevin leans into my open door and drops his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He fits this place with his Levi’s and sport coat, black boots, and bolo tie.
“I promised you the best press ever, so I need to get to it,” I say with a tight smile.
He chuckles as he enters my office, pulling out the chair on the opposite side of my desk and nodding for me to take mine.
I draw in a deep breath because I don’t want to get comfortable here.
I plan on heading out to the field to pitch my story idea to Jake and his father, and I want to catch them before things get busy.
I compromise by leaning on a palm on my desk then tossing my recapped marker back into the metal tray.
“Impressive,” he says when I manage to land it perfectly.
I shrug.
“I played a little hoops in high school.” I blow on my nails and brush them on my blouse, not sharing that I mostly rode the bench. I love sports—all sports—but my coordination has limits.
“Well, now I know what to get you for your office welcoming gift,” he says through a short laugh, pointing toward my open door. “One of those little hoop things.”
I smirk, but don’t drag the conversation on more. Kevin clears his throat and rubs his palm along his gray, neatly trimmed beard.
“Anyway, I won’t take up too much of your time. Just a few things we didn’t really get into when we had your orientation meeting the other day. There are things . . . I wouldn’t call them secrets, but for the sake of our conversation, let’s just say they’re confidential pieces of information.”
I nod and push my tongue into my cheek as my pulse ratchets up. I swear to God, if my first assignment out of the gate is cleaning up a sex scandal, I’ll walk.
“As you know, we’ve owned this team for a long time. My grandpa started it, and a lot of the locals who helped build the stadium seats and level the grounds still live in town.”
“I know, and I love that,” I say with a big smile. The charm is such an easy sell to the media.
“Right, well.” He pauses, wincing.
Shit.
“Thing is, now that our kids are grown and living their lives in other places, Jenny and I don’t really see a future for the Torkelson line when it comes to the Mavericks organization. And well . . .”
He’s selling.
I nod, my mouth pulled tight.
“We could hold on for a few more years, sure. But we have grandkids on the way in California, and Jenny’s always wanted to live by the beach. Retirement in your fifties is the dream,” he says.
“Do you have a buyer?” I know my way around these types of transactions and acquisitions. I’m the daughter of one of the toughest land attorneys in Nashville, and have a law degree of my own, which I never wanted and don’t plan to use. But it’s come in handy in PR.
Kevin bites the tip of his tongue, his expression stiff. He seems cagey.
“I’d rather not say just yet.”
“Understood. Well, any advance warning you can give me would be good. Time is your best friend in public relations, and preferably before shit hits fans.”
Kevin laughs hard at my metaphor.
“That’s fair. And when that time comes, I’ll be sure you’re in my first round of calls.
I just needed you to know because people around here, and I love them all, Sweetwater’s been our home for generations, but they can get a bit .
. . pitch-fork-ready when it comes to change.
And a new owner for their beloved Mavericks? Well, that’s a big change.”
I nod and step from around my desk, encouraging him to get up and let me get to work.
“I get it, Kevin. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure the stories help show the value of this place and everything your family’s built as best I can. Speaking of, I have a father-son team out there I need to convince to have a sit down with ESPN, so if you don’t mind?—”
“Ha, right. Well, good luck with that. And thanks, Campbell. I appreciate the discretion.”
We shake hands, and I wait for a beat for Kevin to head back to his posh office that overlooks right field. Good luck with that. What an encouraging reaction.
Once Kevin’s out of my view, I duck back into my office so I can swap out my heels for the sneakers I stashed in my tote on my way in this morning.
I grab my phone, tuck my tote into the locking drawer in my desk, and am on my way to the field in seconds.
Mentally running through my opening lines to Roddy, I’m lost in my own pretend conversations when I step into the concourse that leads to the field level, and I’m glad I changed shoes when my body crashes directly into the massive chest protector and the brawny man donning it about three feet before reaching the dugout entrance.
“Ohhh, whoa! You okay there? I didn’t expect cross traffic.”
I recognize Roddy’s voice immediately, and his warm eyes and chiseled jaw do not disappoint.
To say I’m a fan would be putting it mildly.
Roddy McKinney may very well be my favorite player.
And he’s always good with the press. He’s the perfect storm—a popular player who does what marketing tells him to do.
Time to shoot my shot.
“You’re just the guy I was looking for, actually,” I say, tempering the screaming fangirl that wants to come out.
His warm eyes crinkle as his smile etches into his cheek on one side.
“We haven’t formally met, but I’m Campbell Hines, and I will be handling the press for the Mavericks this season.”
I wait for him to nod, but he doesn’t really react at all. In fact, his expression seems rather frozen, other than the touch of skepticism that suddenly adds to the squint in his eyes.
“Anyhow, I feel like we have so many unique stories to tell in this place.” I look around us and start to sweat. We’re still in the concrete tunnel, so the view is limited. I waggle my head. “I mean, out there, of course. And with the players. Like, well, you for example.”
“Uh huh.” His gravelly response is short, and his expression remains unchanged.
“Yeah. I mean, you’ve had quite a career. And this is where it all started. I’m sure you have a lot of fans in Sweetwater who are excited to see their hometown hero on this field again.”
He stops me with a sharp laugh, so I pull my brow in.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. Just . . . I don’t know if I’m a hero around here. Depends on who you ask, I guess.”
Okay. So, not a hero. Mental note to dig into his history a bit deeper.
“Well, the high school has to celebrate you, I’m sure.” Please say your alma mater reveres you, a tiny bit.
“Oh yeah, Coach Blackwood and I just had a beer the other night. We’ve stayed close,” he says, suddenly sucking his lips in and leaning forward. “But don’t mention that beer. He’s not supposed to be sneaking those.”
He winks, and I relax a little at the sight of his charm coming through. This is the Roddy I expected.
“Secret’s safe with me. Just don’t say that in front of the press,” I joke.
We both laugh, and an easiness is setting in along with a sense that my window is closing.
“I’m sure Jake is excited to play with you, too,” I blurt out.
The way Roddy’s smile freezes and his eyes grow distant fills my stomach with rocks. Kevin’s warning plays in my head: Good luck with that.
“You’d have to talk to Jake about that. Hey, though . . . great to meet you, Campbell. Anything I can do to help you tell some stories about this place, just ask, a’right?”
“Great,” I say, my wide smile holding in the big ask I think is probably for another person.
With a nod and a smile, Roddy heads down the tunnel to the clubhouse, and I turn my sights to the bright sun-painted field in the other direction.
The smack of ball hitting a leather mitt draws my eyes toward the bullpen just in time to see Jake prop his catcher’s mask on top of his head as he rests on one knee and tosses the ball toward our number one pitching prospect—Hunter Reddick.
I begin walking toward them, holding my breath so I can overhear their conversation as I approach the fence.
Jake is chuckling, and the similarities between his laugh and his father’s is impossible to ignore. There’s a warmth to it.
Hunter spots me first, dropping his arm to his side and adjusting his grip on the ball as he bangs it against his hip. Jake follows his gaze and jets to his feet when his eyes reach mine.