2. Campbell Hines #2
“I can’t be in trouble with the press already, can I? I’m pretty sure I haven’t talked to anyone,” he says with a casual laugh.
“No, no. So far, you’re just fine,” I say, my gaze drifting to his glistening golden forearm muscles. A younger Roddy McKinney is quite a thing of beauty. I wonder whether he realizes just how much the two of them look alike.
“You know . . . I ran into your dad,” I say, getting right into it. I’m not sure what I expected, but the slight quake of his chest accompanied by a puffed-out laugh wasn’t quite it.
“He send you over here?” Jake’s eyes squint against the sun.
I shake my head.
“Not at all. I was already heading your way.” I mash my lips, smoothing out my lip color that I fear is melting under the harsh glare of the morning sun. This place is a different kind of hot.
“Well, you got me. What can I do for you?” He glances toward Hunter, holding up a finger. I shouldn’t be interrupting their session like this, but I need to strike now if I want to pitch this story to the big outlets today.
“Chris Olsen is interested in doing a piece on you and your dad for The Break Down.” It’s a fib.
I haven’t sold Chris on the idea yet, but I know he’ll leap at the chance.
His show does a lot of pieces on family legacies.
I bet he’ll want to turn this into one of his long segments, in fact.
B-roll here in town and everything. A great sales piece for the franchise.
Jake’s gaze drops to the ground as he chews at the inside of his cheek.
“Chris Olsen, huh?”
I can’t tell if that’s an interested tone he’s using or one of apprehension.
“Yep! And you know what a spot on his show can do for your personal brand. All of that translates into playing time, and?—”
“Not interested,” Jake interjects, dropping his helmet down and stepping back behind the bullpen plate. He swirls a finger toward Hunter before dropping into his crouch.
“Not interested?” I’m flabbergasted, and my words come out a little louder than I’d prefer, but what the fuck? Nobody in any game on this planet says no to a feature on The Break Down. Nobody!
“Yep. Thanks for asking, though. Go ahead, Hunt. I’m ready.” His focus is on the pitcher sixty feet and six inches away.
Hunter winds up and slings the ball into Jake’s glove.
Jake wastes zero time zipping it back to him.
I’m not stupid. I gathered from his comments this morning that his relationship with his dad isn’t all roses, and the whole good luck with that thing was another big tell.
But not interested in huge press from Chris Olsen is, well, the very definition of cutting off ones nose to spite their face.
I roll my shoulders and clear my throat in an attempt to regain his attention, but the game of catch continues as if I’m not here.
Thing is, I’ve learned a few tricks about being a woman in a male-dominated world.
Hell, I grew up in a world that trained me for this type of confrontation.
I was the only female in my law graduating class.
And my father’s firm handles a lot of land sales for the patriarchy.
Not a ton of female ranch owners in Tennessee.
Not a lot of women looking to build multi-use developments either.
Men have been in charge just about everywhere I’ve been.
And they’re in charge here. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that stand in my way.
I flip open the latch on the gate and march toward the plate before Hunter begins his next windup.
I hold up a finger to the pitcher, perhaps a bit of a sarcastic nod to the way Jake did a moment before.
Jake stands from his crouch and pulls his mask up to his forehead again, his eyes narrowed on me as he sways from one side to the other.
He’s taking up space. But I know he’s also a bit off balance, thrown by my boldness.
I’m tempted to push him just to see if he’ll fall.
“I’m sorry our roles around here weren’t made clear to you.
See, the ownership has given me the authority to book the press I think is in the best interest of the Mavericks organization, and by extension, Texas.
And the story of a baseball legend coming back home to spend one season with his son before calling it quits is a win all the way around.
For everyone. Even you, if you’d just let your ego drop and trust me to do my job. ”
He flinches and smirks, but before he can offer a rebuttal, I dig in deeper, step in closer. He leans back, but his feet don’t move.
“That’s right, Jake McKinney. Part of my job is to elevate the players in our system, and if I think doing this story will be good for your career, then that’s what we’re gonna do. Got it?”
My hands land on my hips, and I’ve never been happier about being tall in my life. I’m sure Jake would love to tower over me right now. As it is, we’re nearly eye-to-eye. Too bad I couldn’t wear heels on the field.
His eyes dim, and his mouth curls at the ends a hint. It’s not a smirk, though. It’s something much darker, a little angrier. Stubborn.
“We’ll see,” he finally utters.
All I do is laugh, a short swift puff of air in his face.
“I think you mean we’ll see you in the media room next Tuesday for your interview. I’ll let you know the time. Now, go on. Get back to work. Hunter’s got a bullpen to finish.”
I pat Jake’s shoulder, and his eyes follow my hand as his mouth curves into a more obvious grin.
I’m not about to dwell, though, despite how my insides have suddenly rushed with heat.
I learned a lot in the courtroom before I made the switch to PR, and I know when a closing argument lands.
That one did the trick, so before either of us says another word, I march my way back through the gate, latch it, and take the warning track pathway to the away team dugout so I can hide and pat myself on the back for a job well done.