3. Jake
THREE
JAKE
Well. I’ve made it through five days of practice without seeing an alert for a press obligation pop up on my phone or appear on my daily schedule, so it might be safe to say Campbell’s big speech was more bluff than bite.
That’s good, because I’m not sure I can fake my way through an interview with my dad. It’s hard enough to share bullpen catching lanes with him. He takes up space—physically and mentally. And trying to be my best with his presence constantly . . . hovering? It’s hard.
Thank God today is all about hitting. I wormed my way into Jayden’s session. I figure if this hitting tunnel is this crowded, the odds are good my dad won’t try to insert himself. It’s when I’m alone that I’m vulnerable to his good ole fatherly advice.
I’m sure most people would leap at the chance to get insights from the great Roddy McKinney.
Especially catchers. But my window for advice from that man shut about twenty-five years ago, when he took off and left Mom behind to raise me on her own.
Hell, he didn’t even stick around long enough to welcome me to the world.
I got birthday cards, though, so I guess I should suck it up and be happy about that.
Birthday cards and a closet full of McKinney replica jerseys. Same shit he sent his fans.
I step up to the tee to take a few warm-up hacks for our new hitting coach, Colby. Some of the guys around here talk shit about her being, well, a her. But I’ve seen her highlights from college. I’ll be lucky if I can hit half as good as she can.
I swap out places with Jayden so he can get his round in and lean against the back of the cage while I watch his swing with envy.
“He’s quite the player.”
I smirk at the sound of Campbell’s voice but keep my back to her. I’m afraid if I make eye contact, she’ll come at me with her crazy press ideas about me and my pops again.
“Yeah, he’s a natural,” I say, tapping the end of my bat on the side of my cleat then rolling it over my wrist. I started this habit in Little League, messing around with my bat while waiting my turn.
It stuck with me, despite Coach Blackwood’s constant nagging at me to “quit noodling,” when I was in high school.
I have nervous energy. It has to come out somehow.
Better through fidgeting than putting my foot in my mouth, so to speak.
“She’s a great catch for this team. Such a good story,” Campbell says, I assume referring to Coach Kessler.
I glance down and back a hint, getting a glimpse of her tan legs and vivid blue sneakers. She’s dressed for the field today, which probably means she’s going to be hovering out here all damn afternoon.
“Yeah, she’s the real deal. You should get them to do a bunch of stories on her,” I suggest.
“Oh trust me, there are stories in the works. I mean, more than they’ve already done. A lot of the legacy media is interested, too. Someone breaking barriers is always an easy sell.”
“I bet,” I say, hoping she’ll continue selling the easy stuff.
“You know what else the media loves? A family reunion.”
Shit. I went and put my foot in my mouth.
“Yeah? How much do they enjoy a window into some good ole family dysfunction?” I turn finally and meet her eyes, offering a wry smirk as I back toward the tee to take my turn with Coach Kessler. “Cuz that’s what this story is. Dys-fucking-function.”
I shake my head, then drop my gaze to the tee and try to focus on what I’m here for. I rip through the ball with a little extra zing, and Coach comments about not using so much muscle just yet.
“Sorry,” I grumble, glancing at Campbell. She’s watching me intently, and I wonder if she finally understands just how uninterested I am in opening this topic further.
By the time I finish my second round, Campbell’s gone, probably moved on to some other juicy morsel of media gossip on our roster.
I’m sure there’s plenty. Small town? Young players fighting for shots at dreams?
Young men apt to make stupid decisions? Hell, she could very well end up busying herself putting out media shit storms if this place really gets going.
I’ve watched enough of those stories develop over the years, like the time eight years ago when I was a senior in high school and it came out that one of the Mavericks players was taking one of my classmates to prom.
And it wasn’t for a media stunt. Texas flew their PR team down here to put a stop to that whole thing before any corsages went on wrists.
Hell, if Jayden isn’t careful with his impulses, he may just blow up all the good press happening around Coach Kessler.
That’s the other reason I wormed my way into his session time with her today.
Dude has it bad. He signed up for something like a dozen of her sessions in a row.
Even if nothing is going on there, the perception is hella bad.
For the next hour, Jayden and I grind, working on one-hand drills that he seems to soar through while I look like a beer league player.
I grow more and more frustrated with every swing, until the tension finally boils over and I toss my bat on the ground and walk away from the tee, gritting, “Fuck” not so quietly under my breath.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Coach Kessler says, nudging my bat toward me with her foot.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I meet her eyes then repeat my words.
“Sorry.”
This time it’s audible. And sincere.
“I’ve been there. You’re a competitor. Just . . . don’t hold on so hard.”
She lightly punches my shoulder before I bend over and pick up my bat.
“Shouldn’t I hold on to this thing harder?” I joke.
She flashes a crooked smile, but she doesn’t laugh.
“I mean in here,” she says, tapping her finger to her head.
“Ha. Yeah, I guess.” I shake my head and straighten the tee before snagging the bucket and waving off Jayden and Coach’s help picking up.
“I got it. I’m going to try to work on a few things before I head out,” I say.
Coach purses her lips, probably in warning that over-practicing isn’t good for progress, which yeah .
. . I’ve heard that a lot. From just about every coach I’ve ever had.
I can’t stop putting in the extra hours, though.
It’s all I’ve got. And if something doesn’t click soon—like the magic genes I’m supposed to have inherited from Roddy McKinney—then I’m going to have to suck it up and face a life of manual labor and small-time farming on my family’s land.
I kick the balls to the end of the tunnel, then drag the bucket with me to fill it up. When I turn around, the tee isn’t the only thing staring back at me from the other end. Somehow, Roddy slipped into this space without me noticing.
“Damn, just how loud was I talking to myself not to hear you?”
“Pretty loud,” he laughs back.
My mouth inches up on one side, briefly. I wasn’t actually making a joke. I’m earnestly irritated that I’m trapped in a cage with him right now.
“You know, I used to get frustrated doing tee work, too.”
“Oh yeah? Wow. Thanks for the fatherly advice,” I say, plunking the heavy bucket down on the stool Coach was sitting on earlier.
I pluck out a ball and balance it on the tee, then line my feet up on the turf before slowly going through the motions of my swing. My father isn’t leaving. He’s stubborn like that, a trait I’ve learned about him in the few short weeks we’ve been in each other’s orbit.
“Try something for me,” he says.
“No thanks,” I fire back, pulling my bat from my shoulder and slicing it through the ball with every ounce of energy left in my core. It hammers against a metal post at the end of the tunnel.
“Well, all right. I guess if you’re gonna hit like that, what the hell do I have to teach you.” He chuckles, and it irritates me.
“Exactly,” I say, flashing him a glance, just long enough to make sure our eyes meet and mine leave an impression behind. One that says stop trying to make this better, asshole!
One thing I’ve obviously inherited from the man is my stubbornness. He’s wearing his like armor right now, and no matter how blunt I seem to be about not wanting his help, or, well . . . company, he seems hell bent on hanging around. He may as well make himself useful.
“If you’re going to be here, grab the stool and feed the tee balls.
” I nudge the coaching stool with the end of my bat.
My dad drags it into position, then props the bucket of balls on one knee.
I wonder if he imagined this scene the way I did when I was eight years old, teaching myself how to play this fucking game.
He rests a ball on the tee, and I do my best to block him out, lining up my bat and digging my feet into the turf mat before taking a hack. It’s a good crack, a solid barrel to the ball. If only my angry heart wasn’t pounding all the way into my throat, maybe I could enjoy it.
“I heard Coach tell you to let go. You know what that means?” He positions another ball on the tee, and I breathe out a short, snarky laugh.
“Yeah, I understand subtleties and euphemisms. I just want to take a few more swings so I can end on a high note for the day, and then . . .” I waggle my fingers away from my temple. “Poof, I’ll let the day go.”
I grip my bat and dig in, taking a hard swing. I top the ball, bouncing a hard grounder that feels, well, pretty fucking awful. I meet my dad’s gaze, then flit my focus to the tee and nod.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Again,” he says, shaking his head.
“Sorry to disappoint you. We don’t all have the great Roddy McKinney swing,” I mutter, slicing through the ball about a half second after he places it on the tee. I cut it close on purpose. He doesn’t flinch though. I have a feeling we both have the same style of grudge-holding and temper.
“I’ve never called myself great. Let’s get one fact straight. I don’t have some hero complex. And I own my fuckups,” he says, rolling a ball in his palm before placing it on the tee.
“Yeah? Is that what all the birthday cards were for? You making good?” I chuckle before swinging through the ball again. Solid contact. I toss my bat to the ground and nod toward my dad that I’m done. Mostly, I’m done with this . . . whatever we’re doing.
He heads to the back of the tunnel to gather the few balls I hit, and I pull the tape from my wrists and pull off my batting gloves. His massive hands hold the dozen or so balls as if they’re marbles, and he dumps them into the bucket before straightening up the equipment while I pack up my gear.
I’m about to step out of the tunnel before him, not totally running away, but certainly not lingering to walk with him. I barely leave the cage, though, before his hand grabs my biceps.
“Hey, one sec,” he says.
My gaze drops to his touch. He doesn’t know me well enough to get to do this. His hand falls away. I think he got the message based on my nonverbal cue.
“The birthday cards were all I could think to do. No, actually, they were because I was a fucking chicken shit. There. That’s what I am, what I was.
I sent my son cards from local drug stores from wherever market I was in because I was too chicken to pick up the phone.
And by the time I manned up enough to show my face around your mom’s house, you were the man of the house.
And you had every right to blow me off the way you did during my visits. ”
“Two visits, Roddy. You visited me twice. You didn’t even show up for my fucking graduation.” I stare my father in the eyes, and he lets out a slow breath, his lips mashed as if he’s not certain how to respond to the truth.
I shrug.
“Thing is, I’m fine. I’m over it. And I’ll figure out how to do this on my own, so just . . . quit trying so hard. Maybe just . . . let go.”
I pat his shoulder with my own heavy palm, and his gaze drops to my brief touch. His eyes remain fixed on the spot as I back away. I turn my back to him and toss my gear bag over my shoulder.
I make it a dozen steps before he utters, “I can’t let it go, Jake. You’re my son, and I love you, and I will never, ever let any of this go. Even if the whole damn thing is my fault.”
I don’t pause. Instead I continue my route to the clubhouse.
Stopping would give his words weight, and they hit me hard enough without mutual dramatics.
I hate that he’s here. But more than that, I hate that there is still this little boy buried deep inside me who wanted to stick around in that tunnel and take a few more swings just so he could watch.