4. Campbell #2
“To make a really long story short, basically, my brother is a dumbass. He had a chance to go pro right out of high school, and he took it. Daisy and he had been together since their freshman year of high school, and when Roddy left, Daisy was pregnant with Jake. He knew, and he could have put off going pro, stuck around and played a couple years at the college level, but he took his shot instead. And well . . .”
Winnie holds out her open palms to either side of her body as her shoulders rise. I quake with a silent, single laugh, my gaze bouncing between the two of them.
“So Jake was a . . . what . . . secret baby?” I can boil most of life’s situations down to key fiction tropes. I can work with this if that’s the case here.
“Not exactly,” Daisy says.
So perhaps it won’t be so easy.
“Jake was no surprise. And Roddy saw him when he was a baby. He made it just in time—” Winnie begins to explain.
Daisy shakes her head, cutting Winnie off.
“He was late for the birth. Always late,” she says with a short huff and roll of her eyes.
When her gaze meets mine, I suddenly feel closer to her.
There’s something kindred about having men disappoint you in life.
For me, it’s been my father. For Daisy, it seems the great Roddy McKinney has ample flaws.
“I’m guessing he wasn’t around much while Jake grew up?” I pry.
The two women share a quick look, then laugh.
“He wasn’t around at all,” Daisy says, bringing her gaze back to me. She leans to her side a smidge, resting both arms on the seatback next to her. “If you can get those two to talk, I’ll throw you a party to end all parties at Earl’s, all drinks on me.”
That’s right. I had heard she owns Earl’s.
“Hmm.” My eyes squint as I mull over her challenge. I know she’s being facetious, but I do love a prize. “You should know, when it comes to getting drunk, I have very expensive taste.” I hold my hand out again, and Daisy shakes a bit reluctantly this time, giving me side-eyes.
Winnie puffs out a laugh.
“I better be invited,” she adds.
“Oh, you will be,” I say, smiling at my new acquaintance. I need friends around this place.
“You get those two talking, I’ll pull out all the top shelf shit, Campbell.” Daisy’s eyes widen, and I wonder if it’s skepticism or hope stretching out her expression. Either way, I hope to surprise her.
For the next seven innings, I don’t take a single note. I watch the game through Daisy’s eyes, and in doing so, I see something I had entirely missed.
Roddy is brilliant, yes. He hit a double in the fifth that drove in two runs, and his veteran presence anchors a defense that easily could have fallen apart behind a shaky rookie pitcher. But while Roddy is the sun everyone seems to revolve around, his son is the gravity holding the edges together.
I focus on Jake in the bullpen for most of the game.
He isn’t simply sitting there pouting. When the backup reliever, a nervous twenty-year-old named Martinez, throws a wild pitch that bounces off the brick wall, Jake stands up, walks over to the young kid, and calmly shows him a few adjustments to make with his arm slot and the way he’s falling off the mound.
He’s down there, out of the spotlight, coaching the guys who don’t get the same attention as hotshots like Hunter Reddick.
He’s taking care of the forgotten bullpen, the kids who are too intimidated to talk to a Hall-of-Famer.
He’s their anchor, doing invisible, thankless work in the shadows while his father soaks up the applause under the stadium lights.
When the game ends in a comfortable five-two victory for the Mavs, the crowd erupts. Roddy gets the attention from the in-game emcee, and the few reporters who made it out here for the game swarm him as soon as he’s done being humble in front of the crowd.
Daisy stands up, shoving her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. Winnie does the same.
“I’m rooting for you, Campbell,” she says with a wry smirk.
“I appreciate that.” I chuckle as I nod toward the field. “And thank you for showing me what to look for.”
An hour after the final pitch, the stadium is dead. The lights are mostly dimmed, casting long, eerie shadows across the empty green seats. The grounds crew has already finished grooming the infield, leaving the scent of damp earth and cut grass lingering in the air.
I stand near the steps of the home dugout, the zipper on my hoodie pulled all the way up to my chin. My fingers are numb, but I can’t leave. Not yet.
I hear the deep voices and swear-laden banter boom from the tunnel before Jake and a few of the other young players step onto the concrete.
“Got a minute?” I prepare myself for rejection, but he surprises me.
“Sure. Go on, Jay. I’ll catch up later.” He waves his teammate on, then leans against the dugout entrance with his massive black equipment bag slung over one shoulder.
He’s wearing dark jeans, a grey hoodie, and his signature scowl.
His jaw has a day’s worth of stubble, and his broad shoulders are rigid, perhaps carrying a weight that has nothing to do with baseball gear.
He lets out a long, loud sigh.
“Yes?” His voice is a low, gravelly rumble. “The locker room is empty. The reporters left twenty minutes ago. If you’re trying to corner me for a joint interview with tonight’s big superstar, you missed your window.”
“That make you feel better?” I’m done being bullied by Jake. I need him to work with me, and to get there, I’m going to have to show him I’m not easily intimidated.
“A bit.” He shrugs one shoulder, and his eyes narrowed on me with this intense, calculating gaze he usually reserves for a base stealer.
“I was watching you tonight,” I finally say.
He lets out a harsh, dry laugh, shifting the weight of his bag.
“Sure you were.” He holds my stare for a beat, unflinching. “Everyone out here was watching the McKinney behind the plate.”
“Not me,” I counter.
I take a few steps toward him, stopping just short of his massive frame.
The scent of soap, leather, and a hint of wintergreen tobacco wash over me.
Up close, out of his usual baseball uniform or practice clothes, Jake is imposing.
He has his father’s height, but his build is thicker, more rugged.
I’m just glad his cowboy hat isn’t out tonight. I think I’d be doomed if it were.
“I was watching the bullpen,” I add.
My admission seems to catch him off guard. His jaw tightens, and the cynical smirk he had plastered on his face fades from his lips.
“The bullpen.”
“Yeah. I saw you with Martinez in the sixth. I saw how you helped him recalibrate his release point without making him feel like an idiot. I saw you catching for the guys who were trying to choke down their nerves. And I saw how you handled the pitchers who came out of the game deflated.” I take a breath, looking up into his dark, guarded eyes, doing my best to remain stoic .
. . strong. “Roddy is a great leader, Jake. No one can deny that. But you . . . you’re a great teammate.
You’re the heart of the guys who don’t make the headlines. ”
Jake stares at me, and for a second, the defensive armor he wears like a second skin cracks, revealing something incredibly raw, vulnerable, and maybe a bit tired. He looks away just as quickly, his gaze drifting over the empty field.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, his voice dropping so low it’s almost swallowed by the wind. “Teammates don’t get you called up to the show. Stats do. Reps do. I’m sitting on a bench while he plays dress-up with my life.”
His gaze snaps back to mine, and his guard is still lowered. I see the flash of pain.