5. Jake
FIVE
JAKE
The neon sign for Earl’s is buzzing like a cicada.
The pale pink used to shine brighter, and the blue cowboy hat used to glow all the way around.
The dead spots in the neon make it hard to tell it’s a hat from far away.
I wish my mom would let me fix it, but she says she likes it how it is.
I think she’s just afraid I’ll break it and we’ll need to buy a new one.
My mom’s not great with change. Or rather, she likes to take life’s waves as they come and simply ride them instead of taking the proverbial bull by the horns and drive her own destiny.
Look where that got her. She’s never left Sweetwater, except for the very rare vacation. And her business has a depressing, faded sign out front that she clings to for sentimental reasons.
I suppose I’m one of those curveballs life threw her way, so I should be grateful that she embraced my arrival with the same enthusiasm she gives to the ever-changing neon. Despite her nostalgic streak, I have the best mom on the planet. She’s always in my corner, even when I’m not in my own.
Damn, do I wish she’d let this recent new life wave go—the one that walks, talks and is my father.
Why couldn’t the man just retire on some beach in Florida and leave us alone?
If this place is so special to him—his only true home as he says it is—then why the hell didn’t he come back to it sooner, or at least more often?
I kill the engine of my truck but don’t get out right away.
Instead, I simply sit, staring at the Earl’s entrance while I rub the sore spot on my right shoulder.
I just need a good day of rest. I’ve been going pretty hard.
I have a day off in two days, and I’m sure I’ll be fine after that.
I lean over and pop open the glove box, then pull out a bottle of ibuprofen and snap open the lid before pouring what I estimate to be three .
. . maybe four pills into my mouth. I scan the truck cab for a stray water bottle, but no such luck.
Looks like I’ll be dry swallowing these fuckers.
Hell, I’d rather swallow glass than admit I’m hurting to a trainer, let alone to the woman currently occupying my mind.
Campbell.
I lean my head back against the headrest and curse under my breath.
I shouldn’t have told her to meet me here.
It’s a bad idea wrapped in a pretty, fast-talking, city-slicker package.
I don’t need a savior, and I sure as hell don’t need a public relations campaign making me out to be some kind of charity case in the bullpen.
I’m a ballplayer. I let my glove and my bat do the talking.
But then I remember the way she looked at me under those fading stadium lights, chin tucked, eyes blazing, utterly convinced she could fix my life if I just let her. And worse, I remember the way her skin felt against the backs of my knuckles when I tugged at her zipper. Smooth. Warm.
It was all I could do not to tug that thing the other way.
“Get a grip, McKinney,” I mutter to myself, shoving the truck door open.
I need to remain focused on one thing only—my game. I’m twenty-six, and sitting on the bench in Sweetwater isn’t going to get me to Texas. As much as I want to dig my heels in just to prove a point to the world, I’m not stupid. Campbell is right. The front office listens to the noise.
Good press gets people talking, and chatter equals dollar signs.
As much as I love this game for the purity of it all, I’m not na?ve.
It’s a business. Thing is, even if it weren’t one, even if there weren’t a damn dime to be gained, I’d still give this sport everything I’ve got.
It’s in my blood, and the way I feel when everything goes just right?
Oof! Only one thing can compete with that feeling, and it comes from being between a pair of gorgeous legs.
So I give. If Campbell can use her fancy media connections to give me an edge, I’ll let her. I’d be a fool to walk away from it.
I just have to keep my eyes on the prize and my hands to myself. Easier said than done when she’s within arm’s reach.
The inside of Earl’s is exactly what it always is on a Friday night: loud, thick with the smell of fried pickles and draft beer, and packed to the gills.
The jukebox in the corner is blaring an old George Strait tune, and the wooden dance floor in the center of the room is a blur of moving bodies.
This place is a mix of college kids and old timers tonight, and the locals are running the dance floor, putting the wannabes to shame. I smirk to myself.
I stopped by my place on my way here to put on a better shirt, and yeah, maybe I threw on a bit of cologne while I was there. I figured if she was going to show, she’d beat me here. And I spot her quickly.
Campbell’s sitting at a corner booth, looking completely out of place in her Mavericks hoodie and sneakers.
She’s staring at her phone like it holds the secrets to the universe, and I’ll never understand how people can type that fast on something that’s barely a few inches wide.
I take a moment to take her in, then get her out of my system.
Her hair is falling out of whatever clip she had it in earlier, framing a face that’s entirely too pretty for the college frat boys eying her from the pool tables.
Good luck, boys. You’ll have to get through me first.
I head straight for her, keeping the frat boys in my periphery until I reach the table’s edge.
“You gonna stand there and flirt with Sigma Nu, or you gonna go sit down?”
I turn to see an old friend, Renleigh Blackwood, standing behind me, a tray of empty longnecks balanced on her palm. Her eyes shift from me to Campbell, and a knowing, terrifyingly sharp smirk spreads across her face.
“Don’t give me that look,” I warn with a slight eyeroll.
Renleigh and I have known each other for most of our lives.
We both grew up here. Her dad was my high school coach .
. . just like he was my father’s high school coach.
The last thing I need right now is Renleigh sticking around and sharing pieces of my history with Campbell.
“She’s been here ten minutes, Jake. Already ordered a diet Coke and asked if the menu had anything organic. I told her the closest thing to organic we have is the dirt on the floor.”
I let out a snort laugh and brush my arm into Renleigh’s. I’d rather poke fun of the city girl with her than endure her probing, nosy gaze.
“Apparently, I need some positive PR,” I add as I take my seat.
“Oh boy. Girl, you’ve got your work cut out for you. This guy might just be a full tear down and new build,” Renleigh teases, giving me a wink.
Campbell laughs at my expense and adds a quick, “Noted.”
I wave Renleigh away, and she goes begrudgingly, promising to put in an order for my usual well-done double burger with fries.
I shake my head and turn my attention to Campbell. The booth is tight, despite being on a corner, and our knees touch.
“Look who took his time getting here,” she says, sliding her phone away after flipping it over to hide the screen. She crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her gaze on my face.
“I was starting to think you were standing me up on purpose,” she says.
I shrug, ignoring the heat clawing at the back of my neck.
“I needed a clean shirt that hasn’t been living in the bottom of my gym bag,” I say. “How’s that for paying attention to my image?”
Her lip inches up on one side with a short, breathy laugh.
“I don’t play games, Campbell,” I add, leaning back and trying to look a hell of a lot more relaxed than I feel. “If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have invited you.”
“Charming.”
Renleigh drops off a basket of fries and a cold draft beer for me, giving me a wink before disappearing. I take a long draw of the beer, letting the cold liquid dull the ache in my shoulder and the sudden tightness in my chest.
Campbell leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. She’s in business mode now. I can see it in the way her posture shifts. She taps the curve of my longneck with her soft pink nail.
“How about we start with maybe not indulging during the season?” Her sweet lips land in a soft smile, not quite judgy but . . . critical.
“So now you’re the fun police?” I set my beer down and scan the tables at Earl’s. There are at least a dozen players in here, and all of them are having a beer with their dinner.
“I see you trying to justify it,” she chastises.
I groan and nudge my beer closer to her.
“Well, it shouldn’t go to waste, so . . . it’s yours now.” She eyes me for a beat then slowly wraps her hand around the bottle. My mind imagines it wrapping elsewhere, and I shift in my seat when my dick twitches. She takes a swig, her eyes on mine.
“Let me ask you this. Those other guys having a beer in here . . . any of them getting called up anytime soon? Would I know any of them if I didn’t work for the team?
” She blinks slowly, and I take her challenge on, scanning the room again.
She’s right. It’s nothing but young punks who don’t know any better and has-beens who have already blown their shot.
“Touche,” I say, laying my accent on thick.
She giggles.
Fuck she’s cute.
“All right, McKinney,” she segues. “You’re starving, your knees hurt, and you’re officially a captive audience. Let me pitch you.”
“Go ahead.” I chew on a fry, keeping my eyes locked on hers.