5. Jake #2
For the next ten minutes, she talks. And God help me, she’s good.
She doesn’t talk about my dad, at least not the way everyone else does.
She talks about marketability. She talks about an exclusive feature with a national baseball writer she has on speed dial, someone who focuses on the unsung heroes of the minor leagues, the types of guys who run the clubhouse.
She outlines a plan that highlights my work with the younger pitchers, my stats from last season, my passion for the game.
Her hands move with her words as she spins how we can shift the narrative from “Roddy’s shadow” to “Jake’s grit. ”
I’m hesitant, every protective instinct in my body telling me to keep my mouth shut. But I want the big leagues. I want it so bad it tastes like copper in my mouth. And listening to her, I realize she might actually have the keys to the kingdom.
“Well?” she asks, finally pausing to take a breath, and another swig of my beer. Her cheeks are a little flushed from the exertion of her own speech. “What do you think?”
Before I can answer, the jukebox switches, and a fast, driving fiddle intro fills the bar.
On the dance floor, three or four couples immediately sync up, their boots clicking against the hardwood in a storm of perfectly synchronized, rapid-fire steps.
It’s a fast two-step, the kind of tempo you only know if you grew up with the red dirt under your fingernails.
Campbell looks over her shoulder, her eyes widening as she watches them spin and glide with impossible speed. She lets out a short, breathy laugh and turns back to me, an off-handed smile on her lips.
“Honestly, it’s downright impressive that some of these couples can two-step so fast,” she says, shaking her head with what looks like wonder. “I’m pretty sure I’d break an ankle trying to keep up with them.”
An idea sparks in my chest. I look from the dance floor back to her, noting the slight pout of her lips, the way she looks completely mesmerized by something so normal to me, something my mom taught me how to do when I was eleven and tall enough to lead.
“Tell you what,” I say, my voice dropping an octave, sliding into that low rumble that made her twitch when we spoke on the field after the game.
I push my basket of fries to the side and lean across the corner of the table, getting close enough to see my own reflection in her pupils. “I’ll give you what you want.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“I’m willing to give you one interview,” I say, watching her expression closely. “A joint one. Me and my dad. We’ll sit down, and we’ll talk baseball. Whatever headline you think it is that I need.”
Her eyes light up, a triumphant smile starting to push up her cheeks. “Jake, that’s?—”
“But,” I interrupt, raising a finger to halt her victory lap. “It comes with a condition.”
Her smile falters, but she seems to be clinging to it.
“What condition?”
I nod my head toward the spinning couples on the floor. “You get one interview if you let me take you for a spin around the floor right now.”
“Absolutely not.” Her laugh follows, and it’s hard and loud.
Campbell rears back, her professional mask slamming firmly back into place, though a telltale pink hue is climbing up her throat.
She’s still wearing her casual clothes, and she can’t hide the fun side I see behind her eyes.
“I am your PR director, Jake. I don’t dance with players.
I don’t . . . well, I guess this once I dine with them, but that is the line.
That’s the hard bargain. A post-game meal.
That was our deal. There is no way I am dancing.
Especially not to . . . whatever high-speed country song this is. ”
“It’s Cody Johnson,” I say, already sliding out of the booth and standing to my full height.
I reach down, extending a hand toward her.
“And it’s a fair trade. The dinner was in exchange for listening.
The interview is gonna cost you a dance.
You want to show the world who I am? This is who I am.
Come on, Campbell. Where’s that assertiveness you were bragging about earlier? ”
She looks at my open palm, then up at my face.
I can see the war waging in her eyes. Every professional instinct she has is screaming at her to refuse.
But the temptation of finally getting me to cooperate—of landing the exact pitch she needs to play the role of superstar with the front office that I sense she’s as desperate for as I am—is too much.
She lets out a heavy sigh, then slaps her hand into mine.
“One dance,” she warns, pointing a finger at my face. Meanwhile, though, her other hand curls around mine. “And if you drop me, I will make sure this one interview lasts all damn day!”
“Deal,” I chuckle, my grip tightening as I pull her out of the booth.