6. Campbell
SIX
CAMPBELL
It’s that distinct tonic of hot, musty water and expensive men’s body wash that always hits me like a wall just outside men’s locker rooms. The scent is especially powerful outside this clubhouse, and today, it feels thick enough to choke on.
I smooth the front of my slacks, adjusting the strap of my leather portfolio over my shoulder as the heavy metal doors click shut behind Jake.
Oh, wow.
My breath catches in my throat, a stupid, involuntary reaction that makes me grit my teeth because now my cheeks are hot.
Especially because there’s no way Jake didn’t hear it.
I couldn’t help it, though. Ever since our dance, I see him differently.
I mean, sure, he has been sexy from first sight.
I’m not blind, and the man wears cowboy hats and ballcaps all the damn time—my kryptonite!
But it was a little easier to keep my mind focused and professional before he took me on a tour of Earl’s dance floor.
And now, he’s walking toward me, fresh from the showers, damp coppery brown hair curling wildly at the nape of his neck, clinging to his forehead in heavy strands.
He’s wearing a soft, heather gray T-shirt that stretches perfectly across his broad shoulders, and the faint, bruised shadow of a long afternoon behind the bullpen plate is still visible under his eyes.
He looks rugged, exhausted . . . absolutely magnificent.
Heat flares deep in my stomach. It’s a terrible idea.
An inappropriate, unprofessional, career-ending bad idea to be staring at his lips right now—especially after the way he held me under those dim lights at Earl’s.
I can still feel the ghost of his palm against the small of my back, the tickle of his voice in my ear.
Get a grip, Campbell. You have a job to do. You are not a groupie!
“McKinney,” I call out, my voice coming out a little tighter and a bit higher than I intend. I clear my throat, forcing my professional mask into place as he stops, blinking down at me.
“Campbell,” he says, a slow, lazy grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. He’s enjoying this too much.
I straighten my spine, rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin. He slings his duffel bag over his bad shoulder, the one he was rubbing the other night. “Didn’t expect to see you lurking by the showers. Looking for another dance?”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the somersault my stomach does. Dammit.
“Uh, no. I’m here to collect, actually,” I shoot back, though the tingling sensation creeping up my neck is fucking annoying. I step into his path, forcing him to halt completely in the concrete corridor.
“I’m here because I’ve been working on my end of the deal.”
His cocky smirk falters a bit, and while part of me likes throwing him off his game, I also need him on board for this interview. It’s not going to fly if he doesn’t play along and show the media his best side.
“I managed to lock down an interview for you with an up-and-coming digital content creator. His name is Connor, and his platform has a huge national reach for younger baseball fans. He wants to get some b-roll of you—stuff beyond your time on the ball field. Show your roots, your grit, that whole angle we discussed.”
Jake’s smile fades another fraction, his brow furrowing. He looks over my shoulder, and I glance behind me. Nobody is there. He’s looking for an escape.
I jet my gaze back to him and shift my weight, clearing my throat to force his attention to me.
He sighs as his gaze falls back to my face.
“All right. When?” His mouth is a hard line.
“Tomorrow morning. Monday.”
He lets out a short, scoffing laugh and shifts his weight. “Tomorrow? No can do, Campbell. Monday morning is early work. I’ve got batting practice, and I need to spend some extra time with the training staff. A media circus is going to cut right into my routine.”
“It’s not a circus, it’s one guy with a GoPro and a bunch of phones,” I counter, refusing to let him dig his heels in. “And we can work around your schedule. What if Connor and I meet you for your early morning routine? Before you even head to the facility?”
Jake stares at me for a long beat, his eyes tracking the intensity in mine. A knowing smirk suddenly plays on his lips. “My early morning routine? You sure about that, city girl?”
“I can handle an early morning, McKinney.”
Pffft. I get up early to run most days.
“All right.” He chuckles, leaning in just a fraction closer, sending a wave of that clean, soapy scent over me.
“If you want to see grit, I’ll show you grit.
Meet me at my mom’s property. It’s just outside of town.
I’ll text you the address. I’m out there every morning before sunrise tending to the horses, goats, and chickens she keeps.
If your camera guy wants b-roll, he can film me shoveling manure. ”
“Perfect. Authentic country boy charm. The algorithm will love it,” I say, pulling out my phone and handing it to him to type in his number.
He sends himself a text then replies back to my phone with the address.
And the fact we now have a text chain sits in the pit of my gut for some reason.
It feels like trouble. But also . . . it is my job.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I say. “Since this is supposed to be the joint feature we agreed on . . . I’m going to invite your father there for the interview too. If that’s all right with you?”
Jake’s chest expands with a rough, dry chuckle. He shakes his head, looking down at his boots before meeting my gaze again.
“Sure. Invite Roddy. Bring him on out.” He shifts his duffel bag, his eyes hardening just a fraction. “Just make sure your boy Connor catches the part where I’m actually doing the work. My dad bailed long ago to go be a superstar ballplayer. I’m the one who handles the heavy lifting around here.”
“Tomorrow morning. Don’t be late,” I say, ignoring the sharp edge in his voice and bitter commentary about his dad. I hope he can drop that grudge long enough to get through an interview.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, boss,” he murmurs, giving me one last lingering look before he turns and walks down the corridor.
The gravel crunches loudly beneath my running shoes as I step out of my Mercedes, the air biting and crisp in the pitch-black minutes before dawn.
The sky is a bruised shade of deep purple, not dissimilar to the color that was branded on Jake’s forearm after yesterday’s game.
The stars are faint overhead, and I squint to capture them before they disappear completely.
Daisy McKinney’s farmhouse is storybook adorable.
She might come off as a tough woman ready to throw down anyone who gives her shit at her bar, but at home, she’s all flowers, green grass, and a literal picket fence.
A faint golden light spills from the kitchen window, lighting up the profiles of Roddy and Connor, who are waiting for me at the top of the driveway.
Connor’s a young guy in his early twenties.
I did my homework on him to make sure he’s the real deal.
And I’m glad I did now that I spot him in a trendy beanie and holding a stabilized camera rig, shivering.
He seems rather out of place, but he is wearing an old McKinney jersey, so at least he’s smart enough to dress the part of an expert.
Roddy looks entirely in his element, a denim jacket thrown over his broad frame, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, and boots that match his son’s on his feet. I wonder how Jake feels about that.
“Good morning, Campbell,” Roddy says, with a warm, welcoming nod. “You look awake for a city girl.”
“Fake it till you make it, Roddy,” I say with a smile. I adjust the neck warmer I’m glad I grabbed on my way out this morning. The Mavericks windbreaker is definitely not cutting it.
“Follow me. Jake’s already at it,” Roddy says, turning on his heels and leading Connor and me down a worn dirt path toward the back of the property.
As we round the corner of a large timber barn, the soft bleating of goats and the rustle of straw break through the lingering crickets chirping as dawn breaks.
And then, I see him.
My breath catches again, but thankfully, nobody is close enough to hear it this time. Jake is in the middle of a fenced pen, tossing shovels of hay from a square bale. Freezing air be damned, Jake’s shirt is off, tossed over a fence post. Of course it is.
I swallow hard, taking in his form. He’s in nothing but faded denim, heavy work boots, and a battered straw cowboy hat pulled low.
A sheen of sweat coats the sculpted planes of his back and chest. Every muscle in his shoulders bunches and ripples as he hoists the heavy pitchfork, his body working with a fierce, rhythmic intensity.
It’s the same way he plays the game. Full throttle. Focused.
Alone.
Next to me, Connor eagerly lifts his camera, the lens whirring to life as he captures this side of Jake McKinney.
Jake pauses, leaning on the pitchfork when he spots us. His eyes lock onto mine beneath the brim of his hat. His gaze is dark and unreadable. I think he’s watching the way I’m trying—and failing—to hide my reaction.
“Morning!” My tone is overdone, cheery for the sake of showing off. Jake chuckles.
Roddy steps forward, unlatching the gate.
“Need a hand with that back pen, son?”
Jake’s posture stiffens, and I snap my mouth shut, holding my breath. The friendly country boy vanishes in an instant, replaced by a cold, rigid wall. Jake doesn’t look at his father and instead keeps his eyes on the hay.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“There’s two more stalls to muck before the sun’s fully up, Jake. Let me take the pitchfork,” Roddy says softly, his voice carrying what I sense as a heavy weight of quiet regret.