8. Campbell
EIGHT
CAMPBELL
The analytics dashboard on my monitor is a beautiful cascading wall of green upward trends.
I lean back in my ergonomic desk chair, a satisfied smile playing on my lips as I watch the view count on Connor’s video tick higher by the second.
The digital feature dropped early this morning, and the internet has not stopped eating it up.
I knew this story was gold. Now to shift that spotlight onto Jake and get people curious about what he can do behind the plate.
The comments section is flooded with emojis of baseballs and cowboy hats, people raving about the beautiful generational legacy of the McKinney men. I chuckle softly.
“If they only knew how far from beautiful it is, and how damn hard it was to get to this video,” I mutter to myself.
This piece is a masterclass in narrative spin, and I am extremely proud of it.
The bullpen outside my office window is quiet.
It’s the end of the day, and a sleepy energy has settled over the ballpark campus since the team is traveling tomorrow.
While the players and coaching staff are jumping on a charter bus to Arkansas, I’ll be driving myself down to Little Rock for the weekend series.
I like having my own wheels on road trips, a little bubble of control where I can make phone calls and decompress between games. Plus, my car, my music.
“Knock, knock. Still hitting refresh on repeat, Hines?”
I look up to see Kevin leaning against my open doorframe, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder and a leather briefcase in hand.
“Have you seen it recently? I swear, the views double every time I look!” I say, spinning my monitor around so he can see the social media analytics graph.
“The McKinney piece is outperforming our standard engagement metrics by three hundred percent. National syndication sites are already picking up the b-roll Connor shot of Jake at the farm.”
Kevin chuckles, nodding with genuine approval. “Outstanding work. Seriously. You’re proving to be worth every dime we’re paying you.”
“Uh, you aren’t paying me a thing. I believe my checks say Texas on the payer line.”
He laughs and drops his free hand in his pocket as his head falls back.
“Fair point. It’s quite a scam I’ve got going with them, getting the parent team to pay my bills. You think I can get them to pick up the electric bill too?” He quirks a brow, and I laugh, shaking my head.
“I do not. No.”
He steps into the office, lowering his voice just a fraction as he glances over his shoulder before bringing his gaze back to me.
“Keep this momentum going. I’ve got some incredibly big meetings lined up over the next couple of weeks, and numbers like this make this place look very, very attractive. ”
I nod, reading between the lines. Big meetings is likely code for the impending sale of the Mavericks.
“I’ll see you in Arkansas,” Kevin adds, adjusting his briefcase.
“You’re traveling to Little Rock?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I can’t quite hide my curiosity. “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you still grind out the travel for away games? If you’re not going to be connected to the Mavericks much longer, aren’t you tempted to take your weekends back?”
Kevin’s lips bunch in thought as his head tilts, and a wave of what looks like sudden, quiet nostalgia washes over his face. He looks out toward the empty corridor then back to me, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“There’s just something about them. I might be done with the business side of things soon, but I think I’ll always root for this crew. They’re in my blood.” He gives me a reassuring nod before his expression shifts back to boss mode.
“Drive safe tomorrow.”
“Thanks. See you there.”
He disappears down the hall, his footsteps fading into the quiet building.
His sentimental words put a weight into my chest. In my blood.
It must be nice to have a career that fills you with that kind of loyalty, even when you’re ready to leave it behind.
I wonder if I’ll feel the same way thirty years from now.
Though I hope it’s not about Sweetwater.
I wouldn’t mind feeling bittersweet about leaving an executive job with, say, the Red Sox or maybe the Cubs.
I sigh, shutting down my browser tabs and grabbing my tote bag to pack up for the evening. Just as I reach for my car keys, my phone vibrates against my desktop.
The screen flashes with my father’s name.
Eric Hines.
My stomach twists on itself, and I freeze, staring at the flashing name, a different type of heavy sigh escaping my lips.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but I know exactly how my father operates.
He doesn’t do voicemail. Not for his clients.
Not for judges. And definitely not for me.
If I don’t answer, he’ll just keep ringing back on a loop until I do.
It’s a tacky strategy, but somehow, it’s become incredibly effective for him in all walks of life.
Defeated, I swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear. “Hi, Dad.”
“Campbell. Glad I caught you.” His deep, clipped baritone echoes through the line. He doesn’t waste time on warmth, skipping right to his usual script. “How are things in the minors? You missing the law yet?”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You know I don’t, Dad. I’m really happy here.”
He lets out a dry, dismissive tsk.
“I just hate to see a high-dollar education go to waste, sweetheart. All that time at Vanderbilt, finishing at the top of your class, just to write social media captions for a baseball team that plays in a town without a proper steakhouse.”
Frustration flares hot under my collar. I squeeze the edge of my desk, my knuckles turning white before I exhale and loosen my grip. “What do you want, Dad? I’m actually right in the middle of wrapping up a very busy day.”
“Just checking in,” he says, though his tone shifts into something a bit more calculated. If there’s one thing law school and being his daughter have taught me, it’s reading people. And I read him like a book.
“Tell me about your team. How successful has the season been so far? From a business standpoint, I mean.”
The sudden interest definitely feels strange coming from him.
Eric Hines doesn’t care about sports unless he’s sitting in a corporate luxury suite closing a deal.
Still, the defensive professional in me can’t resist the urge to brag, to prove to him that I’m not failing.
Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.
“Actually, we’re doing incredibly well,” I say, my voice beaming with confidence. “I just booked a major feature story for our catchers and his father. Maybe you’ve heard of them, or at least the dad . . . Roddy McKinney?”
He remains silent, and I shake my head, wondering why I bothered with that exercise. My father barely knows who Babe Ruth is.
“Anyhow, it’s drawing massive national eyes to the club’s digital footprint.”
“National, huh?” my dad asks, his interest seemingly piqued. “When does the segment air? Is it on ESPN?”
“No, it’s not network television, Dad,” I explain, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It was done by a digital content creator. It went live on his video platforms this morning.”
My dad scoffs, a sharp, condescending chuckle that makes my jaw clench.
“A content creator. So, some kid with an iPhone. Campbell, that’s not press, that’s a hobby. It’s . . . what do they call it? More brain rot? Real media moves stock. It moves tickets. This internet play-acting is exactly why I don’t understand why you’re throwing your career away on?—”
“I have to go, Dad. I’m leaving the office now,” I interrupt, unable to take another syllable of his belittling.
“All right. Think about what I said. The firm is always?—”
I end the call before he can finish the sentence, throwing the phone onto my desk.
My chest is heaving, my muscles tight and vibrating with a toxic surge of pent-up, angry energy.
I feel completely suffocated by his judgment, by the walls of this office, by the sheer frustration of never being enough for the man who raised me.
Calling my mom is no use. She lives in a happy bubble where she goes to parties with other wives from the firm, and hosts charity events that don’t really help the people who actually need fucking help.
It’s maddening. The two of them are maddening!
I can’t go home like this. If I go back to my quiet apartment right now, I’ll just pace the floor and stew in my own misery.
I need an outlet.
I push my door shut, then quickly dig through my gym bag, changing out of my professional slacks and blouse and pulling on a pair of black running leggings, a dry-fit shirt, and my running shoes.
I dash out of the ballpark offices and shove my belongings in my trunk, then make the short drive to my apartment parking lot, tucking my key in the small pocket of my leggings before taking a deep breath of the late afternoon Oklahoma air.
A storm is brewing somewhere. I can taste the moisture, and my skin is already glistening. A good sweat will do me wonders.
I drop into a quick stretch against a concrete barrier, rolling my shoulders and shaking the tension from my hands, then legs. I hit the pavement at a brisk pace, my feet drumming a steady beat against the asphalt as I make my way toward the main road through town.
I don’t have a destination in mind, so I let my legs dictate the route, weaving past the familiar faded storefronts of Sweetwater and the glowing Earl’s sign that will shine much brighter a few hours from now.
As the miles tick away and the pavement gives way to the red dirt shoulders of the outer country roads, I realize exactly where my subconscious is taking me.
I’m heading toward Daisy’s house.