8. Campbell #3
“He called me right before I left the ballpark,” I continue, looking down at my lap.
“Every time he calls, he spends twenty minutes belittling my career, telling me I’m throwing my life away because I didn’t stay in corporate law.
He did it again. I was so angry, so full of pent-up frustration, that I had to physically run it off just to keep from screaming. That’s why I was out on that road.”
Jake lets out a short, rough breath. He turns his head slowly, looking at me across the pale light in the cab. “It’s not the same thing, Campbell.”
“I know,” I say softly, meeting his gaze. “I know it’s not the same. But . . . I wanted you to know I understand what it feels like to have a father who makes you feel like you’re losing, even when you’re giving everything you’ve got.”
Jake’s shoulders drop a fraction, a tiny bit of the anger draining out of him. He leans his head back against the headrest, staring up at the truck ceiling.
“It’s just so damn frustrating.” His tone is raw and exhausted.
“All I want is a shot. One single shot to prove what I can do. But it feels like Coach Shuster and Coach Davis are purposely overlooking me because nobody wants to make it look like I’m getting special treatment because I’m Roddy McKinney’s son.
I’m being penalized for a legacy I didn’t even ask for. ”
He shifts in his seat, wincing slightly as he rubs his right hand over his left shoulder. “And this damn shoulder has been sore as hell for a week.”
My brow furrows with immediate concern. “Jake, if your shoulder is hurting, you need to have the training staff check it out.”
“No!” he snaps, his voice cracking in the tight space. “Absolutely not. I am not going to the trainers. You tell a trainer you’re hurting, they put you on the injured list, and then you’re definitely dead to the front office. I’m not giving them another excuse to bench me.”
He stops, seeing the way I flinch at his tone. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, his expression softening to something that feels deeply apologetic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be snapping at you. None of this is your fault. You’re just trying to help me.”
Slowly, Jake reaches across the center console.
He lays his wide, calloused hand over mine.
The heat of his skin makes my entire body warm in a millisecond, and an electric jolt rushes up my arm.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as his fingers slowly shift, twining through mine until our hands are completely locked together over the plastic console.
The air in the truck feels as if a monsoon storm has suddenly brewed inside, and the tension that was grinding away at Jake’s molars a moment ago feels as if it’s moved on from anger to something intoxicating and seductive.
Jake turns his body toward me, leaning in just an inch closer.
He fixes his dark gaze entirely on my face, his eyes dropping to my lips before lifting back to my eyes.
It’s that look. The wanting, smoldering gaze a man gives a woman right before he leans across the space and kisses her senseless.
The pull is massive, a magnetic gravity that begs me to just lean in, to forget the rules, to let him break the professional line we drew.
Fuck that . . . to obliterate it.
My heart is hammering wildly against my ribs. No, no, no.
With a surge of desperate willpower, I gently break my fingers away from his grip, pulling my hand back into my lap. I clear my throat, desperately trying to find my professional voice.
“I wish I weren’t going to Arkansas tomorrow,” I say, my voice coming out a little breathless and a little too honest. I grab the handle of the passenger door, needing to free myself from this cab before I change my mind.
“But I’m going to make sure Coach knows exactly how much good press you’re bringing to this club. I won’t let them overlook you.”
“Campbell—” he starts, his voice low and searching.
“Good night, McKinney. Thanks for the ride.”
I rush out, shoving the door open and stepping into the cool night air.
I don’t look back. I practically sprint across the parking lot, my running shoes slapping against the concrete as I bolt up the stairs to my floor.
I pull out my keys with trembling hands, unlock my door, and slide inside, slamming it shut behind me.
I’ll have to trek back downstairs later for my phone and wallet in my trunk.
I lean my back against the heavy wood of the inside of the door, my chest heaving as if I just ran a marathon. I let out a sharp laugh that builds into an uncontrollable rolling chuckle at my own complete lack of composure, and my hands cover my burning cheeks.
Jake McKinney makes me messy.
My boss sent me here with only one rule: Don’t fall for the cowboys. But what if he was a ballplayer first?
I press my head back against the door, closing my eyes as I make a silent vow to myself. Never again. I cannot put myself in that position with him again. I have my own goals. I’m the PR director, and he is the player. If I want to save his career—and my own—I have to keep my hands to myself.