9. Jake
NINE
JAKE
I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain oscillated between two equally infuriating thoughts: the fact that Coach Shuster left me off the travel roster, and the memory of almost kissing Campbell in the cab of this exact truck.
My hand rests on the console, and I drop my gaze to it and roll my palm over, curling my fingers into an empty fist. Her hand . . . it felt fucking amazing.
I can still feel the electric prickle of her fingers twined in mine, can still smell that rainy-forest scent of hers. She looked at me with wide eyes, fighting the same gravity I was, before she pulled away. She told me she was going to talk to Coach Shuster. She told me I was worth it.
“Fuuuuuck,” I grumble, dropping my forehead to the steering wheel.
I pop my gaze up just enough to gaze out the windshield, my pupils trying to focus on anything in the dark, empty parking lot of the stadium.
The team bus idles near the clubhouse doors, its exhaust cutting through the crisp morning air.
Normally, a guy left off the roster takes his weekend, sleeps in, nurses his wounds.
But Campbell’s voice echoes in my head. I want to show the world the man Jake McKinney is.
Partly because I want to prove her right, and a bit because I am completely done standing in my own way, I kick my truck door open and let my boots land on the asphalt with a heavy thud. I sling my bag over my good shoulder, slam the driver’s side door shut, and stride straight toward the bus.
Coach Shuster is standing near the luggage bays, checking a clipboard under the harsh halogen parking lot lights. He looks up, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline as I stop right in front of him.
“McKinney.” His voice is flat. “You lost? Roster stayed the same as yesterday.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my chin up, my voice steady. “I’m not here to fight you on it, Coach. I know I’m not on the card. But I want to go to Little Rock anyway. I’ll carry bags, I’ll coach in the bullpens, and help mentor the young guys. Whatever you need. I just want to be there for the team.”
Coach stares at me for a beat. He looks down at my duffel bag, then back up to my face, a slow, unreadable expression shifting across his weathered features. A faint trace of approval flickers in his eyes.
“Mentor the young guys, huh?” He chews at the inside of his cheek, then cracks a rare, slight smile. “I see you came packed with everything you need. Looks like you weren’t planning on taking no for an answer, huh?”
I breathe out a thick laugh.
“No, sir.”
He jerks his thumb toward the open bus doors.
“Get your ass on board.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
A massive wave of relief expands in my chest as I climb the rubber-rimmed steps into the dimly lit bus.
The interior smells like stale coffee and a dozen different types of men’s shampoo.
As I walk down the narrow aisle, my eyes instantly meet Roddy’s.
He sits in a row near the front, looking up at me with an expression that I think is a mix of surprise and possibly relief.
I don’t blink. I keep my hat brim low and my face entirely blank as I pass right by his open spot, walking all the way toward the back until I find Jayden.
I drop into the seat next to him. Jayden doesn’t say a word, but he extends a closed fist. I bump my knuckles against his as he gives me a silent, proud of you, dude.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, my thumb hovering over Campbell’s name.
I want to text her to tell her I’m on the bus, but I catch Jayden looking out the window and shove the phone back into my jeans.
It’s bad enough that my best friend is currently embroiled in a very obvious, highly risky fling with our female hitting coach.
I keep my mouth shut about it because I love the guy, and I truly think he doesn’t realize I know.
But watching him navigate that minefield makes me hyper-aware of how quickly a player-staff dynamic can blow up in your face.
I don’t need Jayden asking why I’m texting the PR director—who I’ve said on multiple occasions I can’t stand—at five in the morning.
By the time the bus pulls into the hotel parking lot in Little Rock, my knees are stiff and my shoulder throbs with a dull ache. But the second I step out into the bright Arkansas sunlight, the first thing I spot is a Mercedes parked near the lobby entrance.
Campbell is already here.
I drop my bag near the curb and immediately step toward the luggage bays under the bus, throwing myself into giving the other guys a hand. “I’ve got the gear, boys,” I call out to the rookies, grabbing heavy equipment bags and hauling them out onto the pavement. “Pass ’em up.”
As I hoist bat bags, buckets of balls, and catching gear onto the curb, I glance toward the hotel lobby entry.
Campbell stands by the glass doors, looking sharp and professional in a tailored white blazer paired with tight jeans and towering heels.
She’s talking animatedly to Coach Shuster and Kevin, the team owner.
She must feel the heat of my stare because her eyes shift away from Kevin and lock directly onto me.
My lip quirks up with a slight, uncontrollable smirk.
She lingers behind as the coaches and Kevin head inside into the air-conditioned lobby. As humid as Oklahoma is, it’s got nothing on this climate.
“Man, Jake, seriously, thank you,” one of the young rookie catchers, a kid named Miguel, says as he grabs his gear bag from my hands. “I really appreciate you showing up to support us this weekend. Especially after . . . you know.”
I swallow the last lingering bite of my pride, forcing a genuine smile onto my face. He doesn’t know any better. Hell, I’ve only got him by like five years, but whatever.
“Absolutely, Mig. Show ’em what you’ve got this weekend, yeah?”
He beams and heads inside, and I let the lightheaded rush of wanting to pass out over how unfair this feels wash over me. As the crowd thins, I realize I’m not alone by the bus.
Of course Roddy waited.
His hands shoved deep into his jean pockets, he walks over to me, our denim and boots making us look like we dress from the same Levi’s catalog.
I suppose we do. He stops a foot away, looking at me with a serious gaze, his mouth a straight line.
Without a word, he pulls his right hand out of his pocket and holds out his open palm.
I look at his hand, then up at his face. Reluctantly, I reach out and shake it. His grip is tight, rough, and entirely familiar. It’s mine, only seventeen years from now.
“I know this was hard for you to do,” he says. “To swallow your pride like that and get on the bus anyway. It speaks volumes about your character. That kind of shit can’t be taught.”
He looks down for a fraction of a second, his chest swelling with a deep breath. “I wish I’d been more like you when I was your age.”
The praise feels good—too good—which means my natural defense mechanism instantly kicks into overdrive. I can’t stop the sharp, bitter barb from slipping past my teeth. “Yeah, well . . . I wish I had known you then too, Roddy. But you were, you know . . . on the road trying to be great.”
The words hit the air like a physical slap.
We hold each other’s stare, the silence stretching out between us, tight and painful.
I itch to take back the words. He blinks, and I sense he wishes I would.
A pang of regret slices through my gut. I nearly open my mouth to say, “Sorry,” but before I can utter the word, my father drops his head and nods.
“I’m just proud of you, is all,” he mutters quietly as he passes me, not lifting his gaze to meet my eyes. A few seconds later, the glass doors slide shut behind him as he heads inside.
I stand by the empty bus, the weight of the interaction sitting like a stone in my stomach.
“That was a really big step, Jake.”
I turn around. Campbell stands by the valet podium, her arms crossed over her chest, watching me. The breeze catches a few loose strands of her hair, blowing them across her face. I walk over to her, wiping my palms on my jeans.
“I’m proud of you,” she says softly, a genuine, warm smile lighting up her eyes.
“Thanks for the lesson,” I murmur, shrugging one shoulder and stepping close enough that the young punk working the valet can’t hear us.
She blinks, her brow furrowing slightly. “What lesson?”
“The one that got me to get out of my own damn way for once,” I say, repeating her words form early on. “I wouldn’t have done this before I met you.”
A long, lingering stare stretches between us. She swallows hard, her eyes darting to my lips for a fraction of a second before she forces herself to take a half step back, breaking the spell.
“Go get checked in, McKinney,” she croaks, her cheeks flushing a soft, beautiful pink.
I did that to her. And it feels better than getting out of my own damn way.
The first game of the weekend is an absolute, unmitigated disaster, even if the scoreboard claims we won.
By the time the team piles back into the hotel lobby, it’s well past dinner time, and everyone is completely exhausted and wearing a collective scowl.
We scraped by with a one-run victory, and the team vibe is toxic.
We scored plenty of runs, and Hunter pitched a hell of a game, but the passed balls and dropped third strikes behind the plate led to baserunners, which led to runs.
“Fucking brutal behind the dish tonight,” Hunter grumbles as we walk through the double doors into the lobby. “The blocking was garbage. I was throwing half my sliders into the dugout. God, I was glad when Roddy finally went back in to clean up the mess in the eighth.”
I keep my mouth shut, carrying a heavy bag of extra bats into the side entrance for the coaching staff. I don’t say a word, just do the grunt work, helping Coach Davis unload the rest of the gear from the undercarriage of our bus.
“McKinney. Hold up a second.”