10. Campbell
TEN
CAMPBELL
Working the Little Rock press box was supposed to be the easiest part of my weekend.
Usually, small-market sports reporters make for easy conversation, and I like getting into debates with them over who had the best ERA over the last several seasons in the majors or what I think about proposed rule changes.
But since the story posted on Connor’s platforms, media interest in the Mavericks has exploded.
The usual two- or three-reporter turnout for a Triple-A game has doubled.
And there’s at least one television station parked in a van outside the clubhouse waiting to get sound bites after the game to match the in-game b-roll they’re grabbing from the affiliate station.
I should be thrilled—that’s my job, to get more eyeballs on this team.
And here we are in a whole other state, and all anyone wants to talk about is the Mavericks and their special father-son duo.
“Hey, Campbell, you got the updated stat sheets for Martinez’s home-away splits?” Lee, a reporter from The Gazette asks, his voice cutting through the haze in my brain.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” I mutter, forcing my fingers to navigate my tablet.
My hands are steady, a testament to years of corporate conditioning and plenty of clerking jobs during law school, but my skin hasn’t stopped buzzing since I stepped out of the elevator last night.
Every time I blink, my mind goes right there, to the moment when Jake’s lips met mine.
There was no sleeping last night. I barely etched out thirty minutes, my dreams pre-scripted to the feel of his hard body against mine, pressing me against the wall.
His hips grinding into me, his mouth trailing kisses down my throat while his fingers flirted with my breasts.
I don’t know what I would have done if his thumbs ever made it to my hard nipples.
I soaked my panties as it was. Fuck, I’m soaking them now just thinking about it.
I shift in my seat as I scan through the spreadsheets I loaded up this morning.
“Just dropped the stat-sheet on the cloud for you, Lee,” I respond, lips tightening into a smile.
I scan the room as I stand and hug my tablet to my chest. My heart is pounding behind it, thumping against the device and my hands.
This is how rabbits feel being hunted, I bet.
Physically, I’m present in this room. But my mind is definitely spending time in two places at once.
I can still feel the rough, desperate heat of Jake’s hands cupping my jaw.
I taste the mint I tasted the moment his mouth crashed over mine.
And even now, the buzz is there. I touch my fingertips to my bottom lip, which still feels slightly swollen.
It’s a secret ache that has not stopped making my pulse jump every time I think about how easy it was to melt against his chest.
Down on the field, the Mavericks are stretching.
Dozens of players, movement happening in all directions.
My eyes only see one man, though. Jake paces behind the plate in his catching gear, waiting for Martinez to walk out to the mound for warm-ups.
His massive, athletic frame was built to wear that gear, I swear.
And that body—I was pinned against it only hours ago.
God, I am so screwed.
“Excuse me, guys,” I say, my voice cracking. Nobody looks my way, thank God. “I’m going to catch the first couple of innings from the stands. Text me if you need anything, and I’ll run back up.”
It’s a blatant lie, but I need air. I need to not be in a room full of people who might notice the way my breath hitches every time Jake fires a ball back to the mound. I need to be out of view as my jaw drops simply from taking him in.
I slip out of the press box and make my way down to the scout seats behind home plate. The thick, humid Arkansas air coats my skin in an instant. Still, it’s better than ruminating on my own forbidden thoughts in the comfort of the AC. At least for now.
I spot an empty seat near the aisle and slip into it, letting out a long, shaky breath before pinching the bridge of my nose. I’m being ridiculous.
The inning starts, and part of Jake’s body is obscured by the bulky umpire crouching behind him. It’s for the best, despite how tempted I am to move. It’s bad enough that I get to see him pull his mask up and shout around the diamond between batters.
Jake guides Martinez through the two hitters, getting the first batter to chase an outside pitch the way his father always does, then forcing a pop-up that seals the second out.
I press my fist to my mouth, forcing my mind to focus on the baseball and not the man, when a light tap tickles my shoulder.
“Mind if I join you?”
I turn to see Daisy smiling down at me, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. I quickly scoot over a seat to make room for her.
“I caught an early flight out of Oklahoma City,” she says, smoothing her sundress as she slides into the seat next to me. “I knew how much this start means to Jake. Even if it’s just two innings, I wasn’t going to miss it.”
She locks her focus on the field, on her son, and a soft, proud expression pulls up her cheeks. She leans into me.
“You did this, you know.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I laugh off, flattening my tablet on my black slacks. I tap my fingers on the cover to rid my hands of the sudden nerves stemming through them.
I did things with your son. My body did things against his. And it’s literally all I can think about.
“Jake got himself on that bus,” I redirect with a nervous laugh.
“Maybe,” Daisy says. “But you’re the one who got the world to see him. You’re the one who got him to see himself. He wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for you.”
I swallow hard, wondering if Jake said something to his mom about our conversations. She repeats my words almost verbatim.
I look back toward the dugout so she can’t see the flush creeping up my neck. Her words were kind, but they also feel dangerous. A world where Jake talks about me to his mom is a slippery slope.
I clear my throat, shifting the spotlight.
“Is it hard having Roddy around like this? Especially now that Jake is finally getting his shot?”
Daisy sighs. A wistful smile touches her lips as her eyes scan the field. Her gaze stops on Roddy just as he steps out of the dugout’s shadow.
“Our story has a lot of twists to it. I was devastated when he left to pursue the majors. Hurt in a way I didn’t think I’d ever recover from.” She pauses, her lips pulling in tight as her forehead creases with thought. She shifts her gaze to me.
“It got easier. Not that it hurt less, but it hurt . . . different maybe? I don’t know.
I’m sure this sounds like a bunch of nonsense, but I believe there’s an invisible string between some people.
No matter how far they run, or how much time passes, you stay tethered to that other half. They know your secrets. Your truth.”
She nods down, toward the field.
“I know his, and he sure as hell knows mine.”
A soft, breathy laugh leaves her nostrils as she sinks back into her seat.
An invisible string.
I think of Jake. The way he looked at me. The way my body answered his without a single shred of logic.
“Do you think people like that ever get a second chance?” The question slips out before my brain stops it. I’m being invasive. I don’t want the tables turned, but I can’t help it. I’m curious. Roddy and Daisy seem so . . . destined, I guess.
She doesn’t answer right away, her eyes remaining on Roddy as he props one foot on the top step and leans his weight against the dugout screen. A wicked, girlish giggle slips from her lips.
“Well,” she hums, leaning in close. “Take a look at that man’s ass. He’s seventeen years older, and it’s still the best damn view in baseball. It is incredibly hard to say no to an ass like that.”
I burst out laughing, the tension in my chest fracturing. “Daisy!”
“I’m serious!” she laughs out, nudging my shoulder.
I shake my head, but as my eyes drift back to the field, they instinctively lock onto Jake’s backside as he squats behind the plate. Baseball pants don’t leave a single thing to the imagination, and it’s clear Jake is disciplined when it comes to taking care of his body. My throat goes a bit dry.
Like father, like son.
Any thoughts of anatomy are quickly replaced by pure adrenaline the moment the umpire jerks his arm back and belts out a loud, “Strike three!”
Daisy and I both leap to our feet, and I push two fingers into my mouth and let loose with a whistle.
“Damn, girl!” Daisy says, leaning into me as she continues to clap for a clean inning with nobody on base.
The pitchers always get the credit, but that sequence came from Jake. He studied the hitters Martinez would face and framed every pitch just right. My whistle? It’s for him.
For the next two innings, Jake doesn’t just play ball, he shreds on the bases.
For a bulky guy, I didn’t expect such speed.
Maybe he’s just using every tool in his kit and draining every ounce of strength and grit.
Whatever he’s doing, he’s managed to rack up an RBI double and a back-pick to first base from behind the plate.
By the top of the third, Coach Davis doesn’t pull him.
He keeps him in, giving him one more at bat.
Jake digs in at the box, and he works his way to a 2-1 count before jumping on a hanging curveball that he sends into the gap and manages to stretch for a triple.
He looks gassed after diving into third, but the exhaustion is quickly overrun by adrenaline as he pumps a fist in the air and shouts, “Let’s go! ”