11. Jake
ELEVEN
JAKE
A couple of days have passed since Little Rock, and the buzz still hasn’t completely worn off.
The team is back in Sweetwater, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I am waking up without that heavy, nagging rock of self-doubt in my gut.
My performance was solid. I proved to the front office, to the fans, Coach Shuster, and mostly to myself that I belong on that field.
It’s the kind of quiet, gray morning when the dew still clings to the tall grass, and the air smells like wet earth and cedar.
It was important that I have my own space when I bargained for my apartment with the building’s owner, trading cheap rent during the off-season for my handyman services around the building.
But man . . . it’s moments like this when I wonder why the hell I was so determined to live alone and leave my mom’s place.
This is home. It’s more than the house my grandpa built.
It’s this world out here, the pens and the fields.
The old tire bolted to the oak tree in the middle of the yard where I practiced my pitching when I was a kid.
That thing still clings to the thickening trunk.
I’m convinced that one day, that tree will completely swallow the rubber and make that tire part of its story forever.
I settle into the work, the familiar, rhythmic scrape of my shovel against the concrete floor of the horse stalls acting as my wake-up call.
Mucking stalls isn’t glamorous, but it is grounding.
I’ve never minded the job. I took the small allowance Grandpa, and later Mom, gave me when I was a kid, sure.
But . . . I would have probably kept it up for free if they asked.
I toss a heavy scoop of soiled straw into the wheelbarrow, then lean against the shovel while I pull the handkerchief from my back pocket and wipe away sweat from my brow.
The stream of faint morning light gets cut off, followed by the gravelly clearing of a mature throat, and I look up to see my dad grabbing the second shovel from the utility hook on the wall.
He sets a dented silver travel mug on the concrete near the corner of the barn before standing and giving me a quiet, warm smile. It’s the kind of look he’s only recently started giving me. I give one back, stripped of the tension that usually defines us.
“Mornin’,” he says, his voice low and still full of sleep.
“Mornin’,” I echo, shifting my shovel so it rests on my shoulder. “You’re up early.”
“Old habits.” He leans the shovel against his body and pulls a pair of work gloves from his pocket, slapping them against his thigh. He glances around the pristine barn, then back to me. “Figured you could use a hand.”
“Appreciate it, but I can handle it, Dad. Go on inside and wake up with the rest of that coffee.” I point the shovel’s tip toward his mug. His body is still, his eyes flitting to his mug then back to me, the weight of that word perhaps hitting him as hard as it did me. Dad.
He doesn’t listen, instead stepping right into the stall next to mine, pitching a heavy clump of bedding into the wheelbarrow.
“I know you can handle it. That’s the thing.”
He works in silence for a second, his movements practiced and fluid, before looking over the wooden partition at me. “I appreciate how you help your mom keep things going around here, Jake. Truly. She has a lot of passions in her life, but family is right at the top of that list.”
I pause, watching him. It is rare to hear him talk about Mom so openly without a layer of defensive armor up. There’s always love in his voice. Well . . . longing, for sure. And regret. But this is a deeper reveal.
“Being able to keep her father’s bar open, maintaining this land, the livestock, the small farm .
. . it means everything to your mom,” he continues, his eyes softening as he looks around the property.
This is a peek inside just how deeply he understands her.
When his gaze comes back to me, his expression is dead serious.
“And I know you made that possible. Especially when I wasn’t around. ”
A heavy silence settles in the barn, save for the horses shifting in their stalls.
“I should be the one bearing this responsibility, not you,” my dad says, shaking his head. He shuffles closer, offering a look of genuine humility. “So today, let me at least help. And maybe, one of these mornings, sleep in and let me handle it. I’m working hard to mend fences around here, son.”
A little smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. The opening is too good to pass up. “Well, good luck mending the ones with Mom.”
My dad’s head falls back as he lets out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. “Some fences are more broken than others.”
“And some fences have been run over by trucks and bulls and?—”
“Okay, I get it,” he interrupts, laughing out loud as he waves a gloved hand to cut me off.
We fall back into a comfortable silence, the easy kind that comes from hard physical labor shared between two people. The tension that plagued us for years feels lighter somehow.
After we finish bagging the last of the waste, my dad leans against the stall door and holds his gloves in a fist against his hip. “That was a hell of a game in Little Rock, by the way. I tell you what . . . word is going to get around that you don’t run on Jake McKinney. That cannon was firing.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a surge of pride. I grab a rag to wipe my hands. “Actually . . . I tried that adjustment you suggested at the plate. Standing a little deeper, keeping my stance closed.”
My dad’s chest expands. It’s just a fraction, but I see it. And a quiet, humble pride washes over his face.
“Did you, now?”
His smirk is peeking through.
“Yeah. That’s what led to the triple in the third. It felt right. Smoothest swing I’ve taken in months.”
He nods slowly, trying to play it cool, but I can tell it means the world to him. “Well, you executed it perfectly. That was all you, Jake.”
He’s right. It was. But also, I would be lying if I said his advice wasn’t ruminating through my mind when I prepared for that at-bat. His wisdom always does. Even when I act like it’s the last thing on earth I want to hear.
“Hey, Dad?” I hesitate for a second, then clear my throat. “I was wondering . . . maybe if you have some time after our workouts today, you could work with me a little more on my swing?”
My dad gives me a faint, questioning look. “We have a great hitting coach, you know. Kessler knows her stuff.”
“Yeah . . . yeah. I know. And she’s shown me a lot, believe me.” I look down at my boots, then back up, giving him a small smile. “But I kinda like your advice.”
A tender, quiet moment stretches between us, and my dad just nods, his throat moving as he swallows hard. There’s a profound appreciation in his eyes.
“You got it. We’ll find some time. We’ll . . . we’ll make time.”
To ease the sudden weight of the air, my dad clears his throat and arches his back into a stretch. “Oh, by the way, I got to spend some time with Earl and Maggie recently. Dropped in on them.”
“Yeah? How are they doing?”
I miss the days when my grandparents lived here, at my mom’s house, or rather, their house.
But my grandpa fell twice, and he got lucky with fractures instead of full breaks.
My grandmother is a slight, short woman, and she can’t pick him up when he falls.
It was a tough decision to move them into a retirement community with built-in care, but once we made it, I think we all breathed easier.
“They’re doing well. I think they really like that retirement place in OKC,” my dad says, a grin breaking through.
“They’re like on permanent vacation in that place.
When I stopped in to check on them, Maggie said they were getting ready for a tiki party that night.
I checked out the flyer when I left, and the place actually brought in one of those whole roast pigs and everything. Pretty wild.”
I laugh, imagining my grandparents wearing leis and eating roast pork in Oklahoma. “I need to drop in and see them soon. I promise I will. I just . . . I get busy. Get caught up in my own world, I guess.”
My father’s eyes sharpen a hint, a knowing look entering his expression.
“Speaking of getting caught up . . .”
He uses the opening seamlessly.
“I couldn’t help but notice a bit of a connection between you and Campbell. Am I off there?”
I stiffen, suddenly feeling very exposed under my dad’s radar. I try to play it cagey, tossing my rag onto the tack trunk. “I mean, we work together. She’s the marketing director. We’re just trying to handle the media stuff.”
My father simply stares at me, one eyebrow raised.
“All right, fine,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. I can feel the burn crawling up to my cheeks, and dammit if I can’t keep this smile off my lips. “There might be some attraction there. A little bit.”
I expect a lecture about distractions or a warning about keeping my head in the game. But instead, my dad surprises me. He steps forward and places a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t get in your own way, then. If there’s something more there, something that might be worth more than this bullshit we call a game, don’t walk away from it.
” His voice drops, thick with a regret that I suspect runs pretty deep.
“I wasted a lot of time thinking I was doing the right thing by staying away. I thought it was better for everyone. Now, I’d give anything to have those years back. ”
My mind races. I wonder, not for the first time, about those missing years—what truly kept him away, what demons or decisions drove him to another state, sometimes across the country, while I grew up without him.
The questions burn in my throat. But looking at the tired, hopeful lines around his eyes, I decide to bury them for now.
Our relationship is in the infancy of repair.
We are laying the foundation. There will be time for the hard truths later.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say quietly.
My dad’s words still echo in my head as I pull into the Mavericks’ parking lot.
Maybe I’m in my own head about Campbell.
The seasons are long out here, and we’re both young and single.
I mean, she could have her pick of any mass of testosterone dressed in a jersey and baseball pants out here.
My pickings are a whole lot slimmer, unless I entertain dating the college girls again.
That never works out well. But maybe the fireworks that seem to go off when Campbell and I are together are simply a matter of needing a connection in this lonely place.
I consider this option as I leave my truck and head toward the clubhouse entrance.
But it takes exactly one glance to throw that idea out the window.
Campbell is carrying a stack of folders under one arm, her eyes glued to her tablet as she approaches the door.
It’s almost exactly a mirror image of the very first time we met.
A rush of adrenaline pours into my chest, and I lengthen my stride to close the gap between us, beating her to the door by a half second.
I reach out, grab the handle, and pull it open for her.
As she looks up in surprise, I tip the brim of my cowboy hat down with a grin.
“After you, ma’am.”
A pink flush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks. And I know. This thing I feel . . . it’s not normal. It’s rare. And I think she knows it, too.
She stops short of the doorway, her eyes wide.
“Jake! I?—”
“Hey, look, I wanted to?—”
We both speak right over each other, stopping awkwardly. Campbell rushes to fill the silence, her words tumbling out in a hurried, nervous blur. “I’m so sorry for leaving the hotel in such a rush. I just . . . I had to?—”
“Campbell, it’s fine,” I say, cutting through her panic with a chuckle. I lean against the doorframe, keeping my tone soft and relaxed.
“I understand. And I didn’t mean to cross a line that made you feel . . .”
I offer a crooked smile and a half shrug, because I refuse to finish my words.
I can’t lie. I did want to cross a line.
I still do. But also, I understand that it’s going to take time for her to be ready to step over that line with me.
She’s cautious. And even though my dad spent the last hour pumping me up to be a little reckless, the brakes might be what’s called for right now.
“You have more to handle than just me and my dad. There are lots of stories to tell around this clubhouse. In fact, you know what? You should get to know some of the guys better. You’re always running around working—aka dealing with my bullshit.
Maybe take a break and get to know the team outside of this place. ”
She lets out a breath, her shoulders dropping as she lets me talk. Her eyes lock onto mine, that same magnetic pull from the hotel room roaring right back to life between us, but I force myself to keep things above board. Regardless of the ache in my fucking pants.
“We’re all heading over to Earl’s after practice today. It’s sort of a tradition before home stands. We have a post-practice dinner,” I say, taking a small step closer, testing the waters. “You should come with us.”
Campbell bites her lower lip, a hesitant but undeniably intrigued smile playing on her lips. “Will there be dancing?”
I grin, my eyes flashing as I remember the debt she still owes me. A debt I forged, sure, but one I intend to collect, nonetheless.
“There is always dancing at Earl’s.”