12. Campbell
TWELVE
CAMPBELL
My phone rattles against my desktop, breaking my concentration. I blink to refocus my eyes after staring at a spreadsheet of regional media markets for the last two hours. Unfortunately, my focus doesn’t adjust in time for me to read the name on caller ID before I swipe to answer.
Dad.
My stomach drops, and acid crawls up my esophagus.
“Hey, Dad,” I answer, forcing my voice to sound cheerful. “What’s up?”
I lower my forehead to rest on my balled fist atop my desk.
“Campbell. I’m actually in Sweetwater.” His booming, courtroom-ready voice fills my office.
I’m sure everyone hears him, from the ticket-sales booths down to Kevin’s corner office.
“Just wrapped up a morning meeting. I’ve got a window before my flight, and I thought maybe my daughter might grace me with her presence.
They do let you eat lunch at that place, don’t they?
I was thinking we could head over to a place I saw called Earl’s? ”
My heart skips a beat. Earl’s. Where the entire team is invading later tonight.
The place where Jake promised me there would be dancing.
Where he intends to collect his debt. The absolute last thing I need is my high-powered, judgmental, corporate attorney father dissecting the local dive bar where I’m supposed to be letting my hair down later.
“Oh, actually, Earl’s isn’t really great for a quick lunch,” I lie, shifting in my office chair.
I run a quick search on my computer to see what’s open near the university during the summer and settle on a coffee shop that I know has great sandwiches.
“I’m a bit pressed for time today. Why don’t we meet at the coffee shop near the school? ”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll swing by to pick you up in fifteen.”
He ends the call before I can offer to meet him there.
I swap out my sneakers for black pumps, lest my father focus on my unprofessional footwear. And even though it’s warm out today, I slip on my black blazer so I’m appropriate for a business lunch. Because while he may be my father, that’s what this is. Business. It’s always business.
I hover in the lobby until I see a white SUV pull up to the curb, then head out to the parking lot to hop into the back seat when I realize his associate, Richard, is with him.
“Oh,” I stammer as I slide in and buckle my seat belt. “I didn’t realize it was more than just us.”
“Good to see you, Campbell,” Richard says over his shoulder. His tight smile tells me he’s as uncomfortable with this as I am.
“You, too.” I reach forward and pat his shoulder. I’ve known Richard for a decade. He’s like family at this point. Hell, he’s a lot nicer to me than my father. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s at this lunch with us.
The café is only a few blocks away from the ballpark, on the northeast corner of the university’s campus.
My father pulls into one of the dozen spots usually gobbled up by students looking for free parking, and the three of us climb out of the Suburban.
I meet my dad in front of the vehicle, and he gives me a one-armed side hug.
Warm fuzzies per usual.
The scent of roasted espresso beans and pastries in this place usually soothes me, but today it just feels like the backdrop to an interrogation.
We order, and my father pays. Our fancy drinks actually make the bill higher than it would have been at Earl’s, and that amuses me as we move to a corner booth.
“So . . . what brings the firm out to Sweetwater? I didn’t think we were on your usual corporate radar.” I slip my jacket off and lay it in the seat next to me. I’m boiling hot.
My dad smiles, a calculating look in his eyes.
“We’re helping a client with a rather significant land deal in the area. A lot of moving parts, but it’s coming along.”
Cagey as always. If Richard weren’t here, I’d roll my eyes.
“Actually, there is something I wanted to run by you . . . about this deal, and . . . other things.”
Here it comes. I brace myself.
“You have such a brilliant legal mind?—”
“I’m not joining the firm,” I cut in, irritated that he’s doing this in front of Richard.
My father holds up a palm, his sharp glare a nonverbal warning to let him finish. I’m twenty-six and still being scolded.
“Go on,” I hum, dropping my attention to the straw coming out of my icy pink and white drink.
My father clears his throat.
“As I was saying . . . you have a brilliant legal mind and an incredible knack for public relations.” He leans forward, his hands clasped on the table.
“You’re wasting your talents babysitting a minor league baseball team.
Come work with us at the firm but do it your way.
We’re handling massive land acquisitions, and a lot of these deals need precise, sophisticated messaging.
You could make a lot of money, sweetheart.
More than you’ll ever see in sports marketing. ”
I take a slow sip of my beverage, letting the cold liquid temper the fire kindling in my chest. “I make plenty of money, Dad. I like my job. I like the autonomy I have here, and I love the team. Plus, this is just a stepping stone on my way to bigger markets.”
My dad sighs, exchanging a look with Richard that screams she’s just being stubborn. “We’ll talk more about it later.”
I breathe in silently through my nose, and I don’t put my foot down like I should. Because our roles are ingrained—he’s Dad, and I’m always a little girl. Even if I tell him the conversation is over, he’ll renew it the next time we speak. This debate of ours will never end.
The rest of the lunch is a blur of billable-hour talk and real-estate jargon, with maybe a question or two about how the team is doing this season thrown in by Richard.
I think he feels bad because I’m just sitting here picking at my food.
When we finish, my dad insists on driving me back to the ballpark.
I’d rather walk, but since I swapped out my shoes, I take him up on it.
Richard climbs into the back seat this time, and he’s tapping away on his laptop while my dad navigates his way into the stadium parking lot.
Just as the SUV clicks into park near the front offices, the heavy glass doors of the clubhouse swing open, and Jake walks out.
Of course he does.
He’s wearing a gray fitted T-shirt that hugs his shoulders perfectly. His worn cowboy hat tilts just right against the midday sun, and his gear bag is slung over one shoulder.
“Thanks for lunch, Dad,” I say quickly, reaching for the door handle to make a swift exit.
“Who’s that?” my dad asks, his eyes narrowing through the windshield as he spots Jake walking toward us.
Shit.
Not swift enough.
Before I can answer, Jake hollers my name and begins to jog toward us. His stupid, fucking grin is so perfect. He’s perfect. My father is going to hate him.
“You get lunch without me?” Jake’s making a joke, but my father doesn’t know that. Richard’s nose is buried behind his laptop. I’m sure he senses how unamused my dad is right now.
“Hey, Jake,” I say, my voice wavering and my cheeks warming. I turn to the open car door, forcing myself to be professional. “Dad, this is Jake McKinney, one of our catchers. Jake, this is my dad and his associate, Richard.”
My dad doesn’t get out of the car. He just waves me out of his way and leans over the console, assessing Jake with his cool, corporate glare. “Nice to meet you . . . Jake.”
My dad somehow makes a clicking sound at the end of Jake’s name. I’m so embarrassed, but Jake doesn’t flinch, instead leaning one arm casually on the top of my open door, entirely unfazed by the tension radiating from the driver’s seat.
“What brings you to Sweetwater, Mr. Hines?” His Oklahoma accent is layered on thick, and I dare say, I think Jake is toying with my father.
“Tying up some loose ends. We’re handling a pretty lucrative land deal, actually.” My dad’s showing off as if Jake gave two shits. This man hit a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball for a triple a few days ago. I don’t think land swaps and deed negotiations are going to wow him.
“A land deal, huh? What kind?” Jake tips his hat up a bit, giving my dad a better view of his face.
My father’s posture stiffens slightly. It’s a strange reaction from him. He’s not one to be tight-lipped about his work. And whatever he’s working on is clearly something he wants to brag about.
“Just some state land and ranchers swapping acreage. Standard bureaucratic shuffling,” he says quickly, shifting his gaze almost as a way to push us off the topic.
Jake nods slowly, a knowing glint in his eye.
“Right. Well, if you want to see the real town while you’re here, sir, you should stick around and come to Earl’s tonight.
The whole team will be there. It’ll give you a real flavor for the place.
Plus, word is, your daughter can really cut a rug on the dance floor. ”
Jake shifts his gaze to me, his brown eyes dancing with mischief. He drops his chin a fraction and throws me a wink. “There’s always dancing at Earl’s. Right, Campbell?”
Oh my God. I mentally scream at him.
“We’ll see,” I manage to choke out.
Jake chuckles, reaching his hand into the vehicle. “Good meeting you, sir. And Richard.” My dad shakes Jake’s palm with a tight, brief nod. Jake steps back, giving me one last lingering look before heading toward his truck. “See you tonight, Campbell.”
The moment his truck door slams shut, my dad turns to me, his expression hardened with disapproval.
“I certainly hope you aren’t getting involved with someone like that,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. “Athletes. Men like that . . . they aren’t breadwinners. They have short careers and no real stability. You need someone who can provide a proper future.”
The humiliation that I was drowning in before evaporates, and it’s replaced by a cold, sharp anger. My dad’s antiquated ideas are infuriating, especially because he’s willing to flex his ideas about gender roles if I’m working for him.