16. Campbell
SIXTEEN
CAMPBELL
The late afternoon sun bleeds through my office window, casting long, sharp shadows across my desk. Outside, the muffled thump of the sound system testing the bass echoes through the stadium, a rhythmic reminder that the night game—the start of our crucial home stand—is fast approaching.
I’m supposed to be finalizing the press releases for the weekend—kids’ zone, special food vendors, pie-eating contest, fireworks.
I have high hopes of getting regional TV stations out here, but my fingers keep freezing over the keyboard, and my window to get this release out in a timely fashion is quickly shrinking.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the lion’s head logo.
I see the sick, panicked look on Jake’s face when he realized his family’s legacy is under threat.
I feel it in my gut. Like a bullet.
Movement down the hall catches my attention, so I slip out of my office and eye Kevin’s office. I hear the shuffle of papers, then see his body pacing back and forth behind his expansive glass wall.
A sudden surge of adrenaline hits my chest. I need answers, and it’s no use waiting for them to fall in my lap. I force myself to stand, my heels clicking loudly on the polished concrete floors as I march down the short corridor and stop at his open threshold. I knock lightly.
“Kevin? Do you have a quick second to chat?”
He looks up, pulling off his reading glasses with a tired smile. “Always, Campbell. Come on in.”
I step inside and immediately reach back, shutting the heavy wooden door behind me. The sudden quiet of the room feels heavy. Instead of taking the chair directly across from his desk, I cross the room and sit on the leather sofa, trying to project a calmness I absolutely do not feel.
“Everything okay?” he asks, leaning back in his executive chair, his eyes tracking my serious posture.
I fold my hands in my lap, doing my best to ignore how sweaty my palms are.
“Yeah,” I start, clearing my throat and running my clammy palms down the fabric of my slacks.
“I just . . . I wanted to ask a few more questions about this buyer you mentioned earlier. The development plans.” I feel around the edges of the topic, testing the waters.
“Maybe I’m off base, but I get the feeling that the deal is close to finalizing.
And, well, I’m trying to get a head start on the messaging.
It would really help to know who we’re dealing with.
To be frank, Kevin, I have a feeling about the legal representation involved. Is my fath?—”
Before the rest of the question—father’s firm involved—can fully leave my mouth, Kevin lets out a low chuckle, waving off my tension. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk.
“Campbell, are you coming in here to tell me you’ve got a new job offer and you’re leaving us for greener pastures? Or infields, rather?”
I halt and my breath stills. His words befuddle me, completely throwing me off balance.
“What?”
Kevin smiles warmly, clearly enjoying my shock. His expression reminds me of my mom’s when she hands me an expensive gift for my birthday. It’s usually not a gift I asked for, and often her taste rather than mine.
“Listen, since you brought it up, I might as well tell you. The parent organization in Texas? They are incredibly impressed with what you’ve done here.
Our regional exposure, the attendance spike, the narrative branding—you’ve put this tiny market on the map in just a month.
They’re finalizing a restructuring package, Campbell.
They’re going to offer you a VP position in Arlington. ”
My jaw goes slack. A VP position. In Arlington.
My dream.
It’s the major leagues. Exactly what I have been sweating, bleeding, and sacrificing for since the day I graduated. For a split second, a thrilling wave of pride and validation rushes through my veins. But just as quickly as the high hits, a cold, skeptical voice whispers in the back of my mind.
The timing. The land deal. My father.
Before I can dig deeper, Kevin checks his watch and abruptly stands, grabbing his portfolio and a sport coat from the back of his chair.
“Look, I have to run up and meet some of the minority owners in the suite before the gates open. Think about it, Campbell. You’ve earned this. I sure would hate to lose you around here, but hey . . . I won’t be here much longer anyhow.”
He chuckles, the glee of a man nearing retirement on full display.
“Thank you, Kevin,” I manage to utter, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears.
I excuse myself and walk back to my office like a zombie. I sink into my chair, my mind spinning at a million miles an hour, and when I look down at my phone, the screen is lit up with a missed call.
Dad. One minute ago.
My stomach drops. Every instinct tells me to let it go to voicemail, to bury my head in my work. But the nagging, burning curiosity in my chest is too loud to ignore. I swipe the screen and call him back.
He answers on the second ring.
“Campbell. I was just about to try you again. Congratulations, sweetheart.”
I grip the edge of my desk, my pulse hammering.
“Congratulations on what, Dad?”
This is what my instincts feared. He’s behind this somehow. I just know it. I feel it in my bones.
Goddammit.
“Oh, I just heard something through the old rumor mill, you know how it goes.”
“No, Dad. How does that go? How are we operating in the same rumor mill?”
I have a feeling I know how, but I’d rather hear him say it.
A heavy sigh echoes over the line, followed by the rustle of papers.
“Because I’m handling the buyer’s side for the new ownership acquisition of the Mavericks,” he admits, entirely nonchalant. “I pushed the narrative of your talent to the executive board. It’s a clean transition for everyone. And with you in Texas, there’s no bad looks . . .”
A hot fire kindles in my chest, burning away the shock.
“I’m sorry, but . . . bad looks? Because I had a job I loved, I was here first, and you .
. . you what? Came in and fucked everything up?
” I laugh out, the sound a bit manic. I feel manic.
My heart is pounding so hard I fear it might burn out, leaving my body a deflated shell of a human once I fall to the floor.
“You’re being dramatic, Campbell.” He hasn’t used that word since I told him I was leaving the law for PR. Dramatic. I prefer independent.
“You’re involved in the sale? You kept this from me from the very start, Dad!
You came to my workplace, sat in a car twenty feet from my stadium, and didn’t say a word.
” My voice rises, tight with an increasing, suffocating upset.
“Did I actually deserve this promotion? Or am I just an obstacle you’re getting out of the way so your client can swoop in?
You know, removing all those bad looks I apparently bring to your table. ”
“Campbell,” he snaps. That tone worked when I was a kid and wanted a toy he thought was wasteful. But this isn’t the Barbie aisle of the toy store. This is my career. My life!
“Who is the buyer, Dad? Tell me who is buying the team. Who is so important that you’re willing to gaslight your own daughter?”
“You know I can’t do that. Nondisclosure parameters are strictly in place until the county filing is finalized. You know the law.”
“I don’t care about the law right now; I care about my team!”
He chuckles, and the muffled sound is condescending. It’s also intentional.
“You should be happy, sweetheart,” he says, his tone dripping with a dismissive finality. “This is exactly what you always wanted.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, tears of angry frustration prickling the backs of my eyes. My mouth is watering, the way it does right before I vomit. “But I didn’t really earn it.”
“Nobody earns anything, Campbell,” he replies coldly. “This is how the world works. You take advantage when an opportunity is given to you.” A beep sounds on his end. “I have to grab this call. We’ll celebrate when you’re settled in Texas.”
The line goes dead.
I slam the phone onto my desk, trembling with a volatile mixture of rage and nausea.
Outside my window, the stadium lights hum to life, bathing the field in a brilliant, artificial glow.
The muffled cheers of the early crowd passing through the gates with their patchwork blankets and vintage jerseys fill the air, but all I can see is the main street of Sweetwater stretching into the dusty Oklahoma sunset.
A sick, hollow feeling settles deep in my gut.
Take advantage when it’s given.
I stare at my laptop screen. Suddenly, a memory sparks from three years ago—back when I was still trying to please my father, helping with digital archiving for his firm. I used to have his executive secretary’s master credentials to sign in to the firm’s back-end database.
My heart races as I open a secure browser window.
I type in the firm’s portal address, a long string I’ll never forget after logging in so many times for a month straight.
I enter his secretary’s old username and the password she joked she had used for five straight years.
The odds are with me that she’s kept it the same ever since.
I hit enter.
With a soft chime, the screen transitions. Access Granted. I let out a shaky breath.
My fingers fly across the keys, filtering through active Tennessee and Oklahoma land acquisitions until I find the proprietary file labeled: Project Red Dirt/Mavericks Franchise.
I click the file. The legal documents bloom across my monitor, and the truth slams into me like a physical blow.
The buyer isn’t a sports conglomerate. It’s Summerhill Executives. The CEO is Austin Summerhill, a thirty-five-year-old billionaire real-estate hotshot from Dallas with a ruthless reputation for buying up historical properties, tearing them down, and capitalizing on the dirt.
I scroll frantically through the attached PDFs, my eyes scanning the zoning applications submitted secretly to the county. They are asking for a special municipal tax district.
I open the blueprints and architectural rendering files, and my breath completely hitches.
They aren’t keeping the ballpark. They aren’t keeping anything.
The entire historical grid of Sweetwater’s commercial district is mapped out in bright red lines, marked for complete demolition.
In its place, the blueprints show a sprawling, gaudy commercial waterpark, a massive luxury resort, an eighteen-hole golf course, and a concrete strip of corporate chain restaurants and bars.
The new ballpark is more theme park than sports venue.
No more local ranches. No more open pastures.
And no more Earl’s.
They are using eminent domain to seize the land, throwing Jake’s mom out of her home, all with some blessing from the university down the road. A partnership that feels dirty.
I pull back from the screen, my hand hovering over my mouth as a wave of genuine physical sickness washes over me.
My father didn’t get me a promotion out of pride, which I figured was the case. He got me a promotion to clear the board. He wants his daughter safely tucked away in Texas so she won’t be standing in Sweetwater to watch him bulldoze the lives of the people she cares about.
I look back out the window at the stadium’s brick facade, thinking of Jake’s smile, his touch, and the fierce, protective love he has for his family’s land.
His dad’s fucking goat!
I close the laptop with a snap. I can’t live with this. No promotion, even a major league VP title, is worth the weight of this devastation. This isn’t taking advantage of an opportunity. This is a corporate execution, and I am absolutely not going to let my father pull the trigger.