17. Jake
SEVENTEEN
JAKE
My body feels lighter than it has in years.
From the time I was fourteen until now, more than a decade later, I have embraced the grind every free moment I have.
I put myself through grueling workouts with the hope that one day that extra ounce of muscle would pay off.
I hit the hills at four in the morning to sprint and gain speed before heading to my mom’s to care for the livestock on the off chance that I may get a millisecond faster.
I threw hay bales for sport just to grow my traps.
I’ve been doing that for years and seeing zero results, at least not in terms of looks from the coaching staff. I was losing hope that any of it—this—was worth it.
And then Campbell came along and turned her big ole media spotlight on my grumpy ass, forced me to smile pretty for the cameras and play nice with my dad. And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the missing ingredient, just like she said.
And tonight? I see it—the hard work finally paying off.
I am having the game of my life. I caught for five different pitchers over nine innings—prospects management is looking to pull up to the big club soon.
One of them, a lefty fresh out of college, tried to crank mid-nineties with absolutely zero control.
I had to stretch, dive, and block everything he buried into the dirt, making a handful of game-saving stops behind the plate that kept us in it.
I’ve had a solid night at the plate, too—two doubles and a walk.
Any other night and I’d be satisfied. But I’ve had a taste of greatness now, and I want more.
I see the scouts making notes, and eye the rep from Texas in the stands, checking in on the development happening down here.
I have his attention. I spotted him pulling out his phone to film my last at bat, and I see him propping it on his knee now as I take my warm-up swings just outside the dugout.
We’re down by a run, and if Jayden gets on base, it’s going to be hard not to swing for the fences, seek the glory.
Jayden takes ball four and tosses his bat at my feet as he claps on his way to first, shouting, “Come on!”
It’s showtime.
I step into the batter’s box, dig my cleats into the dirt, and remind myself of my father’s advice—hands back, wait on the break, and let the hips drive the power.
I draw in a deep breath that calms my pulse, and lower my weight, widening my stance so I’m forced to use the McKinney legs.
My eyes track the spin the moment the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, and that sideways rotation isn’t there.
It’s all backspin. It’s a mistake. A fastball. It’s my turn to be the guy.
The ball meets the sweet spot of the wood with a crack that echoes right down my spine. I side-step toward first in a bit of a skip as I watch the ball sail into the dark night sky, the tail straight, trajectory enough. I think.
It’s going to be fair. It has to be fair. Please be fair.
My eyes are like lasers, guiding that sucker over the massive left-field wall. Even seeing it, I don’t fully exhale and celebrate until I hear those precious five words from the in-game announcer.
“That’s a Mavericks home run!”
The stadium lights begin to flicker in unison as the second-base umpire swirls his finger in the air.
I drop my bat halfway down the first base line and trot around the bases.
I mentally tell myself to look like I’ve done this before, but fucking hell, I haven’t!
Not out here, at least. This is my first home run as a Maverick.
And it came off the bat with such ease. It felt like cutting butter. I’m gonna want to feel more of those.
By the time I round third and slap Coach Davis’s hand, I’m literally giddy. I let out a triumphant laugh, ignoring the hard stares from the losing dugout. Not only did I just hit my first home run, but I walked this shit off with it!
Roddy is the first one out of the dugout to greet me, slamming his hand against my helmet with a beaming grin. I still wish I had memories of him doing that when I was in Little League, but I’ll take this one right now. It’s special. And I’m glad he’s here for it.
The rest of the team piles out, one of my teammates pulling my jersey from my body while another dumps ice water over my back. It’s fucking freezing, but it’s also an honor.
My blood feels like it is buzzing with pure electricity.
For the first time in a decade, life feels like it is finally falling into place.
People are shouting my name, “Jake, Jake, Jake!” And my father’s shadow is nowhere to be found.
He remains back, watching me with pride from a distance.
This is my time, and that ache from resentment I’ve harbored for him for years isn’t there.
Through it all, the thought of Campbell is there.
I can’t wait to see her, to celebrate how well the night goes, to wrap my arms around her and hold her close.
And honestly, I am done sneaking around.
I am ready to figure out a way to announce our young relationship to the world.
I don’t want her to be a secret, and I don’t want to be hers.
I scan the field, figuring she must be down here somewhere.
There’s media waiting for me, and the in-game host is waiting by home plate to ask me questions for the crowd that’s sticking around to celebrate.
It’s a great turnout, and the fact there are families out here waiting to hear from me—kids waving balls and pens for me to sign—is absolutely wild.
“Where’s Campbell?” I lean into Jayden as he gathers up his gear. He glances over his shoulder and eyes the field then the stands.
“Weird. Don’t see her,” he answers with a shrug.
I’m not worried about the in-game interview, but I am a little nervous about talking to the media without her around.
I take my time heading out to home plate, and my teammates make sure to pepper me with more cups of water and a bucketful of gum.
Gary Willis, who has been doing these in-game interviews for the Mavs for years, slings an arm around me and runs through his usual set.
What was going through your mind?
Were you looking for that fastball?
How tough was this Tulsa team?
I breeze through the questions, then brace myself for the onslaught from the media.
A few affiliate stations are out here, and the question about what it’s like playing with my dad comes out right at the top.
I stick with my go-to answer, the one that seemed to work well with Connor’s piece, but I add a little bit more about learning from his legacy.
It comes out naturally, despite the fact it popped in my head on the fly.
I think, though, I mean it. He may not have been here as a dad, but he did carve a pretty great path for me to follow when it comes to this game.
It doesn’t kill me to say that out loud.
And the slight grin I catch on his face as he watches from afar feels good to see.
I muddle through the rest of the questions on the field, wondering where the hell Campbell is.
We have a media room, and usually she lets a handful of questions through post-game before ushering everyone into the press room for a more formal process.
Outlets are packing up, though, and the print reporter from OKC just flipped his notebook shut and is already playing back the sound he got on his phone.
I make my way back to the dugout to gather my gear, catching sight of my mom along with my Aunt Winnie standing a few rows up from the field entrance.
I pack my bag, then bypass the locker room for now, instead stepping into the stands to talk to them.
It becomes clear quickly that my job, however, is to listen.
Aunt Winnie is fired up, her face flushed red with an anger I know all too well from the McKinney side of the family.
My dad’s parents live in Texas, but they visit us for every holiday.
And Winnie’s expression right now is a close match to the one Grandpa Chester makes when he’s talking politics. Animated. Loud. Frightening.
Winnie has a piece of paper gripped tightly in her hand, and she’s waving it around as she gesticulates. Finally, she points it toward me.
“He needs to tell his little PR friend up there that I intend to fight this!” Winnie snaps, pointing a finger in the direction of the front offices while keeping the sharp edge of the paper trained on me.
I rest my bag on the arm of a nearby seat and put one foot on the concrete step as I furrow my brow at her, puzzled.
“Winnie, calm down. I’m sure Campbell is fine with you fighting whatever it is.”
“Oh yeah?” my aunt barks, eyes wide. “Did you know it’s her father’s firm handling this entire sale business, Jake? And did you know they plan on tearing down everything south of your shitty apartment all the way to historic Old Town where the Blackwoods live?”
The breath leaves my lungs in a single silent blow. I feel like I just took a fastball straight to the sternum.
“What?” I manage to choke out.
“You heard me!” Winnie rages, waving the paper more.
“You know what? That’s what I need to do—get with Sarah Blackwood.
This is exactly the kind of stuff she’s good at, fighting bad policy.
I’m sure she’s already on it. There’s no way a notice didn’t go to them, too.
They plan to flatten the road leading right up to their front lawn. Goodbye tree-lined streets.”
I stand there, completely stunned, my brain struggling to process the words coming out of her mouth. Campbell’s father’s firm. The lion’s head. The document on her desk today right after we . . .