21. Jake
TWENTY-ONE
JAKE
Nashville’s Broadway is visible from the windows of the team bus, a blur of corporate-sponsored honky-tonks and tourist traps that makes my stomach churn.
Any other weekend, a road trip to Music City is a welcome distraction from the monotony of the minor-league grind.
Tonight? It takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to smash my fist through the glass, drag my dad out of the row ahead of me, and steal a rental car.
Hines & Associates’ corporate offices are less than three miles from our hotel. I know the exact address because I looked it up on my phone three seconds after we crossed the Tennessee border, and I haven’t stopped staring at the little blue dot on my map since.
Campbell’s father is here, in this state, in this fucking zip code .
. . right now. Campbell told me as much before we left, her voice tight with a mixture of warning and residual anger.
It’s strange to care so much about the man’s daughter but absolutely detest everything he stands for otherwise.
My mind keeps zooming in to the future, to a time when Campbell and I have been together for a while, when it feels appropriate to meet her family, and I just can’t wrap my mind around it.
Truthfully, I’m not sure she’ll want to have a relationship with them either.
I can feel the phantom weight of those grotesque blueprints pressing down on Sweetwater from across the city, and the urge to march into his glass-and-steel fortress and lay him out is a physical ache in my jaw. The only consolation is that I am certain my dad feels the same.
When the bus jerks to a halt outside our hotel, I grab my duffel and step into the aisle, only to find Roddy already standing there, blocking my path.
He doesn’t look at me. He just keeps his eyes fixed on the exit doors, his broad shoulders squared, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the headrest of the seat next to him.
“We can’t. But I want to,” he mutters, his voice barely audible over the chatter of the guys behind us.
“I know.” My chest tightens just as his hand relaxes its grip.
“You’ve got that look your grandfather gets when a bull clears a fence—the one where you’re already figuring out which fence post you’re going to use to break its neck.
” Roddy turns his head slightly, his expression deadpan under the dim bus lights.
“We have three games against these guys. Scouts are deep in the seats this weekend. You break away to go play hero at a law firm, and you flush everything you’ve done since Campbell turned the lights on you right down the toilet. ”
I swallow the bitter truth pill, staring at the back of his neck as we shuffle down the steps into the Roadway Inn parking lot. We wait by the undercarriage of the bus for our gear, the hot exhaust only adding to the humidity, causing sweat to drip down my cheeks.
“I bet he’s sitting in some steakhouse right now toastin’ a bunch of investors, along with his client, Mr. Billionaire whatever, with twenty-year-old scotch while Mom and Winnie are printing flyers at the library.”
“And Campbell is currently drafting a counter-offensive that will turn his own legal department into a circular firing squad,” my dad adds, stepping from the curb to grab my bag for me.
Our eyes meet during the exchange. “We keep our heads in the box, Jake. That’s our job this weekend.
We protect the game. We let her protect the town. ”
I look at him for a long beat, searching for the anger I know he’s hiding behind that stoic mask. It’s there, buried deep in the creases around his eyes, but it’s disciplined.
“Fine,” I mutter, adjusting the strap of my gear bag. “We focus on the game. Fucking wise old man.”
He punches out a harsh laugh, and I roll my eyes.
He grabs his bag, and our steps sync up right away as we head into the hotel lobby.
“Let’s go get some terrible hotel food and pretend we don’t want to burn this city to the ground.” His words might be wise, but they don’t do much for the fire in my belly.
The heat inside Nashville Ballpark is oppressive, the humidity hanging over the turf like a damp wool blanket.
The stands are empty during warm-ups, minus a few early-bird fans and a cluster of guys in matching polo shirts carrying radar guns and clipboards.
Hunter’s throwing this weekend. The scouts are here for him.
Still, it’s hard not to fantasize. The Texas rep is right behind the dugout, watching our pitchers throw their long-toss routines.
I’m sitting on the turf near the right-field foul pole, my legs stretched out in a V, reaching for my left toe. My dad drops down a few feet away, his old knees cracking loud enough that I hear them.
“Jesus,” I mumble.
“Just you wait,” he warns.
This has become our routine—the quiet window before the stadium speakers start blasting pop music and the rest of the roster spills out for batting practice.
“Daisy tells me Campbell practically moved into the apartment before the bus even cleared the county line,” my dad says, his voice casual, though his eyes are dancing, tracking me, waiting to read my expression. I give in. I can’t help the small, lopsided smirk that breaks through my game face.
“She brought three bags and a laptop stand that looks like a piece of space equipment. My closet is entirely out of commission. I’m currently keeping my socks in a protein powder tub.”
Roddy lets out a rolling chuckle. “Sounds about right. A woman like that doesn’t do anything halfway. I’m glad to see it, Jake. Truly. Glad things are working out with her.”
“You only like her because she made me forgive you.”
The words come out before I can filter them, honest and blunt, hanging in the sticky afternoon air like a fastball that missed the glove.
My dad’s body stiffens mid-stretch. His hands stay locked under his foot, but his head snaps up to look at me. The casual buddy persona evaporates in a fraction of a second, leaving the man who spent a decade staring at me from photos posted on social media drowning in his own regret.
The silence between us stretches, and it’s the kind of quiet that makes my chest ache.
I can see the wheels turning in his head, see the sudden weight of more than a dozen years of missed birthdays and unreturned phone calls pressing down on his shoulders.
He looks like he’s about to say something monumental, something that will completely shatter the tenuous peace we’ve built over the last month.
“Don’t make it weird,” I say, my gaze drifting toward the outfield wall, my face heating despite the sweat already pouring down my neck. I hold out a closed fist between us, keeping my arm straight. “I might take it back later. Probably not, but don’t push your luck.”
My dad doesn’t move for a second, but I keep my fist out for him to accept.
“I’ve still got a lot of shit to work through in my head,” I continue, my voice a little uneven.
I don’t like how vulnerable I sound, but I push through it.
“Those years don’t just disappear because we had a good week at the plate, or because you gave me some solid advice.
And those feelings are still there even if we’re bonding over knocking out rich people’s teeth.
But yeah. If I’m being honest, it’s nice having you here. In my life. And I forgive you, Dad.”
He swallows hard, his jaw working as he looks from my face back to my hand before finally reaching out and dropping his fist on top of mine. The contact is brief. Digestible. It’s what I can handle for now.
“Okay, kid,” he utters. And that’s where we leave it.
He stands up, arching his back in a final stretch, and tosses a baseball toward my glove. “Get your gear on. These Nashville hitters like to crowd the plate. You need to establish the inside corner early.”
“Got it.”
By the top of the fourth inning, my world is narrowing to a single, white-hot point of agony in my right shoulder.
It started in the second, a dull, throbbing ache after I had to fire a snap-throw to first to catch a runner leaning.
By the third, it felt like someone was driving a rusty nail into my rotator cuff every time I brought my arm back to transfer the ball.
Now, with the Nashville shortstop on first and two outs, I’m certain he’s looking to run.
The next pitch is a slider down in the dirt.
I block it with my shins, the ball bouncing perfectly in front of my chest, and I scoop it up in one fluid motion.
I pop out of my crouch, driving my legs toward second, unleashing a throw that should catch him by two feet.
The moment the ball leaves my fingertips, a blinding, electric shock of pain sears through my shoulder.
My vision goes gray at the edges. A choked gasp catches in my throat, and my arm drops instantly to my side, completely dead.
The throw sails three feet wide of the bag, bouncing into center field as the runner slides in safely.
I don’t even look at the play. I just drop to one knee behind the plate, my left hand clutching my right shoulder, trying desperately to breathe through the white-hot nausea rolling through my stomach.
“Batter up!” the umpire calls, entirely oblivious.
I force myself to stand, my teeth clenched so tightly I can hear them grinding in my skull.
I retrieve my mask, my right arm hanging like a piece of lead, useless.
I manage to get through the final out of the inning by simply giving the pitcher a massive target and praying he doesn’t throw anything I have to stretch for.
When I stumble back into the dugout, I try to regroup at the far end of the bench, leaning my weight on the water cooler as I guzzle down cupful after cupful so the guys don’t see me wincing. I attempt to lift my arm to hang my mask on the hook, and the stabbing pain returns.
“Jake.”