Epilogue
JAKE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
From thirty stories up, the headlights on the interstate below look like tiny, slow-moving tracers cutting through the Texas dark.
The late October air in Dallas carries a welcome chill that makes me grateful for the heavy wool blazer I’m wearing.
It’s a custom piece from a tailor in Fort Worth, but it still feels a little too stiff compared to the corduroy jacket that’s served me well for years.
It’s hard to believe it’s only been four months since we loaded down the bed of my truck and watched the stadium lights disappear in the rearview mirror.
I spent that first week in a hotel, and the following one on the road.
But by the time I got back, Campbell had everything packed and ready to travel.
Not that we own much between us. Her biggest asset is a three-year-old Mercedes, and mine is a custom Wilson catcher’s mitt my dad had made for me in honor of getting called up.
I take a long sip of my bourbon, the ice clinking against the crystal glass, then turn from the open terrace to look across the small, candlelit table just inside.
Campbell is furiously tapping away on her phone, her nimble thumbs moving at an athletic speed.
If she keeps this up, her nails are sure to break the glass.
She’s wearing a deep emerald silk dress that makes her eyes look like jewels in the low light, her long hair pinned up to reveal the elegant slope of her neck. It’s killing me not to trace that line with my tongue right now.
Later.
Her phone buzzes as she’s texting.
“If that’s your father calling to beg for a truce, I’m going to have the waiter confiscate your device,” I mumble, a slow smirk cutting across my face.
Campbell snorts, not looking up from the screen for another three seconds before she hits send with a definitive, satisfying tap and silences whatever call is incoming.
She drops the phone into her leather clutch and slides it under her napkin.
I return to my seat, nervous energy still buzzing through my legs.
“Not my father,” she says, leaning back in her velvet chair and flashing me a triumphant grin.
“That was a prominent sports agency in Houston. Their star shortstop just had a very public, very stupid meltdown outside a nightclub, and they want my mobile firm to handle the fallout before the morning sports radio cycle kicks off.”
“Mobile operation,” I echo, shaking my head with genuine admiration.
“I am a specialized crisis specialist,” she adds, reaching across the white tablecloth to wrap her fingers around my left hand.
“And business is booming. It turns out, professional athletes get into just as much trouble as corporate developers, but they pay their retainers much faster. Sarah and I are already looking at bringing on a junior analyst by the first of the year. Sarah wants to keep her focus on non-profits and the towns. She’s protective of her time with her family, too. I admire it.”
“But you . . . you’re full rockstar,” I tease.
“You know it,” she says with a wink.
I squeeze her hand, my thumb tracing the soft skin of her wrist. Over the last four months, while I was adjusting to the blistering speed of major-league fastballs and the echoing roar of forty thousand fans ready to call you out for any and all mistakes, Campbell was building an empire from laptop screens and airport lounges.
She spent half the summer traveling with me on road trips, managing PR accounts from hotel desks while I logged a .
282 rookie average and threw out twenty-two runners attempting to steal second.
We built a strange yet wonderful new normal out of suitcases and room service.
But the season is over, and while it’s only a few months of the slow life, it’s here. We’re present. And I refuse to waste it.
The waiter arrives, quietly clearing away the remnants of our steaks and leaving a fresh bottle of sparkling water on the table.
“So,” Campbell says, leaning her chin on her hand, her eyes glittering with her love of gossip. “Did you talk to your dad today before we left the apartment?”
“I did,” I say, letting out a rough chuckle.
“He called right around noon. He and Mom just finished remodeling the back storeroom at Earl’s into a private dining area.
Apparently, the Tuesday night steak crowds have gotten so rowdy they needed the extra square footage just to keep the mechanics down the road from fighting the college kids over the pool tables. ”
She laughs.
“And how are they doing?” she continues, a nostalgic and rather nosy expression wrinkling her nose. “Really?”
I shake my head.
“I’m telling you all I know. If something is going on, they’re keeping it close. I mean, it’s pretty obvious every time we’re around them that . . . you know . . .”
I refuse to say my parents are sleeping together.
“Yeah, and what about their mysterious past?” Campbell asks, putting on a spooky voice for that last word.
“My dad has not said a word about any of his big, dark, deep secrets. We’re just going to have to sit tight and wait.”
Campbell falls back in her chair, her arms dropping to her side with an exaggerated sigh. It’s adorable.
“Dad seems to like being retired,” I continue, and for the first time in my life, the words about my father don’t carry a single ounce of anger.
“I mean, he’s not exactly sitting around and relaxing, of course.
He’s actually helping Dale Blackwood with the fall instructional league at the high school.
He spent ten minutes on the phone today complaining that kids these days don’t know the meaning of hustle.
Oh, and he told me to tell the staff in Arlington that our bullpen catcher is drifting on his setups. ”
Campbell laughs, the sound pouring from her lips and filling my ears with my favorite song.
“Some things never change. God, I miss Sweetwater sometimes. I miss the dust. I miss the smell of the grease at the ballpark. I miss Willie 2.0!”
“Me too,” I admit, looking over my shoulder again at the sprawling Texas metroplex. “It’s too clean down here. Too quiet. Way more people, yet the noise just sort of fades into the background of everything.”
“Speaking of Sweetwater,” Campbell segues, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as she scoots her chair a few inches closer to mine. “Did Roddy mention Winnie?”
I burst out laughing, nearly choking on my bourbon.
“Oh, yeah. He mentioned her. He said a few of his neighbors called him to complain that Austin Summerhill’s private corporate jet keeps tying up the crop-dusting runway.”
Campbell’s eyes widen, a matching grin breaking across her face. “I knew it! I knew those two were still trading fire.”
“Dad says Winnie claims she’s only taking meetings with him to ‘properly monitor his compliance’ with the zoning restrictions we forced him to sign,” I say, shaking my head at the sheer absurdity of it.
“But my mom swears she saw Austin’s McLaren parked behind Winnie’s ranch house past midnight last Thursday.
The billionaire just cannot stay away from the small-town resistance. ”
“Good,” Campbell murmurs, a deep sense of satisfaction settling into her voice. She loves being right.
We sit at our table for a long time, laughing over updates from Oklahoma, tracking the lives of the people who took us in when we were both broken, stranded pieces of a game that had chewed us up.
The wind shifts, drifting in from the terrace, carrying the bite of the autumn night.
The pianist begins to play a soft ballad, and it takes me a moment to know for certain, but by the time he hits the third bar, I’m sure.
It’s the same song we danced to at Earl’s.
My chest tightens, bravery pooling in my belly. My hands tingle to the point I hardly feel them at all. It’s a sensation I haven’t felt since my major-league debut in June.
I set my glass down, wipe my palms against my trousers, and stand up from the table. I extend my left hand toward her.
“Dance with me.”
Campbell looks up, slightly startled, her eyes scanning the upscale dining room, the quiet couples at tables around us.
“Jake, there isn’t a dance floor out here. People are eating.”
“I don’t care about the people, Campbell,” I say, stepping closer and keeping my hand extended. “Dance with me.”
A subtle smile curves her lips. She slides her fingers into mine, the contrast of her warm skin against my cold hand making me fully aware of just how nervous I am.
I pull her up from the velvet seat and lead her away from the tables, out to the very edge of the room where the open terrace reveals an expansive sky.
I wrap my left arm around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest. Her right hand comes up to rest against the back of my neck, her fingers tangling into the short hair at my collar.
We sway, completely out of place among the high-society crowd surrounding us but entirely locked into each other.
I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in the lilac scent of her perfume while finding solace in the rise and fall of her chest against mine.
Four months ago, she told me she was on my team. She packed her life into a single truck bed because she believed in the trajectory of mine. She tore down her own family legacy to help me rebuild what I’d lost.
I take a deep, shaky breath and step back just an inch.
“Jake?” she asks, her eyes blinking up at me, her brow furrowing slightly at the sudden shift in my energy. “What is it?”
I don’t answer. My pulse is racing a thousand beats per minute. I reach into the interior pocket of my wool blazer, my fingers clamping around the small, square velvet box I’ve been carrying around for three weeks.
I drop onto one knee on the polished stone floor, willing my mouth to form words. Apparently, though, I don’t have to.
Campbell gasps, her hands flying to her mouth as her eyes tear up, the flickering candlelight lighting up the ones that quickly build along her lashes.