Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance

THE MOTION LIGHT POPS ON WHEN I PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY OF my one-story house. Its big wraparound porch and two rocking chairs look inviting, and the lights in the entryway shine brightly through the window above the door.

Campbell hasn’t moved since we left the hospital. His arm is over his eyes, knees cocked all funny to fit his bandaged foot and crutches, hair standing straight up. There was no question of taking him to the motel after this. Dad had promised everyone—Brenda, the Rangers, and, at some point, the agent—that we’d take care of Campbell.

“We’re home.” I touch his shoulder gently when he doesn’t stir.

He rubs his eyes with one fist like a sleepy toddler and levers himself upright. “Your dad make it back?”

“His car’s in the garage. I’m guessing he’s probably dozed off on the couch, waiting for us.” I jog around to Campbell’s side of the van and hand him his crutches. “Let me get your stuff out of the back.”

“Please don’t.” He shifts all his weight to one crutch and balances precariously on his good foot. “If you hand the bags to me, I can take them in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I laugh a little as I struggle to get them both onto my shoulders.

Campbell crutches ahead of me and pushes the door open, frowning. “It’s just … this is the second time in two days that you’ve carried my bags.” He shakes his head and gives a brittle-sounding laugh. “I’m not used to having other people do stuff for me.”

“Don’t let it threaten your masculinity. I promise I’ll find something heavy for you to move when your ankle is better.”

He grunts like I’d punched him in the gut. “That’s not what I meant—”

“I know. I’m teasing.”

Dad must have been waiting for us because the inner door swings open. He sweeps the bags off my shoulders and carries them both—in one hand, of course—to the room Sawyer occupied the night before. The bed is neatly made. Dad would never have thought to fold down the quilt and tuck the sheet over the top, so I know Campbell must have done it.

“Go get Sawyer some extra pillows so we can elevate that foot,” Dad says, and I scurry off to get everything set up.

I return with a good stack in time to hear Dad say, “Tomorrow the head office is sending a surgeon to check out your ankle and make sure everything is closing properly.” Dad slides aside so I can arrange the pillows on the bed. “Ryan will make sure you’re comfortable and get you to the park or wherever you need to be.”

Oh, will I? I give my dad a look that says as much, which he either ignores or misses completely.

“In a few days, when you’re feeling better and are off the narcotics, we can move you to the motel.”

“Sounds good, Mr. Russell.” Campbell leans his crutches against the wall and lowers himself slowly to the foot of the bed.

“I’ll grab you a couple bottles of water.”

Dad disappears down the hallway, while I stand awkwardly in the narrow space between the bed and the closet. “Do you need anything else?” I don’t really want to paw through his bag for a toothbrush or clean underwear, but I have been commanded by my father to help Campbell.

“Will you throw my bag on the bed for me? I think that will be easier.”

I heft it up beside him. “Yell if you need anything.” I knock on the wall that divides our rooms. “I’m three feet away.”

It brings a smile out of him. “Thanks for everything. I’m probably going to be indebted to you for the rest of my life.”

I swallow, my throat strangely dry. Where’s Dad with those bottles of water? “I’m sure I can find some way for you to work off your debt.”

“I bet you will.” He reaches out and takes my hand and gives it a thank-you squeeze before letting it drop.

As I walk the short distance to my own bedroom, my stupid heart gives a little flutter.

EVEN THOUGH I’M TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY EXHAUSTED, I CAN’T sleep. I toss. I turn. I flip my pillow over to the cool side. I speed up the fan. All in an effort to avoid thinking about the boy two sheets of drywall away.

It’s not just that he’s attractive—that’s undeniable—but I can’t help thinking that our situations are sort of similar. And for as much as I worry about losing the stadium and the team, it sounds like he has a lot to lose too.

Once I start thinking about my mom selling her half of the Beavers, my brain won’t let it go. I get out of bed and turn on my laptop, starting a Word document of everything I know, what I’ve learned from the trade magazines, and the research I’ve done so far.

Community Bonds: Get the city to raise taxes to help pay for stadium renovations. Take months/years to get the city to back anything to raise that kind of money. Lose partial/full control of facilities.

That option is out. We’re up for contract renewal with the Rangers next year, and renovations for the stadium have to be underway. Plus, I’ve only got nine days—or eight, now?—to figure out how to find the money so my mom won’t sell the team.

Which leaves us with two options: private donors or big-name sponsors. I make a list of every person and company in Buckley that might put up that sort of cash.

It’s a very short list.

Besides the Perry family, who paid for the original stadium, I don’t think there’s anyone in our town rich enough to throw around that kind of money. The biggest companies in Buckley are the hospital; Advanced Machining, a manufacturer that makes metal products for big building projects; and Mia’s dad’s business, Rodrigues Heating and Air.

I’ve got to be missing something. Or someone. I pull up a satellite map of Buckley, hoping I’ll be reminded of a business I’ve forgotten. But there’s nothing besides neighborhoods, grocery stores, and some farms on the outskirts of town.

I can sort of see what Mom means about the hassle of trying to find the money. But if she sells the team to some conglomerate, what exactly is going to happen to the Beavers? There isn’t much on the Internet about how those groups work or what they do to the teams they purchase, but one article snags my attention. It’s eight years old and about some tiny team I’ve never heard of, but it confirms all my worst fears.

The team was sold to an ownership group based back East, and every member of the staff was laid off. The next year, the team was relocated and the stadium left empty.

The article includes two pictures: the first is of the stadium when it was still in use. The building was old, but it had character and charm. Neatly trimmed hedges and cypress trees shaded its baselines. Its grandstands were simple but functional. It looked like a place that families in South Carolina had visited for cheap entertainment for generations.

The next picture is taken from the same angle, but instead of cheerful signage on the walls and a parking lot full of cars, the stadium is growing some sort of weeping mold. Weeds spring from the cracked sidewalk, graffiti tags the gates, and the hedge is growing out of control.

It looks lifeless. Like something the swamp is trying to reclaim.

If it’s up to my mom, will Perry Park look like this in a few years? Has she thought about what selling her interest would do to the rest of us? Of the lives she’d ruin if all our employees are put out of work? Including mine?

I lie back in my bed, balancing my laptop across my stomach, and close my eyes against the screen’s glare.

Does Mom hate Dad so much?

I slam the screen shut, but my brain won’t click off as easily. An anxious sort of energy has me kicking off the covers and getting out of bed. It’s almost six o’clock, and the sky outside my window is starting to brighten. I might as well go for a run.

Mom and I have exactly two things in common: we look scarily similar—small boned, sharp featured—and we both can run. She and Dad were college athletes. She raced cross-country and long-distance events, and he was a pitcher. They met during her freshman year when he was a junior, and they had me the next winter. From that point on, they were inseparable.

Right up to the point when they couldn’t stand each other anymore.

Mom and I have never liked the same books or movies or clothes. We don’t talk about boys or even sports. But we trained together. Even that first year, after she moved out of the house, she’d pick me up to go run the local trails every weekend.

I stopped inviting her along last fall. Not only did I need to push myself harder than she wanted to go, but she also kept trying to talk to me about what happened between her and Dad. I didn’t want to hear her opinions about him, the team, and how no one finds true love at eighteen. It started to feel like she only ran with me so she could use the time to market herself like some political candidate—make promises she didn’t intend to keep and sling mud at her opponent.

Dad never said a bad word about Mom. He never had to explain himself. He wasn’t the one who left.

I carry my shoes through the house and sit in the rocking chair outside to put them on. Dad doesn’t love me running alone when it’s not quite light out, but I send him a text letting him know my plan. I’ll deal with the fallout when I get back.

Without any particular destination in mind, I start running. I let my body pick a familiar route and lose myself in the stretch and pull of muscles, the rush of my breath, the color of the sky as it lightens from purple to pink and then pale yellow.

Six miles later, the stadium walls loom above me. The sun casts the front of the building in shadow. The windows to the front office are dark. No one will be there for at least a few hours.

I stop on a grass-lined parking lot divider and look. No mold. No graffiti. It’s as beautiful as it was when I showed Campbell around two days ago.

And it’s going to stay that way.

It will.

My legs feel shaky as I turn away from the building, and I check my watch. If I started it at the right time, my run wasn’t as slow as it could have been, considering my lack of sleep. I try convincing myself that the run is what’s making me feel like I’m about to puke and not anything else. I sit down on the curb, knowing I can’t make it home like this. I could probably walk it, but that would take forever. So I pull out my phone and call the one person I know will rescue me no matter what time it is.

Mia’s black Volvo rolls into the parking lot ten minutes later. She looks almost as bad as I feel. Her curly hair is twisted into a wild knot on top of her head, and she’s wearing her glasses. The super-thick lenses make her already-huge eyes look owlish.

She’s got horrible eyesight—as in, legally blind without correction. Her parents didn’t find out until she was in kindergarten and she’d started falling behind in her schoolwork. Her teachers never guessed that she couldn’t see, because her personality was so big that they figured she was goofing off in class.

Her mom, Ms. Vivi, still tears up when she tells the story of the day Mia got her first pair of glasses and looked around the doctor’s office, amazement on her face. “Mom, the world is so big. And your teeth are enormous!”

Kids used to make fun of Mia’s glasses. Not that she let their taunts get to her, but I know she hates them. I also know that she loves me enough to let me see her with them on.

“You better have a good story for me,” she says as I climb into the passenger seat. “You left my house with no explanation, and I pick you up from the stadium, a hundred hours later, looking like you’ve been hit by a car.” She pauses and really looks at me. Her nose wrinkles. “Did you get hit by a car?”

“No, I—” And then I burst into tears.

This is one of the things I love about Mia. She listens. She doesn’t analyze what I’m saying or offer solutions until I’ve told her about my mom’s plans to sell the team, the conglomerate, and stadium graveyard. By that time, we’re sitting in my driveway with breakfast burritos from her favorite taco truck. She believes greasy food works as well as ice cream for emotional eating. She’s not wrong.

“So,” she says around a bite of queso-slathered hash browns. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? It’s not like I’m involved in these decisions.”

“Well, why aren’t you?”

“Because …”

“Look, what I know about the actual business of baseball is not very much.” She folds the bottom of her tortilla so scrambled eggs don’t land in her lap. “But I know a little about family businesses. Marc and I will inherit my dad’s company if anything happens to him. It’s in the will. You’re almost eighteen. Your parents have probably worked something like that out.”

“I’m not killing my parents, Mi.”

She bursts into hysterical laughter, and I join her. It feels so good to laugh that tears prick my eyes.

“Okay. So,” Mia says once we calm down. “What does your dad say about all of this?”

I drag my hand down my face, feeling the grit of salt and sweat slide with it. “You know my dad. He doesn’t want to change anything.”

Before Mom left to become a personal trainer, she convinced him to use the stadium for a couple of little things during the off-season, like a baseball camp for members of the Beaver Buddies and hosting the community fun run. But Dad hates the extra stuff. He never wanted to own an events facility—just a baseball team.

In his mind, the Beavers should be the only entertainment Buckley needs.

“Have you talked to your mom about it?”

“I sent her a text.”

“That’s not the same.” Mia shakes her head like she’s disappointed in me. “You stopped talking to her sometime last year.”

Right after Mom insisted that I apply for schools far from Buckley or she wouldn’t help pay for tuition.

Mia hands me a hash brown. “You need to look at your mom and tell her you don’t want her to sell the Beavers.”

“She knows.”

“You think she knows, but you haven’t really explained why.”

“I shouldn’t have to.” I dressed up as my dad for career day every year. Every “When I Grow Up” essay said the same thing: I want to be the general manager of the Buckley Beavers. My mom knows.

“Remind her.” Mia shoves another piece of bacon in her mouth. Girl can eat. “But don’t complain. Go to her like … those people on Shark Tank.”

Mia’s totally obsessed with that show. She secretly wants to start her own fancy pillow-making business—she calls them “designer textiles”—but thinks it would be a total flop. When every new season of Shark Tank starts, Mia convinces her mom to make a whole bunch of delicious desserts to eat while they watch. I’ve stayed a couple of times for Ms. Vivi’s treats.

“Don’t be one of those people who gets annihilated,” Mia continues. “Prove you’ve done your research.”

“Like this article I found about a conglomerate shutting a local stadium down?” The sad image of the moldy grandstand sends my stomach spinning. I toss the remainder of my burrito back in the greasy paper sack and try not to think of our park in such a state.

“Yeah, and anything else you can find that will support your side of the argument.”

It’s a good idea. A really, really good idea. “I’ve got lists of potential sponsors. What if I find the money to cover the renovations?”

“Then she’ll have no reason to sell,” Mia says, but then she grimaces. “How long do you have?”

“Eight days.”

She bites her lip, considering. “That’s tight, but not totally impossible. I’ll talk to my dad and see if he has any ideas.”

Then I see the time on the dashboard: 7:15.

“Holy crap. I’ve been gone forever.” I pop open the door. “I forgot about Campbell.” He’s probably going to wake up soon and need help. Would he ask for it if he did?

Mia grins, and there’s mischief on her face. “Sure you did.”

I pull a face at her then hop out of her car. “Thanks for breakfast!”

“Details!” Mia shouts after me. “I expect every intimate detail!”

I ignore her as I jog up the steps but pause when I catch my reflection in our front door’s glass. Some girls look cute when they work out. They sweat a little. Their cheeks get pink. Their clothes cling in all the right places. I am not one of those girls. Sweat pours off my head like a downspout in a Texas rainstorm and drenches my tomato-red face before gathering in the pit between my boobs. And my tears have left my face puffy and blotchy.

The instant I step into the house, the A/C glues my already-short running shorts to my clammy thighs and sends goosebumps dancing up my arms and other places. Why do I not own any padded sports bras?

And there’s Campbell, standing at the far end of the kitchen island.

“Hey,” I say, crossing my arms. ’Cause that doesn’t draw more attention to the problem area. “I thought you’d sleep awhile longer.”

He shifts on his crutches, clearly uncomfortable, and I wonder if the awkwardness is between us, or if I’m causing it. “Are you …” He pauses and looks at my face one more time. “Okay?”

My breath catches in the back of my throat. “What?” It’s not a question as much as it is an embarrassed reaction.

“I mean.” He leans one of his crutches against the counter so he can run his fingers through his hair. It’s standing up worse than usual, and he’s wearing ratty basketball shorts and a 5K T-shirt with a watermelon on the front. “Did you fall?”

“No.” I cough into my elbow. If I don’t, I will either die from embarrassment or from asphyxiating on my own spit. It’s a toss-up at this point.

“Did something happen?” His forehead bunches with worry. “Is it a guy?”

“What? No.” I reach for the cupboard next to the fridge and consider grabbing the oven mitt hanging on the magnet to wipe down my face. “Can I get you breakfast? Coffee or something?”

Of course, there’s next to nothing to eat. Our selection of breakfast cereal is ridiculously low. There’s maybe one handful of Cinnamon Toasties, and they’re a little squishy. I’ll offer them to Campbell if it will make him stop asking questions.

“I know what crying looks like.” He says this like it’s supposed to make sense in the context of the conversation we’re not having. “If anyone hurt you, I’ll trip them with my crutches. We could make it look like an accident.”

His words are so earnest—there’s really no other way to describe his tone—that I stop my faux perusal of the cabinet and look at him. Besides the smirk that’s failing to mask his concern, Campbell looks like crap. Maybe worse than me, and that’s saying something. Dark circles. Red-rimmed eyes. The whole sleepless, mussed thing.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. You know, besides this.” He tips his head to the side, motioning toward the bandage on his leg. The blood has soaked through the gauze covering the stitches, and the arch of his foot is purple.

“Oh my gosh. Sit down.” I motion toward the bar stool. “Does it hurt?”

“Not too bad.” But he cringes as he lowers himself onto the seat.

“Is that why you woke up? Need pain meds?”

“My brother called.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sets it on the counter. “We’re always up early.”

“Is everything all right? At home, I mean?”

Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up, because his face flashes pink. “Good enough, considering.”

I don’t say anything else, instead opening the fridge even though I know there’s nothing edible in it. An ancient coffee creamer, mustard, and something that sort of resembles a grapefruit. I don’t know why I expected there to be anything. There wasn’t yesterday when I looked, and we don’t have a magic grocery fairy. At least not anymore. I don’t remember when Mom stopped dropping off bags of my favorite snacks and fruit.

“So,” he prompts, breaking the silence. “Are you going to tell me who made you cry?”

“Are you going to let it go if I don’t?” I pull open the freezer’s drawer, so I don’t have to look at him. There’s a sleeve of ice-encrusted waffles that I might eat with enough Nutella spread on them, but I wouldn’t force them on anyone else.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He’s tapping his crutch against the counter softly. The metal makes a tink, tink, tink that I swear is hammering at my ability to keep my worries locked inside. “I mean,” he says, followed by tink, tink, tink. “You heard all my darkest secrets last night.”

“Your darkest secret is that your family’s watermelon farm is struggling?”

His smile is fleeting, there and then gone, like the lights at the stadium that pop on brilliant and blinding for a second before dimming. “Probably.”

“Is this one of those ‘you showed me yours, so I show you mine’ things?”

The grin is back and doesn’t disappear. “Your words, not mine.”

Ugh. He’s cute. I want to not like him, but instead I think I like him a little more. And maybe if I say all of this stuff about the stadium out loud my brain will be able to wrap around the details.

“Okay.” I start a little hesitantly, trying to summarize, leaving out all the messy bits. “My mom is thinking about selling her portion of the team, but if she does, then my dad could lose controlling interest. The stadium needs renovations, and if we don’t come up with the money for them, the Rangers could pull their contract. If that happens, then we’ll potentially lose both the team and the stadium.” It comes out in a breathless rush, but I manage it without the tears I shed in Mia’s car.

“That’s a huge deal for you.” He doesn’t say it like a question. He doesn’t try to escape from this super personal thing I’ve dropped at his feet.

“Yes.” I put a little laugh into my voice, hoping it disguises any other emotion trying to leak through. “Managing this organization is the one thing I’ve always wanted to do.”

He nods, waiting for me to continue. And even though I barely know him, I keep talking, pouring out the information about the conglomerate and the stadium cemetery. He’s a good listener, nodding along, but not in a glazed way. I think he’s actually hearing me.

“I’ve seen one of those before,” he says. “In a book somewhere.”

“Sad, right?” I swallow hard, embarrassed that I’ve said anything at all, but also weirdly relieved that I’ve been able to talk about losing the team more clinically, like a professional would. “Mia thinks I should lay out all the negatives and data for my mom when she’s back in town, and that should convince her not to sell.”

“Do you think that’ll work? Will she listen?”

I want to say yes, but the truth is, I don’t know. She certainly didn’t give Dad’s pleas to stay a second thought. I give Campbell a shrug. “I’d have to do something brilliant. Like get someone to sponsor the whole renovation—or at least show my mom that there’s potential to make that happen—but my dad hates the idea of changing anything. So, whatever I did, I’d have to …” I lower my voice and look toward the master bedroom. I know Dad rarely wakes up before nine, but today would be the day when he surprises me. “To do it all without my dad finding out.”

Campbell grimaces, but the crutch-tapping stops. “Let me help you,” he says at a near whisper.

“Why would you want to?” I move a little closer, the bag of waffles puddling between us on the counter.

“Because I’m good at this stuff. I used to go out with my college’s sports marketing staff all the time to meet sponsors and advertisers. They love meeting players, having lunch, getting their pictures taken.”

He’s not wrong. We schedule a special batting practice for our sponsors to meet players every season. They love standing out in the field next to a player, chatting about nothing. And Campbell’s a first-round draft pick. That’s gotta be worth something to people.

“It’s not like I have anything else to do for the next two weeks.”

It might keep Campbell from wallowing in his own self-pity, and since I’ve already been assigned to chauffeur him to doctor’s appointments I’ll have a reasonable excuse to take him places and disappear from the office.

Maybe I’m taking too long to decide, because Campbell leans a little closer. Keeping his voice soft, he says, “You help me get back on the field as fast as possible, and I’ll help you do whatever it takes to save your stadium.”

Our gazes tangle and hold for an instant too long. We stand in the kitchen, separated by only a few feet and a melting bag of waffles, but I feel a tug. A connection.

“Morning, y’all,” Dad says as he stomps into the room, totally oblivious to this thing that’s formed between Campbell and me.

I shake off the moment, because that’s all it was. A moment of stupidity. I won’t let it become anything else. I won’t entertain the what-ifs. Campbell plays for the team, and I’m still a member of the staff. It’s against every rule, both the Beavers’ and my own.

“I was going to feed Campbell a waffle, but that might give him food poisoning. Again.”

Dad takes the bag off the counter. Printed on the bottom in blue ink is an expiration date. “They wouldn’t have tasted much better … seventeen months ago.” He tosses the whole sleeve into the garbage. “I don’t know why your mother ever bought those. None of us would eat them anyway. We should have kept the box. That might have had more nutritional value.”

Campbell laughs, but the joke falls flat to my ears.

“I’ll run and grab breakfast burritos from Rudy’s,” I offer, even though I don’t have room for a second breakfast. “Bacon or sausage?”

Dad votes sausage, but Campbell asks for bacon.

That blip of connection tries to re-form, but I remind myself that I’m going to work with this boy. I can’t have a crush on him. Even if he has excellent taste in breakfast meat.