Stealing Home

THE VAN’S ALMOST COMPLETELY COOL BY THE TIME CAMPBELL makes his way out. He drops a slightly crumpled business card into the cupholder between us. Amerie drew a little heart next to her phone number, and I’m tempted to throw it out the car window.

Good Texans don’t litter. Plus, it doesn’t matter who Campbell does or does not call. If he wants to hang out with a gorgeous girl who happens to work for the head office, I’m not going to say anything. It’s not my business.

I’m not going to turn her in for fraternization.

“What were you thinking when she showed you the new park?” Campbell’s voice is a bit too enthusiastic, like he’s trying to cover for spending so much time flirting with Amerie. “You looked like …”

My phone is taking forever to come up with the fastest route options to get home, and I want to avoid as much traffic as possible. I look up from the screen to find Campbell making the stupidest, happiest expression.

“I did not look like that.” I try not to smile, but seriously, his face.

“Like a kid on Christmas?” He puts his hands on his cheeks, elated shock between them. “And yes. You did.” Then he shifts his crutches into the gap next to his seat. “If the solutions to my problems dropped into my lap, I’d probably look like that too.”

Two things hit me all at once: First, Campbell is a better person than I am. Like, a genuinely good human being who puts everyone else’s worries before his own. And second, I didn’t even ask how his appointment went. Which provides more evidence of me being awful. “You didn’t tell me. What did the doctor say?”

The sun is starting its descent, glaring across the cars in the parking lot and firing up the sky behind his head. He’s silhouetted against the window, but it doesn’t disguise the tension in his shoulders or the frustrated set of his chin. “Six more days on crutches, plus three more of ‘carefully monitored movement’ before I can get back to the field.”

Ten days is an eternity for a freshly drafted player. It’s ten days of bingeing Netflix and eating crap and upper-body workouts for those who are still willing to try. I’ve seen it before. They get left behind when the team travels—no point in paying for them to go—and they get all greasy and grouchy and spend too much time hanging out with Red in the training room.

“Well, that sucks. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t matter that much, but he doesn’t smile it off or change the subject right away, letting the silence in the van linger a little too long. Not playing eats at him. Campbell’s good at pretending he’s okay, shaking away dark thoughts and muscling up some optimism. But I understand exactly how he feels, because thinking about losing the team torments me in the same awful way.

Maybe he needs a distraction? Maybe we both do.

Not that kind, brain. Seriously.

“Are you hungry?” I show him the map on my phone. It’s smattered with traffic slowdowns and at least two car accidents. It will take us an extra forty minutes to get back to Buckley if we leave now. “Or do you want to stay here and watch the game tonight?” I’m hesitant to ask because I don’t know if it will make him feel better or worse, but at least I can give him the choice.

The corner of Campbell’s mouth ticks up a little, and he reaches into his pocket. “What do you think took me so long?”

I don’t answer that question.

He offers me two tickets on row one. It doesn’t matter where they are in the park—they’re amazing seats. “We don’t have to stay, if you’ve got stuff to do.”

I’ve always got stuff to do, but we’re not going to get home at any reasonable hour anyway. What’s one more late night in an endless string of late nights? And more than that, I’d really like to watch this game. With him. Even if I probably shouldn’t. “If this is going to be my first MLB game, I might as well have a great view.”

“LET’S GET SOME FOOD BEFORE WE GO DOWN TO OUR SEATS,” Campbell says as we move along the mezzanine to the third base side. The crowd is thin so early before the game. Only the real die-hards and the kids who are hoping to catch some batting practice balls move past us.

“Fine, but I’m buying.” I speed-walk to get in front of him.

“No, you’re not.” He crutches faster, and somehow getting to the concession stand line becomes a race. I could beat him if I run, but that doesn’t seem fair, so I’m walking as fast as my legs can move. He’s figured out how to use his crutches like gorilla arms, propelling forward in huge swings.

“Campbell!” I say with an exasperated sigh. “Is this a competition?”

He laughs but doesn’t look back, beating me to the counter by a few steps. Leaning his crutches against the stainless-steel edge, he balances on one foot and digs out his wallet.

“You got the tickets.” I try to edge in front of him, but he doesn’t budge.

“I didn’t have to pay for them.”

“Still.”

Then he waves two food vouchers at me. “And I don’t have to pay for food either.”

I fake-punch him in the left shoulder. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I wanted to beat you. And even on crutches, I am the champion.” He gives a little chest thump, and I give him a look that tells him he’s ridiculous.

“Now,” he says, checking out the food offerings. “What do you want?”

“I want a rematch and a footlong. But not in that order.”

We both end up getting hot dogs—well, he orders three—and blue Powerade. But I’m stuck carrying all that crap as he maneuvers down the stairs toward our seats. As it turns out, our seats are right on the third base line, close enough to the field that if I dangled over the rail, I could snatch a handful of red dirt.

We end up talking about stadium signage and LED advertising, and all my baseball-business nerd hangs out. He’s unsurprisingly awesome about it—listening and asking questions like he actually cares—and even starts taking pictures of the field so I have reminders of which companies the Beavers could hit up for sponsorship packages.

“I went on a recruiting trip to the University of Texas a few years ago. They have an events center a lot like the one the Rangers are planning. They were hosting some sort of seminar there.”

I put the information in my phone and start a search.

“You could host camps.”

“We already do spring and fall sports camps.” I’m listening, but only halfway. My brain is absorbing so many ways to generate funds for a smaller version of the Rangers’ building that I can’t give him my full attention.

“I was thinking more of special needs sports camps.” He’s thumbing through his phone, looking for a picture. He turns it my way, and I look up from my screen, realizing I’ve pulled a total Lucas Chestnut, more focused on my phone than on Campbell.

In the picture, Campbell is standing next to a dark brown horse, wearing dirty jeans and a sweat-stained baseball hat. He’s beaming—like, smiling so wide his face might break—and his hand is on the back of a little boy who is sitting in some sort of specialized saddle. The child is looking down at Campbell with hero worship on his face. The cuteness makes my heart clench and stay that way.

“Every fall, my brother and I volunteer for an equestrian therapy group. It gives kids with disabilities a chance to try something they normally couldn’t. And I always thought that if I make it big—” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Which is still debatable—that I’d like to give kids with special needs a chance to really play baseball.”

Up until this moment, I’ve imagined kissing Sawyer Campbell for all the wrong—but really enjoyable—reasons. But right now, I want to throw my arms around him and hold on. I swallow down that feeling and look away, afraid he might see it on my face. “That’s a really cool idea.”

He bumps my arm off the armrest that divides our chairs—to make sure he has my attention or to be irritating, I’m not sure which. “Would that be something the Beavers could do? Something you could talk to your dad about?”

It might be exactly the sort of thing to break Dad’s no-extra-events policy. “Yeah. I think I could.”

AFTER BATTING PRACTICE ENDS—IN WHICH I CAUGHT A FOUL BALL and Campbell cheered my form—an usher comes down to check our tickets. I get that he’s doing his job, but he doesn’t crack a smile until he gets a good look at Campbell. Then the poor usher is so overwhelmed and embarrassed that he makes a big deal and asks Campbell for a picture.

From that point on, I become Photo Girl. Taking pictures of Campbell with any Rangers fan (or staffer) who realizes who he is. Little kids from a few rows behind us bring Campbell a hat and ball to sign. The lady to our left has me take at least ten pictures, until she’s happy with the way she looks so she can post it on her social media accounts. People sneak toward us until the third inning, when the usher becomes more of a bouncer and turns them away. It’s a fire hazard to have them in the aisle, after all.

Campbell was gracious and humble and truly engaged the entire time, but I can see that the crowd has worn him out a little bit. It sort of amazes me that someone who is so clearly talented can also be a little shy.

“Do you have to deal with this a lot?” I ask as I hand him back his phone. He wanted some pictures to post for his friends and family back at home. His accounts are private. I checked before I picked him up at the airport.

“Sometimes.” He takes the baseball I caught out of the cupholder and bounces it off his elbow, then catches it before it falls too far. “Spring training was hard. There were people who tried to convince me to invest in their companies or ask me for money for something. Or …”

I take the ball out of his hand. “Or what?”

“It’s just … sometimes it’s hard to know what to believe. I wasn’t really sure if the people I met there wanted to get to know me or the Rangers’ first-round draft pick. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“The fans are great for the most part. But I’m never sure what to say to them.”

“You did fine.” I don’t give him talking points or suggestions—Agent Jay will probably do that, and I like that Campbell’s not overly practiced. It made him seem real. Attainable. Which is something I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.

To distract myself from Campbell’s shoulder against mine, or anything else Campbell-related, I start making a list on my phone of all the promotions we’ve seen so far. He leans closer and helps me fill in the blanks. Then the crowd around us starts cheering, and I realize I’m at a baseball game but I’m not even watching.

Looking up for the replay, I expect to see a home run or at least a double, but instead my face and Campbell’s fill the jumbo screen. Around our image little hearts pulse and the words KISS CAM flash like a strobe light.

“Oh, crap,” Campbell says, and then laughs, covering his eyes.

I don’t know what to do. The crowd around us is chanting. “Do it! Do it! Do it!” The camera won’t pan off of us until we do something. That’s how this promotion works. I turn to Campbell, mouth open, head shaking, and the words We can’t form on my lips.

But before I say anything, he leans in and kisses me, hard and fast. It’s on the corner of my mouth, more cheek than lips, but the crowd cheers anyway—probably at my stunned expression—and the camera moves on to a new couple.

“Sorry,” he says, but nothing about the way he’s smiling is an apology. “Seemed like the best way to solve the problem.”

“Right.” I sink lower into my chair and stop myself from wishing it could have been more.