Stealing Home

I’D BE LYING IF I SAID CAMPBELL’S SECOND GAME BACK WAS ANY better than his first. He struck out looking. Twice. Then he swung at what should have been a meat pitch and missed. Badly.

When he walked into the dugout and threw his helmet against the wall, I was a little surprised at his temper. But not completely. He didn’t reach this level by being easy on himself. My explosions are more … implosions. Waking up in the night panicking that we’ll lose the team and the stadium. Eating my emotions. Running until I make myself sick.

Throwing a helmet against a wall or breaking a bat across my knee might actually be a little healthier.

My mom shows up during the seventh inning and waves at me before she disappears into the owner’s booth. I’m dying to pull her aside and talk to her, but I’ve got to get through all the promotions first.

I try to catch her at the end of the game. She’s wearing a polka-dotted sundress and a pair of strappy espadrilles, chatting up the family who rented the booth next to ours. She kisses my cheek and plays the part of Sparkly Personality Owner Lady, introducing me to people who have lived in my hometown for my entire life.

“I’ll see you at the Rodrigueses’,” she promises, giving me a little push out the door.

I finish up my postgame duties, grateful that the one o’clock start left me with plenty of time to talk to my mom after dinner. Dad doesn’t give me any extra assignments. Meredith has already left, happy to get home to her kids early. Even my mom has finished schmoozing people.

It’s not until I’m in the van when my phone starts pinging with a group message from both Mia and Ollie.

Mia: Ollie didn’t bring Campbell home

Ollie: He lives at your house. Didn’t know I was supposed to

Mia: Grab Campbell if you’re still there

Ollie: Do that. He’ll like it

Mia: You are disgusting

Ollie: I didn’t say *where* she was supposed to grab him. That’s your dirty mind at work

I can’t help but snicker at their back-and-forth.

Campbell isn’t in the training room or locker room. I stuck my head in enough to see that the lights were off. The gym is empty. There’s only one other place he could be, and once I think about it, I realize it’s the only place he would go.

The dull thump of a ball hitting the cinder block behind the net reaches my ears before I enter the batting cages. He’s still in his baseball pants and undershirt but has stripped off his jersey and hat. Between pitches, he wipes the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

He really does have a beautiful swing. The clean twist of his hips, the follow-through and long extension of his arms, the power his shoulders add. He crushes the next ball, sending it into the ceiling at the far end of the cage. Home run ball, for sure.

“Hey there, Slugger.” I imagined saying that would seem one part sexy and a thousand parts hilarious, but his eyes barely flick in my direction. My smile dies. “So. Everyone is already at the Rodrigueses’. How long are you going to be?”

“Road trip tomorrow.”

He’s upset. I would have to be pretty stupid not to notice. The sweat. The number of baseballs rolling around at the far end of the cage. The grunt as he blasts the next one so hard that he actually loses his balance and catches himself on the bat.

“I’m gathering you want to get in some practice.” I hook my fingers through the net above my head and lean a little closer, aiming for a light attitude to counteract the darkness I can see swirling around him. “Do you want me to tell Mia that we will be there in thirty minutes? Forty-five if you decide to shower here?”

“You should go.” He switches sides of the plate, so his back is to me. “Don’t wait for me.”

“Right, but there’s the whole matter of you needing a ride.”

He settles into his stance. Works his wrists in a little circle. Blasts the ball when the pitch comes. “I’ll walk.”

“You’ve got to be up early for your road trip tomorrow, and it’s at least three miles to Mia’s house.”

“I can run that far.” Stance. Circle. Smash.

I kick my toe against the heavy black plastic that lines the bottom of the net, making the whole thing shake. His frustration is getting to me. “I’ll wait.”

He huffs and steps out of the batter’s box, hitting the button on the wall to stop the machine, then slouches over to me. “I don’t want you to wait.”

But then he winds his fingers through mine with the net between us, sending me every sort of signal. He’s angry, but not at me. He’s in a bad mood, but I’m not making it worse. Do I pull my hand free or leave it there as a sign of moral support?

Am I overthinking this again?

“I’m not going to be good company until I work this out.” His tone is polite, but still clipped. Instead of that southern drawl that’s as warm as my favorite sweatshirt, he’s enunciating and biting off the ends of his words.

“You had a bad game,” I say, looking into his eyes and giving his hand a squeeze. “You’ll bounce back.”

“This is not about a bad game.” He pulls free of the net, and of me, then switches his bat to his left hand. “My agent called.”

My heart makes a sudden jump against my ribs, pressing into my bones likes it’s dreading whatever Campbell’s about to say.

“The Rangers called Reynolds up to Triple-A.” He gives me a smile that looks like a grimace. “They promoted him over me.”

Reynolds had filled Campbell’s position while he was on the disabled list. And he’d done a pretty good job. “You’ve been injured. What do you expect?”

“Exactly.” He bumps the head of his bat against the patch of turf that runs along the side of the cage. “And if I’d played better yesterday and today, they would have pulled me up instead.”

Oh. No. “You don’t know that for sure. It might have been in the works before—”

“Jay knew. He told me to pull my act together.” Campbell walks back to the batter’s box, punching the button harder than necessary to start the machine. “So that’s what I’m doing. This is me, pulling it together.”

Stance. Circle. Smash. “Campbell …” I can’t think of anything else that will comfort him.

“Isn’t your mom waiting?” He asks between swings. “Get out of here. Go talk to her.” He lets one pitch sail by him and looks over his shoulder at me. “It doesn’t make sense for us both to lose what we’re working for.”

I hesitate, trying to force the right words across my clumsy tongue. Finally, I say, “Call me if you decide you don’t want to walk.”

“I won’t.”

The words ring with finality, like a door slamming. I don’t know what to call this thing between us, but whatever it is—was—it feels broken. I walk slowly to the door, expecting him to call after me and fix it.

He never does.

WHEN I GET TO MIA’S HOUSE, SHE’S OUT AT THE POOLSIDE TABLE tossing grapes into Ollie’s mouth. They both yell my name like they’re happy to see me and I’m not the wobbly third wheel on what looks a lot like a date. I guess since her dad is at the grill a few yards away, I may actually be alleviating some of the awkwardness.

“Where’s Campbell?” Mia asks.

“Taking extra BP. He’ll be along. Eventually.”

Mia doesn’t miss my monotone, but knows better than to ask about what happened in front of Ollie.

“Can I borrow something to wear?” I ask, waving to my outfit. “I’ll let you burn these if you want.” I pull off my shoes.

“Don’t tempt him. He might actually try it.” Mia kicks my shoes under the table. “Come on. I’ll find you some clothes.”

“I guess I’ll just wait here and pretend I don’t know you’re talking about me,” Ollie says, a naughty grin stretching across his face.

“Please. We have better things to talk about.” Mia throws a lime slice at his head, but the irritation on her face is fake. And as we walk away, I catch her checking over her shoulder to see if Ollie’s watching us walk away. He is.

The moms are hovering over the kitchen island, snacking on chips and salsa. Their voices fall silent as soon as we push open the door, so I know they’re discussing us.

“What’s going on?” Mia snags a handful of chips and dips one into the salsa.

“You have your own food outside.” Ms. Vivi slaps her hand away.

My mom gives me a closed-lip grin that looks completely fake. “Just chatting. Catching up.”

Code for talking about the divorce. I’ve walked into enough of these conversations to know this is one of those times that Mom doesn’t want me to hear her slam Dad.

“Sure.” I withhold my eyeroll. “I’ve got to get out of these clothes.”

“But you look so cute.” Mom’s nose wrinkles. “A little rumpled, but cute.”

“I don’t need to be so dressed up when everyone else is comfortable.” Let her take that however she wants. She’s still wearing her shoes in Ms. Vivi’s house. Everyone else is barefoot.

Mia flops onto her bed as soon as we walk into her room. “There’s a pair of black shorts on top of my dresser. Grab whatever shirt you want.”

“What’s up with you?” I ask as I’m changing.

“Oh. You know.”

I pull a red tank over my head. “Do I?”

“It was a long day.”

“Shorter than yesterday.”

One of Mia’s wrists is draped across her forehead, and she’s smiling up at the ceiling. “I may have been texting someone until three forty this morning.”

I drop down next to her feet. “You may have failed to mention that earlier.”

“Sorry. The crisis with your mom seemed more important.” She kicks a pillow in my direction, but it doesn’t come close to hitting me. “Have you resolved anything yet?”

“No. She promised we would talk later, but I don’t want to think about it until it’s actually later. Plus, Sawyer’s being all pissy.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes are closed, and she looks half asleep.

I push her with my foot. “‘Hmm,’ what?”

“You never call him Sawyer.” Peeling her eyelids open seems to be a struggle. “It’s cute the way you say it. Saw-yer.”

“How else would you say it?”

“Soy-yer.”

I want to do anything except discuss Campbell. “Go to sleep. You’re delusional.”

She holds out her hands. “Help me up. Let’s go make this a party.”

When we get back to the poolside, she pumps up the music. We have to shout over the thump of the outdoor speakers, but that only makes it seem more festive. The adults leave us pretty much alone, except when they call us in to eat.

At some point, Mia starts dancing and convinces Ollie to join her. And—surprise, surprise—he’s actually a great dancer. They do some complicated salsa arm trick. They offer to teach me, but my brain is splitting time between the conversation I’m going to have with my mom and the fact that Sawyer hasn’t texted or arrived.

Finally, Ms. Vivi pulls out a gorgeous bundt cake, and I know my mom is going to bow out rather than stay for a slice. I can’t remember which diet she’s on now, but she doesn’t do carbs.

I hug Mia and Ms. Vivi twice. Ollie and Mr. Rodrigues give me a high-five as I follow my mom out the kitchen door.

“Do you want to go to the stadium?” I ask as my mom fishes through her purse for keys.

“I could really use a cup of coffee before I drive home. What’s open?”

“At nine on a Sunday night? Not much.”

“What about that little snow cone shack? They serve frozen coffee, don’t they?”

Picnic tables in a public parking lot aren’t exactly what I’d hoped for, but since I’m getting the sense that Mom doesn’t want to listen to me, I’ll take what I can get. “Yep.”

Mom extracts her keys from the abyss of her purse and gets into the car. “You want a snow cone? Tiger’s Blood still your favorite?” I’m surprised she remembers. I haven’t been to the snow cone shack for years. “No thanks. I’m full.”

It’s a short drive, and I barely have time to mentally review my presentation before I park the Beavermobile.

Mom’s carrying two drinks as she sways on her espadrilles over to the picnic table closest to the van. Strings of large outdoor lights illuminate a raised wooden platform and six picnic tables, separating the eating area from the all-gravel parking lot.

She sets an iced coffee in front of me. I push it aside, pull out the portfolio—grateful it didn’t get crunched in my bag—and slide it to her.

“What is all of this?” She squints in the dim light.

“Let’s talk about Black Keys Entertainment.” I turn to the second page for her, where I’ve laid out all the details of their acquisitions and relocations. I tried to make it as fair and as honest as possible, but they are in the business of making a lot of money, and they don’t particularly care who they run over to make it happen.

Her eyes scan the bullet points, falling on the bolded fonts—catching her attention like I’d hoped it would—and stuttering over the italics.

The following pages are full of my plans: the lists of companies and individuals I’ve already contacted who have given verbal agreement to support the expansion of Perry Park, the draft of the contract with Chestnut Oil Products for the events center naming rights. The tentative contract Sawyer’s agent drew up that will tie him to the special needs camps. So much work, sleepless nights, poring over websites and spreadsheets and trade magazines.

“This is really impressive, Ryan.” She doesn’t look up at me as she says it, but I can hear the surprise in her tone.

“I want to point out some of the details—”

“Ryan.” She closes the portfolio, laying her hand over the cover. “I know you love the Beavers. And I know you think you love working for the team.”

“I do, Mom, and if this doesn’t prove why it’s important to keep your shares, then—”

“I sold them.”

Her words don’t register for a few long seconds. It’s like when Mia’s abuela speaks to me in Spanish—I have to translate what she says word by word.

“You … you what?” The last word is loud, and the people nearest look over before returning to their conversation. I realize this is why she wanted to talk in public, so that I wouldn’t have a meltdown in front of witnesses.

“I signed the agreement yesterday. It’s been in the process for months, but I wanted them to come up in price a little bit.” She puts her hand on mine, and her fingers are frigid from holding her coffee. “But after everything with your dad the other night—”

“No.” I pull my hand from under hers. She doesn’t get to touch me. She doesn’t have the right to try and soothe me. “You sold my team?”

“There are a lot of elements in play. Things you don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?” My voice goes up several octaves, and I have to swallow to bring it back into normal range. “I asked you to wait. To listen to what I said. But you—”

“Your dad hasn’t been managing things well. The Beavers are only two bad seasons from bankruptcy.”

“Don’t make this about him. About what could happen. You.” I point at her. “You sold my dreams. My future. Everything I’d hoped for.” I shove the portfolio toward her, but it bumps her coffee, which tips over and splatters her dress. “You promised me you’d listen. You lied.”

She tries to mop up the mess with brown paper napkins, but it’s no use. “Ryan, please calm down.”

“No.” I stand up from the picnic table too fast, and the sun-splintered wood scrapes across the back of my legs. “This is about you. Everything is always about you. You’re so sure that you’re right and everyone else is wrong. You haven’t even considered that the life you lived with Dad—the one you thought was such a huge mistake—is actually the life I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“This is about saving you from every unhappiness.” Mom gives up dabbing the front of her dress. “Do you think I didn’t notice the way you look at Sawyer?”

She pushes her phone toward me. It’s the picture from the Kiss Cam. His face is partially blocking mine, but his expression is far too revealing. If he looks at me like that, how do I look at him?

“Good mothers protect their children from heartache,” she continues, snatching her phone out of my hand. “And I can see you’re well on the way to finding yours.”

“Good mothers?” I laugh, but tears trickle down my chin. “Do you think you’re one? Good mothers don’t destroy everything their child wants.”

I step over the bench and half walk, half jog to the Beavermobile.

“Ryan!” she calls after me. I don’t stop. I only look back when I’ve got the van door open, and I see her struggling over the uneven gravel toward me. Everyone at the surrounding tables has turned to watch her go.

“Don’t call me. Don’t text me.” I climb inside. “I don’t want to see you again.”

I slam the door as she gets close, and she has to jump back to avoid getting hit. The parking lot lights gleam on her tear-streaked face, but she doesn’t come after me. When I look in the rearview mirror, she’s standing in the same spot. I think she’s sobbing.

But my heart is too broken to care.

I’VE NEVER IN MY LIFE BEEN SO HAPPY TO HEAR SCOTT VAN PELT’S voice and the SportsCenter jingle. The TV’s light glares through the dark kitchen and living room when I rush into the house.

Dad’s standing behind the couch. Not sitting. Not sprawled in his regular spot, feet on the coffee table. He’s waiting for me.

He doesn’t say anything, just opens his arms and I fall into them, crying against the team logo on his polo shirt.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers, rubbing my back in small circles. “We’re going to figure this out together.”

Mom must have called him and given him the heads-up that I was on my way home. “You knew. Last night, you knew, and you didn’t say anything.”

“She asked me not to. She wanted to tell you in person.”

It shouldn’t surprise me. Dad’s the one who keeps his promises—every promise. He wanted to work things out with Mom. He was willing to go to marriage counseling. But she didn’t even try. Why was I stupid enough to believe that she’d wait to talk to me before she made her decision?

“What can we do, Dad? Is there any way to block her?”

He takes a big breath, and I hear it catch in the back of his throat. “I haven’t seen the contract yet. I don’t know all the details. But they only own half the team, and I’m still the managing partner, so we have to come to decisions mutually.”

“But won’t they try to force you out?” Black Keys has done it before, replacing staff with their people, stripping the original owners of any support system within their organization, making it so miserable that the owners give up.

Dad chuckles. “Has anyone ever forced me to do anything?”

I try to smile, but it trembles.

He gives me a bone-crushing hug, the kind that used to make me giggle as a little girl. “Try to get some sleep. We’ll figure out the rest of this in the morning.”

The mention of sleep reminds me how truly exhausted I am. But it’s about more than being tired. I hurt. Everything hurts. Like I’ve stepped in the way of Campbell’s swing.

I don’t even turn on my light when I walk into my room. I kick off my shoes and fall into bed.