Stealing Home

“MIA!” I SHRIEK, HANGING ON TO THE DOOR HANDLE SO THAT I don’t step on her head. “What are you doing?”

Mia has one thin arm thrown over her eyes and the other pillowing her head against the painted cement floor. Her long legs stretch out of her somehow-shorter-than-standard-issue khakis, feet bare.

The violations. I can’t count them. I don’t even try.

“It’s so hot in here. No one turned on the air, and I was early, so—” Her eyes open a little, then widen when she sees I’m not alone. “So, so hot,” she finishes in a half whisper.

Campbell brushes past me. “Did you pass out? Did you hit your head?” He offers her his hand to sit up, but she bounces to her feet. Her curly hair springs to life around her face.

“You’re Sawyer Campbell.” She takes his hand like she’s going to shake it, but she doesn’t let go. “You were phenomenal in the Junior College World Series. You batted twelve for fourteen. It was phenomenal.”

“You already said that, Mi.” I fold my arms at the tone of her voice. Let the idol worship begin.

“But you’re all right?” Campbell asks with genuine concern. He looks to me to explain what’s going on.

I point to the A/C vent Mia had prostrated herself under. “She’s fine. She’s always like this.”

I know everything about the business of baseball. Mia knows everything about the sport of baseball—and every other sport. She’ll probably be all-state in softball, basketball, and track our senior year, has the body of a professional beach volleyball player, and has already signed a full scholarship to play softball for the University of Texas. She also reads baseball scouting reports for fun and has her own personal subscriptions to ESPN The Magazine, Sports Illustrated, and Baseball America. She says it’s to look at all the hot guys, but I know it’s for the articles.

“I mean, you broke the record for home runs—”

“Mr. Campbell knows he’s a big deal,” I interrupt, and make a face at her from behind Campbell’s broad shoulder. “He doesn’t need you to remind him.”

“Well, sometimes I do.” He shrugs in a gee-whiz way that’s so sweet it makes my teeth hurt. “It’s nice to meet you, Mia.”

And then Mia tucks a few stray curls behind her ear and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She’s smitten.

“He’s got to check in with the trainers and coaches, and I’ve got things to do.” I put both of my palms in the middle of Campbell’s back and propel him toward the far end of the ticket booth, which opens onto the stadium’s tunnels. “Tell Mr. Campbell goodbye, Mia.”

“Goodbye, Campbell.” She gives a dorky little wave I know she’ll regret later. As I reach back to close the door, Mia whisper-yells, “Dibs!”

“Fraternization gets you fired!” I whisper-yell back, then turn face-first in to a solid wall of gray.

Campbell is standing so close it’s impossible not to see how tall and muscled and gorgeous he is. For one brain-freezing moment, I see exactly what Mia is drooling over. In another couple of years, he could be the new face of Nike. He could be on billboards and commercials, and every girl in America would stop and watch Gatorade-colored sweat drip down his face.

So, so hot.

I stomp the brakes on that train of thought. No fraternization between staff and players. Ever. It’s in the contract I sign every year. Sure, it’s a super-patriarchal clause that screws over the woman in pretty much every situation, but workplace relationships are always messy.

Dad had to fire our ticket office manager last year for hooking up with Hadley Pearson in the ticket office and felt horrible about it. He wrote Pearson up and sent a memo to the head office, but even though Dad owns the team, he doesn’t have any control over the players. Rumor was that Pearson had to pay some sort of fine and was benched for three games, but the punishment was pretty minor in comparison to what happened to the girl.

Obviously, since Pearson is still here and she’s not.

It’s not like I needed another reason to adhere to the fraternization policy, but since then I added it to my list of rules to help me earn my dad’s job.

Rule #1: Never cringe at the worst tasks. Sweep the floors, pour the beer, and sometimes hide players’ mistakes. Easy.

Rule #2: Know the business better than anyone else. If I know everything, no one will doubt me.

Rule #3: Never get involved with a player. No one in this male-dominated profession will take me seriously if they think I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.

“Sorry.” I lower my hands from Campbell’s chest. How long have they been on his chest? I clear my throat, and we shift apart. “Home team locker rooms are this way.” I point out the elevator like I’m bringing a 747 in for landing. “After games, you’ll take that up to the press box if you’re needed for interviews or special events.”

“Pretty similar process to what we did at State.” He nods for me to keep walking.

I’d memorized Campbell’s basic stats and faintly remember reading something about him being a sixteen-year-old college freshman, but I thought it was a typo.

“State?”

“I got my GED after my sophomore year of high school and went to the State College of Georgia last year.”

I don’t want to be impressed. A lot of guys are drafted right out of high school, but he couldn’t have qualified for the draft till the year he turned eighteen. We’ve had a few players this young before, though most everyone on the team is in their early twenties. It’s sort of admirable that he got a little college in before turning pro.

“Hmm.” Focus, Ryan. You don’t care. “Trainer first.”

The tunnels narrow as we move under the grandstand. The training room and the small in-stadium gym are tucked under the home base seats. It’s dark, with the only external windows looking into the dugout, but it was a clever way to use the space.

Heaving open the door to a room that even if the stadium burned to the ground would smell like sweat and athletic tape, I find our ancient trainer, Red, waiting for us.

He’s staring over his bifocals, with his white eyebrows disappearing into his receding hairline. “Ryan Marie Russell, what in heaven’s name are you wearing, girl?”

I ignore the question and the embarrassment that comes with it. “Red, this is Sawyer Campbell. He needs to be checked out before he can play.”

“I know who he is. But if your mother sees you—”

“She won’t.” I cut Red off before he can dispense a grand-fatherly warning like he does Advil and ice packs. I straighten the collar of my borrowed shirt, sending the V-neck plunging between my boobs. Not an improvement. “Will you please take care of Mr. Campbell for me?”

“Of course I will.” He gives the man-child a cursory glance. “You best get topside.”

“Yes, sir.” I turn for the door before this can get any worse. “See you for the anthem.”

A hand brushes my arm, gentle, not obtrusive. “I’m really sorry about—” Campbell waves to my borrowed shirt with his free hand. “I’ll make it up to you.”

I offer him my biggest, fakest smile. “No worries. At least nothing worse can happen to me today.”

MIA HAS MOVED FROM THE FLOOR TO THE CHAIR AT THE TICKET window, and her mass of curls is twisted up and held in place with a ballpoint pen. It’s left a series of blue ink marks above the neckline of her T-shirt.

“You’ve got stripes.” I smear them a little.

She cringes at my touch. “Please tell me you did not lick your finger.”

“Ew. Germs. No.”

“Speaking of germs and spit, Sawyer Campbell.” She nods like that sentence is supposed to make sense. I know exactly where she’s going with this, but I simply shake my head. “If he wanted to share spit with me or—”

“I can probably get him to puke on you, and trust me when I say that’s an unpleasant experience.”

Mia has an almost cartoonishly pretty face—giant eyes, full lips, defined cheekbones—and her face moves like a cartoon too. Her eyes grow so wide that her eyelashes smash against her eyebrows. “There’s a story here. Please tell me that it’s better than I’m imagining.”

I open the narrow cabinet against the room’s rear wall, searching for the box of leftover shirts for the Beaver Buddies—the official apparel of the junior fan club—stored somewhere among unprinted ticket stock and programs. “Are you imagining Sawyer Campbell throwing up on me at the airport?” I shake out a child’s medium, the largest in the box. “’Cause that’s exactly what happened.”

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” She bursts into the sort of hysterical, snorting laughter that’s impossible not to join.

I retell the story as I shove the box back into the closet. “I tried to clean up in the airport bathroom, but my shirt was unsaveable. So, he lent me this.” I straighten the sleeve of Campbell’s shirt once more.

“Wow.” She folds her arms over her chest and leans back as far as the chair will let her. Her animated face has turned to scheming villain. “You’re wearing Sawyer Campbell’s shirt. That’s intimate. For you.”

“I wear your clothes.” Sometimes. I’m five-foot-six. She’s six feet even. Her shorts look like capris on me. I peek out the ticket office window, making sure no one can see in, and shuck Campbell’s tee. “Nothing intimate about that.”

“Maybe this is the beginning of something?”

“I don’t have relationships with baseball players.”

“You don’t have relationships with anyone.”

She can’t see my irritated expression because the fan club T-shirt is too small—no surprise there. I manage to get my head through the hole and one arm lodged in a sleeve when the outer door of the ticket office flies open. I peek over my shoulder with an awkward twist of my neck and find, to both my relief and my horror, my mother standing in the open doorway.

“Ryan, pull your shirt down!” She sweeps into the office, her perfectly styled hair blowing forward as the door slams. The overpowering smell of her gardenia perfume saturates the space instantly.

“Don’t you think I’m trying?”

She gives the shirt a vicious yank, nearly ripping off my earlobe in the process. “Standing here in your bra for the whole world to see? Surely your father has taught you better.”

Since the divorce, any behavior she deems even slightly inappropriate is my father’s fault. “It was an emergency.” I snake my other arm through the sleeve and catch my reflection in the window. The shirt is snug over my boobs, but it’s long enough to cover the waistband of my shorts. “My other shirt got ruined.”

“Doesn’t your father keep a few extras around? When I worked here …”

Please, not now. If I have to listen to another lecture about how much better the team was when she worked on the staff, then I’m going to have to ask one of the pitchers to bean me in the head. Repeatedly.

“He might, Mom, but I didn’t want to bother him. He’s probably wrapping up his sponsorship meeting right now.”

“We’ve talked about this before. You’re the general manager’s daughter. You don’t have to dress like seasonal staff.” She offers a simpering smirk over my shoulder. “No offense, Mia.”

“None taken, Mrs. R.” Mia’s words are a little muffled because she’s holding Campbell’s shirt to her face.

I rip it out of her hands, but my dirty look makes her smile wider.

Mom is sorting through the shirts I put back, organizing them with her typical speed. Some habits are harder to quit than others. “We bought all those nice skirts and blouses. You can still be cool and look a little more professional.”

“I can’t squat in the dirt with the Beaver Buddies in a skirt, Mom.”

She waves at her fifties-era halter dress. “Honey, when you own the team, you don’t have to squat in the dirt.”

Mom received a fifty percent ownership of the Beavers as part of the divorce. She quit working in the front office, traded in her khakis for vintage dresses, and became a not-so-silent partner. Some weeks, she’ll appear out of the blue to “check on things at the park” and flirt with the high rollers in the suites. She says it’s good for our sponsors to be able to meet with a representative from the team and air their grievances or express their delight.

She isn’t wrong, but having her around makes every staff member twitch with nerves. Including Dad.

Mom grabs the end of my long ponytail and twists it into a bun on top of my head before letting it fall loose again. “Just think about it. You don’t want to be a field rat your entire life.”

I bite my tongue to hold back commentary about her entire married life being spent as a field rat. She used to squat in the dirt and run promos and sweat in the miserable Texas heat with the rest of us. But Mom has bigger plans for everything now—including me—and none of them involve baseball. I roll up Campbell’s shirt and hope she doesn’t see my white-knuckled grip on the material.

“Speaking of your father, I’ve got a few things I need to discuss with him.”

“He’s probably headed to the press box, Mom. Where he’s always at before a game starts.”

She swipes a quick kiss across my cheek, surely leaving a red lipstick smear, and sweeps out of the office like she owns the place.

And I guess, technically, she does.

THE SOUND BOOTH IS EMPTY. ALL THE SPONSOR MESSAGES AND legal disclaimers are prerecorded so our announcer doesn’t waste his pipes on the same words over and over. I scan the script, looking for any last-minute changes or additions, anything to explain the unease tickling between my shoulder blades. Everything is running according to plan.

Except for the shouting coming through the door that connects to the owner’s booth.

The polite thing to do would be to turn away, like some kids do when their parents fight. I never had delusions of marital bliss between my parents, so I set down the script and ease closer. My parents’ relationship had been rocky for years before they finally decided to split. The yelling doesn’t bother me anymore. I don’t really remember a time when they talked to each other at anything less than full volume.

“You can’t do this, Marie! It’s not fair to us. It’s not fair to this organization,” Dad says as I swing open the door. He towers over her petite five-foot-five frame. Not that she’s ever been intimidated by him.

She’s got her Ice Witch voice on, sounding detached and composed. “Let’s talk a little less about fair and a little more about logic. The Rangers can withdraw their contract. You’ll lose the team, Matthew. You’ll lose ev-ery-thing.”

“I’ve got it under control—”

“Selling half the team gets us both what we want.”

“Selling half the team?” I ask, letting them know I’m standing behind them. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

Dad looks up, surprised. His cheeks are flushed, and the vein at his temple pulses. Mom steps back and waves for my dad to answer the question.

“It’s nothing, honey.” His hands drop from his hips. “Your mom has some ideas about investors, and we’re just working through them.”

Typical Dad. Trying to protect his baby girl from the big, bad world. I turn to Mom for a straight answer.

She actually manages to look guilty for a moment, but squares up her shoulders and plows forward: “I wanted to take you to dinner and tell you. But … I’m seriously considering selling my portion of the team.”

I hear the foul-ball warning announcement—a shattering of fake glass to remind patrons to pay attention to the game. I only have two minutes to get down to the field. But Ice Witch has frozen me to the suite’s industrial carpeting. “Why?”

“The Rangers require our facilities to meet certain standards, but the upgrades are expensive, and I honestly don’t want the hassle of finding that kind of money.” Mom smiles, and it’s as fake as her new boobs. “Selling my portion will bring on investors with the kind of capital to make improvements. And it means I’m out of this business. Finally.”

She throws a dark look at Dad that he doesn’t acknowledge.

“It would mean a lot of other changes,” he says, mouth flat, way too serious for a game day. “To the way we manage everything here.”

“What kind of changes?” I ask, but I have a sick feeling I already know. Promotion overhauls. New sponsors. Staffing adjustments.

Mom curls her arm around my shoulders. “The investors will be here in ten days to check out the stadium. I promise that you and I will discuss all of this before I make any final decisions.” She nods to the big picture windows that showcase the field below. “Right now, you’ve got to get those Little Leaguers on the field.”

I’m shivering despite the heat. “But—”

“Go, Ryan,” she says, pushing me toward the door.

Convenient for her that I have to “squat in the dirt” or those kids would never get on the field. “Fine.” A part of me wants to stay and fight for an explanation, but my sense of duty wins out.

I understand the implications. If she sells her shares to one of those big-time conglomerates that own a ton of profit-churning teams, they could force Dad out of his position as general manager. It would be the end of our traditions, our long-running promotions, and our family business.

And if someone else is in charge, there’s no guarantee they’ll ever let a girl like me—or any girl—run the team on her own.