Stealing Home

IT’S MIDNIGHT WHEN I GET HOME. AND NO MATTER HOW LATE I pull in, Dad’s always an hour behind me. He’ll pick up burgers and fries from our favorite all-night drive-thru, and we’ll hash out the game and promos over grease and ketchup. Then he’ll fall asleep on the couch to the sound of ESPN’s top ten plays.

But as I step under the scalding water of my shower, I gear up for a discussion. I’m going to tell him that we have to fight Mom on this, that this time he can’t sign the papers and walk away. This is more than dissolving our family. Selling her portion of the team could destroy my future.

As I turn off the water, I hear the deep rumble of voices. At first I think Mom’s come home to stage her coup, but she hasn’t been through the door in at least four months. And as I wrap a towel around my head, I realize the voices are too low in volume and pitch to be my parents.

Who did my dad bring home?

I didn’t grab a bra, just my cami and pajama shorts. I open the bathroom door and hear Dad laughing, another deep voice continuing a story.

“Dad?” I call. “Who’s here?”

He doesn’t answer, still laughing.

Our house is a rambler, with all four bedrooms like spokes around a big kitchen and living room. I peek around the corner and see none other than Sawyer Campbell sitting at our kitchen bar, an enormous burger in his hands and both elbows on the counter. Dad’s next to him, same position, completely at ease with this boy he barely knows. I can’t get to my room without dashing past the archway that opens onto the kitchen, and I don’t really want Campbell to see me in my pajamas.

“Ry?” Dad yells now that he’s done laughing. “Come say hi to Sawyer. He’s staying with us for the night.”

We’ve put up players before, but not since Mom left. I got the sense it would be inappropriate without another woman in the house. So what makes Campbell so special?

I stick my head further around the corner, trying to keep my body hidden in the shadows of the hallway. “Hey.” I hope that my monotone carries my lack of enthusiasm.

Dad is beaming, and he’s got barbecue sauce at the corner of his mouth. “Come eat. I know you’re starving.”

I am, and my traitor stomach rumbles at the sight of a double bacon cheeseburger and a huge carton of fries, but I don’t want to do dinner without my bra. It’s not like I’m super busty, but still.

“Did Sawyer tell you his dad and I played together in college?”

Either Dad is ignoring the way I’m keeping my distance, or he doesn’t care. Sawyer’s got his focus on his fries and a container of ketchup.

“No.” Please, Dad, read my body language this one time. “He didn’t mention it.” Or that he was staying with us.

“His parents are the best people. I worked on their family’s watermelon farm for three summers. Did your dad sell out or are y’all still running it?”

“Still running it.” Campbell nods without looking up from his food. “Some years are tougher than others.”

“Some things never change.” Dad takes a swig of his beer and looks up at me. “Your food’s getting cold. Eat.”

It’s a command, and like the obedient kid I’ve always been, I stomp into the kitchen and snatch my burger, despite the zit glaring on my chin. I stay standing, keeping the length of the island between me and Campbell.

“I haven’t seen your parents in ages.” Dad points at Sawyer with a fry. “They coming out to watch you play?”

“Mom’s coming later in the season, and she’s excited to see you and your family.”

“Your dad going to make it?”

Sawyer shakes his head. “He can’t leave the farm. You know how it is.” There’s something unhappy in the line of his jaw. Guiltily, I find myself hoping Wonderboy has some family issues, and then immediately hate myself for wishing my problems on someone else. Then I soothe my self-loathing with another fry. It’s a healthy way to deal with my emotions, I know.

Dad pushes a couple packets of mustard toward me, knowing I’ll want them for my burger. “Did you know that Sawyer is from Cordele, Georgia, watermelon capital of the world?”

I try to channel one of Mom’s Ice Witch glares to tell Dad he’s being super weird, but must miss the mark. Or he ignores it. What exactly is he doing? Dad doesn’t introduce me to guys. And he doesn’t bring random people home and feed them fast food late at night. Why does this feel like … I don’t know … some sort of blind date? “Watermelons, huh? That’s interesting.” Poor Campbell blushes, and I feel like an actual witch. I eat another fry, clear my throat, and make an effort. “Is this your first time away from home?”

“I lived in the dorms last year, but that was only twenty minutes from my parents’ house.” He nods, wipes his fingers on his napkin, then nods again. “But, yeah, this is the farthest I’ve ever been from my family for more than a couple of days at a time.”

“Did Sawyer tell you he was homeschooled up until his first year of high school, but by then he was so far ahead of his classmates he graduated early?” Dad slaps Sawyer across the back like he’s so darn proud of this kid he just met.

“Nope.” I drench my fry in ketchup so I don’t have to see the way Campbell’s cheeks darken to a lovely shade of vermillion.

“Well, I promised your folks we’d take good care of you. If you need rides anywhere, to church or the park or whatnot, I’ll make sure Ryan can get you where you need to be.”

Oh, fun. So on top of my regular assignments and trying to figure out how to save the team, now I’m Campbell’s personal chauffeur.

“That’s really not necessary, sir.” Campbell shoots a look at me, but his eyes dart away fast. “I can take a Lyft or walk—”

“Of course not! Your family took care of me, and now it’s my chance to return the favor.” Dad looks up and, maybe for the first time in the entire conversation, he really sees me. His forehead creases when he notices my wet hair and pajamas. This time he reads my angry eyes and responds with a shoulder shrug that tells me I’m overreacting. “Tomorrow, we’ll get Sawyer all set up at the team motel and we’ll go from there.”

We finish eating while Dad continues telling us stories about Campbell’s family and the summers he worked on the watermelon farm. I don’t really understand the ins and outs of melon harvest, but it sounds miserable. Then Dad says something that has Sawyer laughing so hard he has to cover his mouth with his fist.

Despite myself, I find myself smiling at the image of a much younger version of my dad blowing up overripe melons with fireworks. Or lining them up along the Campbells’ fence for target practice.

As I roll the orange-and-white-striped wrapper of my burger into a tight ball, I catch Sawyer watching me. He doesn’t look away like he’s embarrassed that he’s been caught. Instead he gives me an apologetic smile. I’m not sure if he’s sorry for looking at me or for my dad’s long-windedness or for this whole situation, but it zings straight into my gut like I misjudged a line drive.

Dad’s silent, and his eyes weigh the tension between Campbell and me. “It’s getting late.” He finishes off his Bud Light. “Lots to do tomorrow. Ryan, why don’t you show Sawyer to the guest room? Then we can all get some sleep.”

The guest room. The room next to mine. Across from the bathroom we’ll share. I try to fight the nervous chill creeping down my back, but it’s a losing battle. It’s for one night. No one will ever know he’s been here.

“Sure.”

Campbell clears his mess, then picks up his duffel and follows me down the hall. Can he see the hairs on the back of my thighs? Do I care? Why do I care?

“Let me grab you a clean towel.” My voice sounds soft in the darkened hallway.

“I’m sorry to put you out.” He runs his free hand through his hair, making it stand up.

I give him a half smile that I hope doesn’t look too much like a wince. “It’s not a problem.”

When I swing open the bedroom door, I’m grateful that the cleaning ladies come every week. The room smells like fresh linens, and it looks homey, if a little shabby. Mom loves that beat-up white furniture look. The queen-size bed is covered with a handmade wedding ring quilt that had been a gift when my parents got married. There’s a low dresser and a matching armoire but not much floor space. Campbell’s arm brushes my shoulder when he enters. I don’t want to notice the way he smells, all pine tar and sunflower seeds, but I can’t help it.

He’s hot. So what? Lots of guys are hot. My fingernails cut little crescents into my palms. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

He drops the duffel on the foot of the bed, then moves it to the floor like he’s afraid it might dirty up the quilt. “Thanks. I promise I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

The awkwardness buzzes between us like a swarm of summer mosquitos. We’re both shifting nervously, like we want to swat it away, but neither of us makes the first move. Whatever easiness we found in the Beavermobile and as I took pictures of him at the field is long gone.

“Sleep well.” A smirk tweaks at the corner of my mouth, and this time it feels closer to real. He does seem more Okay Guy than Horrible Human. And our families are—or once were—close. I’ll think of him like a hot cousin. That way I can accept that he’s good-looking but feel icky when I think about it.

I keep repeating the phrase hot cousin over and over in my head as I brush my teeth and settle into my own bed.

Then I remember that my mom wants to sell my team, and every thought of Sawyer Campbell poofs out of my mind.