AFTER BREAKFAST AND SHOWERS, I DRIVE CAMPBELL TO THE stadium to meet with the doctor the Rangers are sending, and then I head up to the front office. Our actual work space is the very last part of the stadium my dad will update. The carpet is a lush emerald green that shows every crumb and paper scrap—we got it at a huge discount from one of our sponsors, for obvious reasons. The off-white walls have more scrapes and holes and associated stories than I care to think about. But the doorways are tall, almost grand, and surrounded by beautifully carved moldings. A row of narrow windows gives a partial view of the stadium’s green grass, and the slim ones above the office doors have flower patterns cut into the glass. My mom used to say, “She’s an old lady with beautiful bones.”
It’s true. Our office space has something special and old-timey about it.
My favorite part is the receptionist desk where I sit. It’s the first thing you see when you enter from the front door, like something you might find in an old bank or fancy library. The entire thing is carved wood, at least four feet tall and twice that long. I have to pump my chair all the way to its highest setting to reach the scarred work surface. Mom told me the desk and the matching table in the conference room were part of the original building and they’re probably worth a fortune. I believe it, but I hope that Dad will figure out a way to keep them when we update the offices.
Or whoever owns the team.
I push that thought aside. I’ve got a dozen windows open on my desktop, most with searches like “largest employer in Buckley” and “Texas hill country’s richest residents.” Even though I’m dying to set up some lunch meetings with potential sponsors, I’ve got my everyday tasks to attend to first. Print ads need to be approved before our hospital visit—I do it, because Dad can’t spot grammatical errors—then I have to send all the action shots and player info sheets to our graphic designer for baseball cards. Last year, Meredith tried to handle it, but she confused two of our pitchers. In her defense, both guys were blond, the same height and weight, and used black mitts. Unfortunately, one was a right-handed pitcher and the other was left-handed. No one noticed until the baseball cards went to print, and it cost a fortune to reprint the corrections, and was a huge pain to shove them in the little plastic packages. Mia helped me with the stuffing, but I still had paper cuts on every finger.
Mom never made mistakes like that, and I’ve picked up her knack for noticing little details—like which hand guys use to throw the ball. Dad and Meredith turned the project over to me this year.
The phone has rung a few times, and I’ve directed a handful of ticket buyers to our sales team, but it’s probably going to be a slow night. It’s hard to fill the stands, even when we have good promotions or giveaways. Lots of empty seats means low concession sales, which equates to little revenue. It’s the worst sort of chain reaction.
I shift my focus to the player profiles when I hear a too-familiar noise: crutches on the cement walkway that connects the stadium to our office.
For one moment, I consider diving under my desk. I don’t know why.
Liar. You totally know why.
The more I’ve thought about having Campbell help me—be around me—the more I worry that people will assume there’s something going on between us. If our relationship doesn’t seem professional, people might treat me more like a groupie than a member of the staff.
In some ways, my mom had to deal with this too. Even though she worked every bit as hard as my dad, she was still “the general manager’s wife” way more often than she was Marie Russell, vice president of the Buckley Beavers.
With all that in mind, I have a hard time digging up an expression that doesn’t let my worries leak through. “How’d the appointment go?”
His forehead furrows. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“No. What?” I’m cut off by the ringing of my desk phone. I hold up a finger. “Hello, Buckley Beavers. How may I direct your call?”
“Hey, Ry.” It’s my dad calling from the training room. I can tell by the way his voice echoes. He’d met with a sponsor this morning and must’ve gone right into the stadium afterward instead of stopping in the office first. “I need you to take Sawyer to Arlington. I know it’s a long drive, but I’ve already arranged for one of my friends from the head office to take you on a tour of their stadium, so you can see how things are done at the big-league level.”
“Wait … what?”
“The ortho is afraid that the wound and resulting scar tissue might affect Sawyer’s Achilles and doesn’t want to sign off on treatment until the Rangers’ staff doctor can approve it. And his agent wants a second opinion.”
“But I have to leave for the children’s hospital in thirty minutes and I was hoping to get at least part of the baseball card info imported.”
“Mer will go to the hospital instead. How long will the import take?”
“Like five more hours. Minimum.”
He blows out a long breath. I imagine he’s standing with his feet spread apart, one hand on his hip, debating. “When is it due back?”
“Tuesday. And with an away game tomorrow, I’d hoped to get caught up on some other things.” Or start some other things.
“I hate to ask you to go, but I’ve got no one else on the car insurance who can leave now.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “What about Steve?” He’s our laziest sales guy—who also happens to have an MBA in sports administration—and I know he’s on the insurance.
“He’s got a lunch meeting with the new packaging plant.”
Well, good job, Steve.
“Meredith’s handling pregame press, and there’s no way she’d make it back before the gates open.”
“Who’s setting up the promotions?”
“Mia can handle it.”
She can. I know it. But I hate that it makes me feel like I’m the only person on the entire staff who can be replaced so easily. “I’ll call her before I leave and give her the game updates.” I sound pouty to my own ears, and I force it down, remembering Rule #1: Do the crummy jobs. “When do I need to leave?”
“Right now.”
I click my mouse a little more vehemently than necessary, closing all my windows and the baseball card file. The little Save box pops up, which is good since I forgot to name it.
“Fuel up the Beavermobile. I’ll text you the address.”
“Fine.” My computer is taking its sweet time saving. The little circle is spinning and spinning. I look up and realize that Campbell is still there, frowning at me.
“This is screwing up your plans, isn’t it?” He sounds legitimately apologetic. Some guys would’ve huffed over not being my first priority.
“It’s fine. I’ll finish this all later. No big deal.”
When a file error pops up, it becomes a much bigger deal. I shake my mouse, even though I know that’s not going to do anything. “Nononono. Don’t do this,” I whisper to my computer.
“What’s wrong?” Campbell rests his weight on his forearms, leaning over the top of the desk to see my screen.
“This computer is old and sometimes it doesn’t like to save.” Especially when I’m impatient with it. Stupid, vindictive computer.
Campbell comes around the side of the desk and puts one hand on the back of my chair, hovering over my head to get a better look at the circle that won’t stop spinning. From this angle I can see the underside of his jaw, a thin white scar that traces the bottom of his chin, and the dark stubble he didn’t bother to shave. His face is quietly intense, as he clicks three keys with his left hand.
“Let me get out of your way.” I stand up, shoulder dragging against his side. He doesn’t seem to notice the contact the same way I do, eyes still narrowed at the screen as he drops into my chair.
Two years ago, we had a pitcher who graduated from Harvard with a degree in something like rocket science. On the days he didn’t pitch, he entertained himself in the bullpen by working on two calculus problems at the same time. So I know that some of the players are incredibly intelligent, some are talented musicians and artists, but sometimes it still catches me off-guard when they have skills and interests far outside of baseball. Especially the ones as gifted as Campbell.
Or maybe that has more to do with me and the way I focus on baseball.
My computer screen flashes blue, rows of white text scrolling upward. I bite back a groan, but Campbell’s fingers slash across the keyboard, typing in something that looks a lot like code.
“What are you doing? Is it all gone?”
“Hold on.” Campbell clicks something and my file reopens. He shoots me a look that’s full of self-satisfaction. “I was able to bring back everything but the last ten minutes or so.”
“Thank you.” I cover my heart like some old lady. “You saved me hours of work.”
He shakes off my gratitude. “Considering I’m about to cost you twice that much time, it’s really not that helpful.”
ONCE IN THE VAN, THE AIR COOLING MY FACE AND THE SILENCE stretching, I realize we have three very long hours alone together. If the first three minutes are any indication, we are in for a lot of radio station fumbling. I can practically hear Mia’s disapproval as I scramble for words. “So … uh … tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
I sneak a glance and catch him looking at me. He turns away immediately, like he’s a little embarrassed to have gotten caught.
“Tell me about your family.”
“I’ve got a twin brother and two younger sisters.”
“You have a twin?” My voice goes up an octave. “Identical?”
“Not exactly.”
“There’s fraternal and identical. Surely you know that.”
“Yeah, but he has cerebral palsy. So even though we are technically identical, most people don’t see it.” He’s looking out the passenger window, but I have a feeling he’s not really seeing Mumford, Texas, whiz by.
“Oh.” How do I respond to that? Is “I’m sorry” the wrong thing to say?
“He’s one of the smartest, funniest people I’ve ever met.” Campbell pulls out his phone and scans through his pictures until he finds the right one. “He’s the one who taught me how to recover your computer file, by the way.”
“Tell him thank you.” I shouldn’t look down at the picture while I’m driving, but I’ve got the cruise control set, and there’s no one on the road. The picture is of Campbell and his brother in a car. Campbell isn’t looking at the camera but making a sideways peace sign, and his brother is giving this crooked grin. They do look a lot alike, but his brother’s face is thinner, cheekbones more pronounced.
“That’s the night I got drafted. We drove around our tiny town yelling out the car windows.” Campbell’s eyes focus on the picture, and I can see him reliving the moment in his memory. His expression is soft, wistful. “Sterling was as excited as I was. Maybe more.”
“His name is Sterling?”
“Yeah.” He takes his phone back, swiping to the next picture.
“Sawyer and Sterling,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going. “That’s super—”
“Cheesy?” he asks, raising one eyebrow in my direction.
“I was going to say ‘cute,’ but feel free to speak for me.” I sound more annoyed than I really am. “Plus, I think it’s a rule that twin names should match in some way.”
“Like Phil and Bill? Those are my uncles’ names.”
“Shut up! You have twin uncles?”
“No.” He’s laughing, and it’s such a nice laugh that I want to hear it again.
“Well, there are twins that go to my high school. Krystal and Shanda Leer.”
“You’re lying. Krystal Shanda Leer?”
“I’m not.”
We spend the next chunk of time coming up with the worst possible names for twins. Easton and Weston. Misty and Stormy. Adan and Dana. He Googles to find some more and then starts laughing so hard that he’s not making any noise.
“What?” I slap his arm lightly.
“I can’t. It’s so bad.” He covers his mouth with his fist, laughing into it. “Jenna and Talia.”
My forehead wrinkles. “I don’t get it.”
“Say it fast.”
“Jenna Talia.” And then like two little kids, we’re giggling about body parts.
When we stop laughing, he just sort of looks at me. “My mom wanted to make sure I thanked you and your dad for everything you guys have done so far.” He moves his arm to the console so it’s right next to mine. “It made her feel so much better to know that people were watching out for me when she couldn’t be here.”
We’re not touching, not really, but there’s this electric field between us like two magnets being drawn toward each other. My pinkie finger twitches, brushing against his skin and then falling back to its position.
What am I doing?
There should be no finger-touching, no electricity. I drop my hand into my lap.
“Okay,” I start, and then stop. How do you go about telling someone that nothing is ever going to happen between you without sounding completely self-absorbed? I run the scenario through in my head a dozen different ways, but they all end badly.
Clearing my throat, I start again. “I’m happy to help you, and I’m so glad you’re going to help me reach out to sponsors.” It is so hot in the van. Is the A/C even working? I’m sweating. Why am I sweating? “I’ve got a couple of ideas for good leads, and I know they’re all going to be thrilled to meet you. But …”
“But?” He shifts his crutches and our elbows bump.
Elbows. It’s an elbow, Ryan. Still, I tuck my arm tight to my body to avoid any further bumpage. “But I’m a little bit worried that people might see us together and think that we’re, like, together.” I literally could not sound stupider, so I plow on ahead. If I’m going to word-vomit all over myself, I might as well do it right. “And having you talk to sponsors as, like, my boyfriend is way less impressive than having you talk to them as Sawyer Campbell, first-round draft pick. So we need to be super clear with everyone.” Especially yourself, Ryan. “That this is a business relationship only.”
He seems to consider my words for a second, mouth partway open. “Yeah,” he says, finally, head nodding slowly. “I agree.”
“Oh. Good.” That was not nearly as painful as I’d imagined, and yet I can’t ignore the little blip of disappointment. I didn’t want him to disagree. That would be ridiculous.
I am ridiculous.
“Actually, I’m really glad you said something.” He shifts his crutches again. “I know we’re going to be spending a lot of time together and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
Now I’ve totally got the wrong idea.
“I need to be completely committed to getting healthy as fast as possible. Eating good food. Getting plenty of sleep. Getting in workouts wherever I can.”
From my peripheral vision, I can feel his eyes on me.
“Everything has to be all baseball, all the time. No distractions.”
Distractions like a girl. I know what he’s saying even though he doesn’t say those exact words. “Of course.”
“Cool.”
Except that nothing about this is cool. I’ve turned the A/C all the way up and can still feel the prickles of sweat on my neck, and he’s shifting around in his seat like it’s full of ants.
It was necessary to make the rules clear, but I wish I could have done it without making things weird between us.
