MY BRAIN HATES ME. IT TAKES FOREVER TO FALL ASLEEP, AND I don’t stay there long. At three a.m., three full hours before I’d planned to go on my run, I wake up with something plaguing my thoughts: Lucas Chestnut.
Not for any of the reasons most girls wake up thinking about boys in the middle of the night. Lucas’s dad owns Chestnut Oil Products, one of the largest manufacturing companies in all of Buckley. They make parts for pipelines or maintenance or something oil related, and apparently it’s lucrative, because their house is even nicer than Mia’s. Their shop is situated outside of town, so it didn’t come up on my initial search.
One weekend Lucas and I had plans to go paintballing, but he canceled at the last minute to go golfing with his dad. His dad sponsors a team every year to raise money for an autism research group. I didn’t mind that Lucas went. Sometimes stuff comes up, especially stuff related to your family business. Plus, I didn’t need a date to shoot people with an air-powered rifle.
All those thoughts—minus the paintballing—combine with Campbell’s suggestion to host special needs camps at Perry Park. If Mr. Chestnut was willing to shell out money for a golf team, would he be interested in sponsoring a facility that could help similar groups? Turning the ballpark into a year-round events center would mean upgrading the rest of the stadium, including the locker and training rooms. It would knock out all the Rangers’ requirements and increase revenue in the off-season.
Really, it’s a matter of pitching the idea in a way that helps Mr. Chestnut see how partnering with Perry Park could help his business and community.
I flop back on my pillow, trying to estimate how much work I’ll have to do in less than a week. And that’s if I can arrange a meeting with Mr. Chestnut.
Is it even possible?
Dad always says if it’s not worth working for, it’s not worth doing. And this would be worth it.
BOTH DAD AND CAMPBELL ARE AWAKE WHEN I GET BACK FROM MY run. I notice that Campbell’s hair is still wet, so he’s already out of the shower—thank goodness—and Dad is working at the kitchen counter. ESPN is blaring in the background, but Campbell pops to his feet as soon as I step into the living room.
“Hey, guys.” I toe off my shoes, hoping I’m not releasing foot stench into the air. “You’re both up early.”
Dad grunts and pats the stack of papers next to him. “I’ve gotta get this all sent off to your mom before I head to the office. You wanna pick up breakfast?”
“Sure. Rudy’s?”
“That’s fine.” He checks over his shoulder to where Sawyer is lingering by the couch. “What can we get you?”
“Is it okay if I come with?” Campbell asks, crutching toward the door, totally ready to go.
I freeze, wishing I could covertly sniff my armpit. “Sure.”
Campbell tilts his head, communicating something with his eyes. I don’t think he just wants to eat his burrito while it’s hot.
“Let me grab my keys.”
As soon as the door to the van shuts, Campbell is talking. “Susan—the director of the recreational therapy group in Georgia—already replied to my email.” His enthusiasm pours out. Campbell usually talks slowly, all southern drawl, but he can’t seem to get the words out fast enough. “She’s going to call me in an hour and give me all the information we need to get a program started here in Buckley.”
It takes all of my self-control not to dive across the console and wrap him in the biggest hug ever. Instead I steal Mia’s victory dance and hold my hand up for a high five. Safest way to celebrate for sure. As we drive, I tell him all about my middle-of-the-night epiphany concerning Mr. Chestnut and Chestnut Oil Products. He agrees that it’s a perfect fit. This is the first step. Now we have something concrete to lure in sponsors.
Rudy’s is one of the more famous Texas BBQs. They serve your meat on sheets of brown butcher paper and give you a half loaf of bread to go with your brisket or ribs. The restaurant’s interior—livestock water barrels filled with ice and bottled drinks, wood picnic tables, and garage doors instead of walls—gives it a roadside-dive sort of appeal. But they serve the best breakfast burritos, maybe even better than what Ms. Vivi can cook up, and that’s saying something.
The burritos are in a warming bin to one side of the checkout counter, and once they’re gone, they’re gone. Luckily, we’ve arrived early enough to get a good selection, and I carry them to the cashier while Campbell crutches a step behind me.
I’m bouncing with energy from our conversation, actually outpacing him as I deliver our foil-wrapped breakfast burritos to the counter.
“Wait, Ryan,” he calls. “Let me pay for breakfast. You and your dad have done so much for me.”
I wave him off, credit card already out, but he reaches around me and snatches it out of my hand. He’s close, chest against my shoulder, and I can smell whatever it is that makes the T-shirt I still haven’t returned so delicious.
“Please.” He offers my card back and pulls out some cash. “It’s the least I can do—”
“I bet it is,” says a voice behind us.
My stomach plunges to my feet as I look over Campbell’s shoulder. Hadley Pearson is grinning like that awful cat in the Alice in Wonderland movie. I know what he thinks is going on. With me pressed right up against Campbell, my body language isn’t exactly providing contrary evidence.
“What’s up, Pearson?” I say as I move a little farther down the counter and away from Campbell, which probably looks worse. “Aren’t you out of bed a little early?”
Pearson is one of those guys who’s talented—gifted with speed and good instincts for where the ball is going to fly—but he doesn’t work hard to get better. He’s not like Ollie and Campbell, who play a whole game and then stay late for practice. Pearson is content to coast.
I dislike him too much to care what he thinks of me. I’ve spent my entire life around young athletes with underdeveloped frontal lobes—I learned that fact in my sports medicine class and it explained so much. I open my mouth to spit some sassy comment in his direction, but I see Ollie standing a few steps behind him. And the expression on his face looks like he swigged curdled milk. He shakes it off quickly.
“Less than a week?” Pearson says, focused only on Campbell. “That’s impressive.”
He offers Campbell knuckles, but Campbell ignores them and accepts his change from the cashier—a girl I recognize from the grade below mine. And she’s smiling like she’s caught in the middle of one of those telenovelas that Mia’s abuela loves so much.
“It’s not like that.” Campbell faces Pearson, and the manly guy from the cover of the Sports Illustrated is back. Even on crutches, he’s kind of intimidating. “She’s been driving me to my appointments.”
“And then stayed close to take care of you.” Pearson’s mouth drops into a poisonous smirk as he scans my skimpy running clothes and Campbell’s wet hair. I’m tempted to punch out his perfectly straight teeth. “Ryan’s known for being good at her job.”
“Knock it off.” Ollie bumps Pearson’s shoulder as he moves toward the burritos. He doesn’t even look in my direction.
This. This is exactly what I’ve been worried about. The insinuation. The suggestion. The rumors are as bad as if Campbell and I had done something.
I don’t even stop by the condiment bar to pick up Rudy’s famous pico. Instead, I grab my bag and rush back to the van—away from all of them.
Except … does that make me look guilty?
A few moments later, the restaurant doors fly open, and Campbell crutches across the parking lot toward the Beavermobile. Looks like the pissing match with Pearson is over.
He stuffs his crutches inside the van. “Are those two always like that?” He reaches for the bag on the console and sorts through it until he finds his bacon, egg, and potato burritos.
“Pearson is.” I usually don’t let his crap get to me, but I’ve got a sharp spot in my throat, like I’ve swallowed a tortilla chip without chewing.
“And what about Ollie?”
I gulp hard, hoping the feeling will leave. “No. He’s one of the good ones.”
Campbell’s looking at me over his burrito. I can feel his eyes on me. “Are you sure he’s not … or were you ever—”
“I already told you nothing has ever or will ever happen between me and anyone who plays for the Beavers.”
He’s silent, but I can see him searching for words.
“What?” I snap, and he still doesn’t say anything. “Now you see exactly why I was so worried. Your teammates are the biggest gossips I know. What do you think they’re going to say? How many people do you think are going to hear about this?” I wave my hand toward the bag. Even though I’m not really hungry, food might be exactly the right thing to soothe this weird pain burning in my chest.
“They’re leaving on a four-game road trip,” he says, tossing me a bacon burrito. “They’ll forget about it before they get back.”
Since Campbell doesn’t make eye contact as he says it, I’m pretty sure he’s not telling the whole truth.
