IT’S ELEVEN P.M. AND I’M STILL AT THE STADIUM, CRANKING OUT reports. Dad is in his office, talking to someone on the phone as he paces behind his desk. Besides the clicking of my fingers on the keyboard and the hum of the ancient air conditioner, it’s silent. And a little creepy with most of the lights off. When my phone rings, I almost jump out of my skin.
Sawyer Campbell.
He didn’t text first. Which from anyone else would be super weird, but from Sawyer I have a pretty good idea what this means.
I debate not answering, but figure it’s better to get this conversation over.
“Hey,” I say, eyes flitting to Dad’s partially open office door.
“I can’t decide if I’m mad at you or not,” Campbell says, voice hushed.
Well, that’s one way to start a conversation. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to say something in response, but I bite my bottom lip and hold it between my teeth.
He sighs. It’s deep and tired-sounding. “Why didn’t you tell me your mom sold the Beavers?”
Not mad, wounded, I realize. It hurt his feelings that I didn’t tell him. My throat gets all tight and itchy, like it does when I eat pecans. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. If something bad happens to you, I want to know.”
I give a strangled laugh, tears pricking my eyes. “Really? That surprises me.”
He’s quiet for too long, and I can imagine him sitting on the edge of his bed in the Country Inn in San Antonio, elbows on knees, one foot bouncing. “What do you mean?”
“I mean …” I get up from my desk and walk out into the hallway, where it will be hard for my dad to overhear. “I read the game report. You went two for four tonight. You’re out of your slump.”
Something creaks in the background. Probably the stupid full-size bed that his feet will hang off. “I hope so.”
“Fantastic. I’m happy for you.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“It’s just—” I have to swallow hard, mustering the strength to run through the script I’ve written in my head. “You didn’t bother to find out how things went with my mom until everything in your life was back on track.”
I pinch my eyes shut as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Nothing I’m saying is fair. I knew exactly what was at stake for him. I understood his frustration, but having him shut me out was a huge revelation: we don’t have enough room in our lives for each other. We don’t have space for hurt feelings or messy arguments. Neither of us can afford distractions.
“Ryan, I—”
“I’ve got a lot of work to do and it’s late and—”
“Don’t do this.” His words hold a hint of a plea. “Don’t sabotage us.”
“There was never any us.” I press my palm to my stomach, against the real, physical pain that truth leaves behind. I kept the rules. I knew the consequences. But I didn’t expect doing the right thing would feel so wrong.
“What?” The question rides on a surprised exhale.
“You want to keep playing baseball. I want to keep working for the Beavers.” I lean against the wall, letting it hold me up. If he saw me now, he wouldn’t believe any of the words I’m saying. But he’s not here, so only my voice has to be strong. “Nothing is more important than baseball, right?”
There’s a long silence, so long that I start to wonder if we got disconnected.
“I guess that’s true for you.” He says the words softly, but they catch me like a fist to the throat.
“Yeah.” I drop my head back against the cinder-block wall. I’m not going to counter or try to explain myself. Every second I’m on the phone makes it harder to hang up. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Can we talk about this when I get back? Face-to-face? Please?”
No. Yes. “I don’t know. I’ll be really busy trying to save the stadium.”
Dad leans out the office door, his face confused. “Who are you talking to?”
“I’ve gotta go,” I say into the phone, and end the call, not waiting for Campbell to say goodbye. I hid the truth from Dad about the sponsor meetings. I went behind his back. I’m not going to lie to him again. “It was Campbell.” I walk back to my desk and wake up my computer. “He called to offer condolences about the team being sold.”
Dad doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t return to his office.
“Did you need something?” I shoot him a quick glance before typing random letters on my keyboard, trying to look busy.
“He’s a good kid, Ryan.” Dad makes one of those weird frown–smiles, like he’s saying something he doesn’t want to. “You could do a lot worse.”
His words stun me, and I stumble for a good response. “He plays for the team. So, you know, it’s not something you need to worry about. We’re just friends.”
“I’m not worried about it. You’re smart.” He pats the top of my desk once, then returns to his office.
He’s right. I am smart. Smart enough to stay far away from Sawyer Campbell from now on.
