Stealing Home

MY RIGHT FOOT TAPS OUT AN IMPATIENT RHYTHM ON THE STICKY airport floor, my shoe suctioning to the tile in a tap, slurp, tap, slurp, tap, slurp. The businesswoman waiting beside me at baggage claim keeps glancing at my foot like she wants to grind it under the heel of her pointy-toed pumps. I don’t blame her. But I can’t make myself stop. The repetition makes me feel like I’m doing something instead of wasting time.

The woman shifts her fancy purse to her left arm and checks her phone. Mine starts buzzing in my back pocket, and I answer it, hoping for news. “Hey.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Same thing I was wearing an hour ago. Why?” There’s a long silence on our call. Can silence sound disappointed? If it can, my best friend, Mia, is sending me all sorts of disapproval without saying a word. I look down at my uniform—a team-branded polo shirt, khaki shorts, and worn but comfortable running shoes. I look fine. “It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.”

Mia makes a noise that falls somewhere between a gag and a growl. “Seriously, Ryan? Why not? He’s hot and talented and rich. I’m not saying you have to have his babies, but a little flirting is perfectly harmless.”

“It’s not professional, Mi.”

“Professional, smrofessional. He’s a first-round draft pick. He’s gorgeous.”

I scan baggage claim for anyone matching Sawyer Campbell’s description. Since I always get stuck with personnel retrieval—that’s the official term for picking up freshly drafted baseball players from their flights—I check out their photos. Both the Photoshopped headshots the front office sends and the awful ones I dig up on their social media accounts. That way, I never worry about approaching the wrong guy.

At six-foot-three, two hundred and five pounds, and with a head full of tousled chestnut hair, Campbell should stand out in any crowd. Even without the hair. Some guys are tall, some guys are thick, but there’s something about athletes that makes them hard to ignore. It’s more than bulging biceps, vein-ridden forearms, and bubble butts. A real athlete—a professional athlete—moves in a different way than a normal person. Like they have an extra sense about the space their body occupies, which somehow translates to an above-average level of self-confidence.

No one in the airport moves with the sort of precision, awareness, or ego of a first-round draft pick. And Sawyer Campbell is the biggest deal my little hometown will ever see.

“If he thinks he’s famous, then you know what he’s going to be like.”

Mia gags for real and says two words: “Hadley Pearson.”

The mention of his name makes my face burn. No single player in the history of the Buckley Beavers has caused more contention on or off the field. Sure, he’s a promising centerfielder with an impressive social media following. But last season he caused a fight in the dugout, posted a picture with a sponsor’s daughter that was beyond scandalous, and almost got a DUI. All of that in the first four weeks of his professional career.

“Say a prayer to the gods of baseball that Campbell is nothing like Pearson,” Mia continues, probably crossing herself like she does at mass.

“No one can possibly be that bad.” I slide to the side so a guy in an army uniform can get past me with a huge camouflage duffel. Other people push through the crowd, snagging their bags, shuffling politely around each other with a sort of heat-racked exhaustion. But no one steps forward to grab the yard-long Easton bag gummed up with pine tar on the sides and handles. I don’t have to look at the tag to know what it’ll say: Sawyer Campbell.

“It looks like his luggage made it,” I say as it chugs past me on the carousel. “Will you ask around and see if the head office called? Maybe he missed his flight.”

Mia’s filling in for me at the receptionist desk at the Buckley Beavers’ ballpark office. She mumbles something that sounds like disgruntled assent, and then puts me on hold.

This wouldn’t be the first time I haven’t been notified of a last-minute change, but I check my phone anyway. After swiping four calendar reminders off my screen, I pull up the flight info for the thirty-fifth time. Flight 1474 arrived forty-two minutes ago.

The luggage carousel stops churning. The Easton bag, unquestionably full of bats and other equipment, comes to a halt a few yards ahead of me. The crowd of business folk, small families, and the soldier melt through the sliding doors and grow hazy with the heat rising from the cracked cement outside. I pace, tighten my ponytail, and pace again.

Still no Sawyer Campbell.

The awful on-hold music quits as Mia gets back on our call. “No one here knows anything.”

We’re understaffed and overworked. Calls get missed, sometimes. Emails get ignored. There aren’t enough of us to address all the office-related tasks, especially on game days. “That’s nothing new.”

Mia laughs. “Even if he gets there right now, you’re probably gonna be late for pregame. What do you need me to set up?”

A pit opens in my stomach as I try to name all the tasks I normally have to accomplish before the gates open in four hours. All of which are on hold because I’m standing in the airport. Waiting.

“Can you handle prepping the on-field promotions? And make sure the autograph table is set up on the concourse. The blue tablecloths are—”

“In the closet. I know, I know.”

She does know. This season has been especially hectic, and so many things would have fallen through the cracks without her help. Two of our summer staffers quit last week when they realized that working at the stadium was less fun than they’d imagined. Until we find replacements, we have to pick up the slack.

“You’re the best, Mia.”

“I know that, too. People tell me all the time.”

Then it’s my turn to laugh, because it’s both super arrogant and true. She really is amazing.

“Do you see him yet?” She’s clicking around in the background, probably changing the screensaver on my computer. Again.

“You know how these guys are.” I turn to face the elevators, hoping to see Campbell as soon as he exits. “They don’t hurry unless they have to.”

“Maybe someone recognized him from the cover of Sports Illustrated ?”

“It’s possible.” I’ve picked up eight different guys in the year and a half since I’ve had my driver’s license. And I know better than to be irritated that this Campbell kid is taking his sweet time getting down the terminal. Like so many players before him, he’s probably basking in the high of his newfound—and likely short-lived—fame. Sad fact: Only sixty-six percent of top draft picks ever play in the Bigs.

Too many end up like my dad. Spend a season or two riding the bench for a major league team and a handful of years bouncing around the minors. Then—bam!—career over before they’re thirty. They have to pick up the pieces—shattered dreams, broken bodies, destroyed relationships. Some go back to school. Some coach. A few do what my dad did: invest in a small-town minor league baseball team.

“Campbell’s probably flirting with a flight attendant,” Mia says.

“Ew. He’s underage.”

“Wouldn’t stop me.”

I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me. Maybe she can hear that through the phone. “You’re underage.”

Another flood of people moves toward me, and I look for a salmon-colored polo. Or maybe lavender. Southern boys like Campbell have an odd addiction to pastel collared shirts. We haven’t had a player from Georgia in a while. Maybe those boys like polo shirts in baby blue.

Or light green.

Not his shirt. His face. Campbell is staggering along the terminal wall like he’s indulged in one too many tiny bottles of first-class vodka. Not that he’s old enough to order it, but when the phrase seventeen-year-old phenom is attached to your name, a lot of rules get ignored. Like laws.

Any optimism that he’s not like Hadley Pearson flickers and dies.

“He’s coming.”

“Is he pretty?” she squeals.

“He’s drunk. Gotta go fix this before anyone else notices.” I hang up before she can do anything but gasp. Pasting on a welcoming expression, I approach the man-child as he steadies himself on a concourse support beam. “Mr. Campbell?” Yep. Even though we’re the same age, I stick to the formalities. “I’m Ryan Russell from the Buckley Beavers, and your ride to the stadium. If we could grab your bags and get going.”

“Move.”

His sharpness shocks me. “Excuse—”

I don’t finish my question because his eyes widen like he’s expecting a fastball to the face. Then Sawyer Campbell, the future star of the Texas Rangers, pukes all over me.