Stealing Home

EVEN AT SEVEN A.M, IT’S HOT. LIKE, SO HOT I CAN ACTUALLY SEE heat rising from the asphalt as I hit the hill behind my house for the seventh time. I’m running fast, even though I’m exhausted. We left before the game ended but still didn’t get home from Arlington until after midnight. Instead of going to bed I logged all the information Campbell and I learned into an Excel file, and then looked for ways to make the Rangers’ sponsorship ideas work in Buckley. I stayed awake half the night analyzing everything we could do and the other half making lists of all the ways I could fail. What if I can’t convince any sponsors they want to back an events center at the ballpark? What if I manage to convince sponsors, but then my dad hates all of my ideas? What if my mom ignores all of my work and sells the team anyway?

Is there a competition for overthinking? Because I’m the champion.

The lack of sleep is really starting to take a toll though. I jog up the hill once more and head back to the house, coming home a half an hour earlier than usual. The house is so silent I can hear the cicadas buzzing in the trees outside. Dad’s still in bed. Campbell must be too.

My tank top is soaked with sweat. I use the hem, where there’s still a dry spot, to mop off my face, then drop it directly in the washer. I walk through the house like this all the time, but maybe I shouldn’t with Campbell staying here. My bikini’s smaller than what I’m wearing now, but I still feel like I have to sneak to my room. I ditch my shoes and socks in the kitchen and pad barefoot across the tile.

Still no noise.

As I turn in to my hallway, the bathroom door flies open, and out comes Campbell on one crutch.

I gasp and my hand flies to my chest. And then my brain registers what he’s wearing. Or not. Since he’s only got a white bathroom towel tied low around his hips.

Oh. My.

He’s frozen. I’m frozen. We’re standing in a dark hallway, half-dressed. Less than half. Staring at each other.

He takes in my sports bra, my shorts, and he swallows. The knob of his throat bobs as he looks, mouth open a little bit. And I see something in his expression I didn’t expect: want. Hunger.

Problem: I feel exactly the same way. My heart is galloping under my hand, racing toward options that I shouldn’t even consider.

We start speaking at the same time: “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“I thought you were still asleep.”

His eyes jump to the picture on the wall, but then drift back to me, falling down my body once more. “I’m sorry.” He blushes. “I should have taken my clothes.”

I’m still so hot from my run that he probably can’t tell that I’m flushed all the way to my hairline. “I’ll just …” I point to my door behind him.

The hallway has never felt smaller, especially when we slide past each other to get to our respective rooms. He smells amazing—clean, piney. Like freshly cut wood and soap. His hair is even darker when it’s wet, making his eyes look bluer. Water droplets cling to his shoulders, to his chest. One falls on my arm as he turns to pass me, and every muscle in my body clenches.

His door closes first, but mine follows a split second later. I lean against it, letting it support me as I puddle to the floor.

This is what “weak in the knees” means. I’m breathless, light-headed.

Very little of that has do with running hills.

Because I’m a chicken, I hide in my room, forcing myself to open my research and trying not to relive that moment in the hallway. But my brain won’t let it go, filling in the blanks of what might have happened had I stepped closer to him instead of away. If I’d brushed the water droplets from his shoulder. If his hands had found my waist. If my mouth had skimmed his.

No, brain! No.

All my mind power has to be devoted to the Beavers. I’ve got sponsors to find and a ballpark to save. Maybe it’s time I have a conversation with myself about the danger of distractions.

Distractions named Campbell.

WHEN MY PHONE BUZZES, I’M A LITTLE NERVOUS TO LOOK AT THE message. If it’s from Campbell, what am I supposed to say? Is it better to pretend nothing happened?

Luckily, the message is from Mia. She’s giving me the details of Sunday dinner. I eat with her family almost every week. I’m not really sure how it happened. There was no official invitation extended, no time set. She always texts me at some point on Sunday afternoon—unless we have a day game or a double-header—and tells me what her mom is making. Or, in today’s case, what her dad is grilling.

Dad’s got brisket on, she sends a little after ten.

And because I can’t help myself, I respond with Campbell looks great naked.

My phone rings immediately.

“How do you know that?” she shrieks before I even say hello. “Shhh!” I hiss back, walking to my bedroom door and peeking out into the hallway. His door is shut, but I don’t know if that means he’s in the living room with my dad or a few feet away. “He’s gonna hear you.”

“Is he there? In your room?” Her voice is a little rough, like she’s been sleeping. More than likely, Ms. Vivi dragged her out of bed to go to early mass, and Mia went back to bed as soon as she got home. “If you’re joking, I swear—”

“I’m not joking,” I say, stepping into my closet and shutting the door. Ridiculous? Yep. “I got home from my run right as he was coming out of the bathroom in a towel.”

“And?” she prompts.

“And nothing. That’s it.” The silence stretches for so long that I wonder if the call dropped. “Mia?”

“You are the worst. Here I was hoping that for once in your life you’d broken your stupid rules. But you were leading me on.”

I frown. “What’s wrong with my rules?”

“Everything. Nothing. They’re just restrictive.”

“I have them for reasons.”

“I know. But when God hands you the perfect boy, you’re supposed to say thank you and forget the rules. All of them.”

If she’s bringing up God, then she’s definitely been to church today. “For some reason I think God would disagree with you.”

Mia gives a fake cry that morphs into a laugh midway through. “Probably so.”

“Campbell and I have worked out an agreement—”

“Of course you have.”

She can’t see my eyeroll, but she knows me well enough to know I did it. I tell her everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, minus the awful “no distractions” conversation with Campbell, because there’s really only so much humiliation I can handle. “I emailed Advanced Machining and was able to swing a lunch meeting on Tuesday. I’m taking Campbell with me.” I kick the high heels I wore to prom into the far corner, so I have a place to sit. “The marketing director sounded excited in his email.”

“Hmpf.” Mia sounds less than enthused. “What’s Campbell doing for dinner today?” When I hesitate, she says, “You are bringing Campbell.” It’s a command, not a request.

“Why?” I tip my head against the wall and run my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair. “So you can stare at him the whole time?”

“Of course. Why else would I invite him? It’s not like my family is nice or anything.”

“Never.”

She laughs. “Dad says to be here by one. He thinks the new smoker will have the meat done by then.”

It takes a minute to get brave enough to text Campbell, but I figure that’s safer than knocking on the door to his room. Even if it is in my house. He might be on the phone with his family. He might be sleeping. He might not be dressed.

He responds right away. Are you sure you want me to come?

Thought you might want to get out of here, I say. And then: Also there will be brisket.

When do we leave?

The Rodrigueses always invite Dad to dinner too, but he’s only come a couple of times in the last year. I know Sundays are a big catch-up day for him—being the general manager means overseeing every aspect of the Beavers except coaching the players—and since Mom left he’s handled it all on his own. But maybe brisket will tempt him to leave work behind for a little while.

I exit my closet and tiptoe past Campbell’s bedroom door, but he doesn’t burst out in a towel again. Then I mentally punch myself for being a little disappointed.

Our home office has French doors, and I can see Dad through the glass. He’s got a fat stack of folders on his left, his laptop squared in front of him, and a beer on his right. Dad refuses to get bifocals—he says those are for old people—and is squinting at something on the screen.

I tap on the glass before I swing open the door. “I’m going to go to Mia’s for an early dinner. You coming today?”

He looks up like he’s surprised to see me. “Not today. Gotta clean up the books.”

“Don’t we have an accountant for that?”

Actually, I know we do. His name is Bill Miller, and he’s got the freakiest memory of anyone I’ve ever met. He handles our payroll and billing and can remember pretty much every number he’s ever seen. I bet he’d make an awesome calculus tutor.

“Bill could do this, but he’s expensive.” Dad takes a swig of his beer and sets it back down. “Your mom wanted some financial updates, and I figured I could run them for her and refresh my memory while I was at it.”

My skin prickles like I’ve opened up the stadium’s deep freezer. “Why does Mom need ‘financial updates’?”

Dad doesn’t answer me right away, measuring his words like he always does when he’s going to say something he thinks I won’t like. Which only makes me worry more. “She’s serious about selling the team, Ry. She needs the financials for that investment group.”

“And you’re helping her?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose and gives a tired sigh. “I don’t exactly have a choice. As part owner, she can request a full workup of sales, assets, you name it, at any time. I don’t want to help her, and I don’t want her to sell the team, but it’s less messy to give her the information she wants than for her to send her lawyers after the numbers.”

“Why is she like this?” I step all the way into the office and shut the glass doors behind me. Not that they do much to dampen the sound. My parents used to fight in here all the time.

“Working for the team was …” He pauses, and I can see him taking the edge off whatever he’d planned to say. Despite not being married to Mom anymore, Dad is so careful about everything he says about her. I used to think it was because he harbored a hope that she’d come back, but sometime last year I realized it’s more about the kind of person Dad is. “Owning the Beavers was never your mom’s dream. It was mine. Baseball was always what I wanted. It took me a long time to realize that despite all the work she put in to keeping the team running, it didn’t make her happy.”

“It doesn’t mean she has to ruin it for the rest of us.”

Dad shakes his head slowly, but I’m not sure what that means. Maybe he doesn’t have anything else to add.

“I guess you won’t make it to the Rodrigueses’ for brisket? Even for a few minutes?” I reach for the door handle, knowing the answer before he says it.

“Not today. But there are doughnuts in the kitchen.” He gives me a sad half grin, seeing the disappointment I’m not doing a good enough job hiding. “Tell them all hello and that I’ll try to make it next week.”

“Sure, Dad.” I know that when Dad says he’ll “try” that he’ll make a good effort. But he also didn’t promise, because he’s afraid he’ll break it.

I guess an effort will have to be good enough. It’s certainly more than Mom does.