Stealing Home

I DON’T GO HOME. I NEED A NIGHT OFF. NOT FROM WORK, BUT FROM Campbell. From sharing a pizza. From debating whether or not Curt Schilling faked his ankle injury during the 2004 American League Championship. From Campbell’s proximity while we work on sponsorship presentations.

And even though I’m not great company, Mia does her best to keep my mind free of all things Campbell. She convinces her mom to make cookies, and then they Shark Tank me—somehow that’s become a verb—asking all the tough questions.

I’m one hundred percent confident that I can face Mr. Chestnut tomorrow without Campbell being there. Sure, his experience with recreational therapy is really compelling, but it’s not like he’s going to be around forever. And Mr. Chestnut is going to help fund the stadium’s addition because he wants to help his community, not because a first-round draft pick talks him into it.

Mia lends me a tank top and a pair of shorts to sleep in. And once I climb into her bed with all its perfect pillows, I fall asleep. It’s one of those dreamless sleeps that should be restful but is so heavy that you wake up feeling even more exhausted.

“Let me do your hair today,” Mia says when my alarm goes off at seven thirty a.m. She’s built a wall of pillows to block out the light streaming in from one of the windows that overlooks the Grotto.

“What’s wrong with a ponytail?” I say, thinking of Amerie’s perfectly parted, perfectly sleek hair. “A ponytail can look professional.”

Mia’s pillow blockade collapses onto her head, but when she lifts it, the expression on her face is so pained that I don’t even argue.

When I get out of the shower, she’s laid out a dress for me that will go with the shoes I wore over here last night. I’d picked out a great skirt and top, but this way I won’t have to go home. The knots in my shoulders release, knowing that I don’t have to see Campbell. I fully recognize that I am a wimp, but I’m still so grateful that Mia’s given me an out.

The sleeveless black dress is skimpier when stretched over her six extra inches of height, but perfectly appropriate on me. Somehow it manages to be formal without looking like something you might wear to a funeral.

Once my hair is done, she smiles at her handiwork. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror.

“You’ve got this.”

I do. I totally have this.

First the office, then to the lunch that will save the stadium and stop my mom from selling to the conglomerate.

THE OFFICE IS BUZZING WHEN I GET IN. WE’VE GOT A TEN A.M. all-hands-on-deck meeting, but everyone is in early, trying to catch up on the stuff they didn’t do while the team was out of town. Even though I’m on time, I feel like a slacker rolling in so late.

I peek my head into Dad’s office, letting him know that I’ve arrived. He’s on the phone but gives me a little wave. The proofs for the baseball cards are in, and they look amazing. This year we went with a nontraditional layout—sort of a futuristic theme with a digital-looking font. For as old-school as baseball cards are, they’re always one of our most successful promotions. And with Campbell’s first-round draft card in the stack, we’ll get a ton of orders from our online store to boost revenue.

I pick up my phone to text him a picture of his card, but stop myself. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else on the team, except maybe Ollie. I’ve really got to stop treating Campbell like he’s something special.

My phone rings. “Buckley Beavers, this is Ryan—”

“Ry, patch me through to your dad,” Red says. “It’s an emergency.”

Dad’s call light is still on, but I buzz him anyway. Five seconds later he’s marching out of his office and waving for me to follow.

I rush after him, taking the stairs two at a time—which is way harder in heels than in tennis shoes—down to the training room.

“What happened?” I hear Dad say as he pushes through the door.

Campbell is sitting on the vinyl table, elbows on knees, head in hands, blood on his sock.

My stomach rucks into a ball and wedges right under my heart. “What happened?” I echo.

Campbell looks up. And his face—it’s distressed, heartbroken. Bereft.

“I stepped backwards off the machine. I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t even feel it.” He jams his fingers into his hair, not even trying to hide his frustration.

Red pats Campbell’s shoulder. “One of his stitches pulled through the skin. I already called the training office at Arlington and they want him there as soon as possible.”

Dad turns to me. “How much gas is in the Beavermobile?”

“I—I can’t take him.” Now my stomach is in my throat. I can’t tell my dad about my lunch meeting with Mr. Chestnut. Even though his company doesn’t sponsor the team, every major business in our town is assigned to a member of our sales staff. I’m not trying to convince him to buy ads or promo space, but that doesn’t change the technicalities. I’m poaching this business off a member of our staff. It’s a fireable offense. Dad should fire me. And since I don’t even have anything to show for my efforts, I wouldn’t exactly blame him. “Not today, Dad. Please.”

Not today. Any day but today. I’ve worked too hard for this.

“I’ll take a cab,” Campbell offers without looking up. “Or an Uber.”

“We don’t have cabs in Buckley, and no Uber driver is going to take you all the way to Arlington.” My dad’s voice is terse, but I have a feeling he’s more irritated at me than anyone else.

I turn to Red. “Can you take him?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a game day.”

“What’s the big deal, Ryan?” Dad is looking at me like I’ve grown a third eye. “Mia can handle promotions. She’s done it before. And if you hurry, you can be back by game time.”

“Dad …” I look from Campbell to my father and back. “There has to be someone else who can drive him. Steve, maybe?”

And for once in my life, my dad reads my body language or notices my dress, or the effort Mia put into my hair. His eyes narrow, and then he looks at Campbell. “Is there something going on here I should know about?”

“No,” Campbell and I answer simultaneously. We might as well have declared our guilt. A flush starts to climb up Dad’s neck—fun to know where that bit of my genetics comes from—and I rush to give him any other explanation.

“I was going to have lunch this afternoon. With a friend,” I finish, sounding exactly like I’m hiding something. “I’ll have to reschedule.”

Campbell grimaces and I don’t know if it’s because he’s in pain or because he knows how huge of a deal this is.

I manage a weak smile. Dad’s expression doesn’t soften.

“I’ll get the van.” And I hurry for the door before Dad can say anything else.

I CALL MR. CHESTNUT ON MY WAY TO THE PARKING LOT. HE IS pretty understanding, given the circumstances, and agrees we can reschedule for another day in the future.

In the future. Those three words feel like a death sentence. Mom is coming with the people from the conglomerate in two days. There’s no way I can get enough backing to support the events center in time. Not without Chestnut Oil Products.

I hang up as I stop outside the stadium’s door, where Campbell crutches out, ankle wrapped in gauze again. He shoves his crutches into the van and slams the door hard enough that the sound hurts my ears.

I don’t say anything, but I can feel the pressure building, between us, inside each of us. We’re practically combustible.

We make it all the way through Buckley and onto the freeway before either of us speaks.

“Say it,” he says, eyes focused on his hands.

“Say what?”

“I told you so.” His long fingers pick at a callus on his opposite palm.

I don’t say anything. I’m afraid if I start talking then I’ll burst into tears. This sucks for both of us, I recognize that. But my empathy for Campbell and his situation doesn’t change the worry and fear I have for my own.

He shoots me a quick glance, then focuses out the window. “I’d feel better if you’d yell at me.”

“I’m not really in the mood to make you feel better.” It’s such a witchy thing to say, but it hits the mark.

Campbell tips his head against the window and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

Me too, I think, but I keep it inside.

I’m not sure if Campbell falls asleep, but he doesn’t move for the rest of the drive.

Three hours alone with my thoughts is not a pleasant place.

INSTEAD OF GOING TO THE TRAINING FACILITY, WE’RE SENT TO THE orthopedic surgeon’s private practice in a medical complex. His office has stone tile floors—which seem a little dangerous considering a lot of people come here on crutches—and an indoor waterfall. The chairs and couches are all large and leather, nearly swallowing me in their plush cushions.

Campbell takes the seat next to me, putting the crutches between us like a buffer.

He doesn’t need to protect himself from me. I’ve had three hours to overthink everything, hate him, hate myself, forgive his stupidity, hate myself some more for not being kinder. There’s a part of me that wants to stay mad at him, but I can’t. He’s so darn remorseful.

“Does it hurt?” I ask as he props his bad ankle on top of his knee and pokes at the gauze.

“Not like it did when it first happened.” He fidgets with the screw on his crutches, loosening it, tightening it. It scratches with every turn, and even over the sound of the receptionists’ soft discussion, it grates on my nerves.

“Did you call your mom?” Knowing their relationship I can’t imagine she wouldn’t have called to check on him a half a dozen times.

“No,” he says, tightening the screw. “I didn’t want to worry her until I knew whether or not there was something to worry about.” Loosens screw.

“What about your agent?”

Tightens screw. “If someone else hasn’t called him already, then I will later.”

When he’s halfway through spinning the screw the other direction, I slap my hand over his. I did it to stop his nervous fidgeting, but then he winds his fingers through mine. The contact sends a shock up my arm and into my chest, but I don’t pull away from him.

“Ryan,” he says, without looking up at me. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s for more than making an annoying noise. It’s an apology for everything. I squeeze his hand in response.

“You think the Yankees are going to get the wild card?” I ask, tossing out a subject I know we’ll be safe discussing.

“No way,” he says, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand. “They don’t have the pitching to get into the playoffs.”

We stay that way, hands interlocked, until the nurse calls his name.

He looks back at me once as he reaches the door that separates the exam rooms from the waiting area. He’s nervous. So am I, but I give him the dorkiest thumbs-up and he looks a little less grim.

Campbell comes from a churchgoing family. Mia, too. My family never had time for any religion other than baseball, but as Sawyer disappears behind the door, I close my eyes and pray.

Ten minutes into the appointment, Mia sends me a text. Campbell’s fidgets must have been contagious, because I use her message as an excuse to go out to the lobby and pace while I respond. My shoes click on the stone floor, reverberating all the way to the vaulted ceiling.

Dash for Cash after the first. Hot dog cannon after second. Don’t forget to put the flowers in the fridge for the Green Thumb Giveaway. I text Mia the rundown of the night’s promotions, not because she doesn’t know them, but because I need something to do. To shift my mind from the nervous, anxious energy I can’t shake.

A hand falls on my shoulder.

I gasp and turn, almost bumping into Campbell.

He’s grinning, the giant face-dimpling smile that makes my heart skid to a stop. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

“Liar.”

And then I realize he’s standing next to me on both feet.

“What—”

“It was one stitch.” He turns his foot to show me the butterfly bandage on his ankle. “Otherwise it’s completely closed up.”

“So … you’re okay.” My heart remembers to do its job and races to catch up with the missed beats.

“I can work out tomorrow and be back on the field the day after.”

“Oh my gosh, Campbell! That’s amazing.”

And then he’s pulling me in close, crushing me against him, telling me about how the doctor said he was shocked it had healed so well.

When Campbell releases me, I refuse to let myself feel guilty. This one time that hug was totally appropriate. If our team had won the championship there would have been all sorts of hugging and celebrating. This was basically the same thing.

He holds the door open for me as we leave the building. “Do you think Mr. Chestnut would be able to meet us for dinner?”

THE RIDE BACK TO BUCKLEY IS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM THE ride to Arlington. Campbell is bouncing around the Beavermobile—probably hyped-up on the energy drinks we nabbed during our pit stop at the Bucc-ees gas station—talking on FaceTime to his mom and brother and singing along to some ridiculous country song that he loves.

I’m so happy he’s okay, but it doesn’t stop that deep, rumbling fear in my gut. I smile. I talk to his mom while I drive. I turn up the radio. But it’s all surface. I’m not going to ruin his high with my problems today.

We make great time getting to the stadium. As we pull into the parking lot, Campbell gets a text.

“Is it your mom again?”

“No,” he shakes his head, eyebrows pulled together as he reads whatever is on his phone. “It’s my agent.”

That sandwich I ate for lunch grows thorns. “Is everything okay?”

Campbell nods, and his face breaks into its full-wattage grin. “He’s on board to help us launch the camp. And he’s got some ideas that might help us bring on some other sponsors.”

“What?” I say the word on a surprised exhale.

Most of the lights in the stadium tunnels are off, leaving only a dim glow from the yellow security globes attached to the support columns. Campbell tilts his phone toward me so that I can see the details, our heads pressed together as we walk toward the training room. “I emailed him last night. He’ll have his assistant contact us with more info.”

Last night. After I abandoned him in the weight room. After our argument. After I spent the day hiding at Mia’s, trying to find a way to not be attracted to him.

“I can’t believe you did this for me.”

He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side, half-hug style. “I promised to help.”

With every word he says, I’m drawn to him, hooked like a fish at the little pond Dad used to take me to when I was a kid. I let myself lean in to Campbell a little, and his other arm falls around me. It would be so easy for this to turn into something else, to come up on my toes and drape my arms around his neck, to let my lips brush against the side of his jaw. I want to see him look at me the way he did that night we were alone in the kitchen. I want. I want. I want.

I can’t.

Dad’s suspicion before we left the training room today, Amerie’s assumption that I was already crushing on him, and Hadley Pearson’s comments at Rudy’s. If anyone added up that evidence—even though it’s all circumstantial—it would be impossible to ignore.

Instead, I say “Thank you” against his chest, hoping he can hear the sincerity in my voice.

Campbell drops a kiss to the top of my head and my whole body melts.

And then I hear a laugh.

Hadley Pearson is standing in the open training room door, attaching one of those long elastic bands they use to stretch a sore shoulder to the doorknob. And behind him is half of the team, all getting ankles and wrists taped or injuries treated. Every one of them looks up as Campbell and I break apart.

“I’ll see you later,” Sawyer says, but it’s not soft enough.

“I’m sure you will.” Pearson gives a laugh that sounds like a cackle.

A couple of the guys laugh along, and I see the exchanged looks and raised eyebrows. But it’s Ollie’s face that kills me. That disappointed stare he wore that day at Rudy’s is nothing compared to the shock on his face. If there weren’t rumors before, there are now.

I paste on my distant-but-polite smile, ignoring the way my chest caves under the weight of my embarrassment. “Let me know if you need a ride to your next appointment and I’ll arrange it.”

Campbell nods, and I back away, letting the door swing shut.

“You hear that?” Pearson yells, looking at me through the narrow glass window that flanks the door. “She’ll arrange for his next ride.”

I give him an eyeroll through the all-glass door and turn to go, glad I can’t hear whatever else he’s saying, but a dull thump draws my attention. Pearson’s back is pressed against the window. Campbell’s got his forearm wedged under Pearson’s chin, and I don’t know what he’s saying, but it’s coming through clenched teeth.

Red is already across the room, eyes wide with shock, hands on the back of Campbell’s shirt. Campbell releases Pearson and shakes off Red. Our eyes meet for a second, but I hurry away, pretending I didn’t see anything at all.