Stealing Home

IF WE’RE BEING FAIR—AND I’M NOT FEELING ANY SORT OF FAIR—the barf splatters at my feet, but something warm oozes down my shin. My stomach clenches, my throat burns, my eyes water. My body wants to return the favor. Then my brain kicks in.

Directly behind me is an oversize stainless-steel garbage can. Likely where Campbell was headed before I stepped into the line of fire.

He claps his hands over his mouth, but it’s too late for that. Much, much too late.

“I—” I stumble for words. I don’t know what to say. I’ve been in awkward situations before. I’ve covered for players when they’ve said stupid things to reporters. I picked up our mascot when he got knocked down in the middle of the town Christmas parade. And last year, I caught Pearson in a compromising position with our former ticket office manager. Still can’t bleach that image from my mind.

But I’ve got nothing for this.

“I … I’ll be right back,” I mumble.

The line for the women’s bathroom stretches into the baggage area, but the ladies all slide aside when they see—or smell—me coming. I snag a handful of paper towels and pump them full of foaming soap, thinking to start on my leg. But when I look in the mirror, I realize with a breath-stealing sense of horror that there is a glob of something pinkish on my shirt.

“It’s not that bad,” I say aloud, and begin scrubbing at my chest.

“Oh, bless your heart,” an elderly voice coos from behind me. “You get a touch airsick?”

“Something like that.” The white becomes translucent because that’s what happens when you get white T-shirts wet. And I can clearly see the lace at the top of my bra. And. And. And.

Stop. I take a deep breath. A bad idea considering the smell, but I still manage to pull myself together. Rinse hands. Tighten ponytail. Everything is going to be fine.

“Some of those kiosks sell shirts, you know.” Every syllable out of the helpful geriatric’s lips is slathered with Texas hospitality. Still doesn’t change the fact that I have to walk out of the bathroom and face the guy who speckled me with his barf.

“Yes.” I can’t forget my own upbringing. “Thank you, ma’am.”

I collect a few more towels and dash out of the bathroom, hoping to find my superstar still undiscovered. I don’t know exactly how the newspapers or any other source would get footage of Campbell’s Exorcist reenactment, but everyone in the world seems to be filming everything, every minute. Plenty of people watched him retch, but no one is standing close, holding out their phones.

Small miracles.

He’s slumped onto one of those hard plastic chairs closest to the garbage can, handfuls of dark hair trapped between his fingers.

“Here.” I offer up the paper towels.

“Thanks.” He wipes off the toes of his Nikes and the tiny bit of puke that managed to splash on his jeans. “I can’t believe …”

He lifts his head, and I take my first real look at Sawyer Campbell. Maybe it’s the blush-stained cheeks and the way his hair stands up all over or that his eyes are so wide and blue and apologetic, but he doesn’t look as perfectly airbrushed and muscle-bound and manly as the guy on the magazine covers. He looks young. Like a real, actual seventeen-year-old who barfed on a stranger in the airport.

My sympathy, however, is fleeting. Somehow, his fitted gray T-shirt—a V-neck instead of a polo—survived his puke-fit without a mark on it, and the smear on his distressed jeans will go unnoticed. Of course he’d go on some drinking binge and still be able to walk out of the airport without smelling vile. Life is just that fair.

“Can we get going?” I gesture to my soon-to-be-crunchy, barely-hiding-anything shirt.

His eyes drop to my chest, and color rushes up his face. Then my face heats to egg-frying temperature. I might as well have said, Feel free to check out my boobs.

“Oh. Yes.” He swallows a couple of times before standing. Instantly, the color in his cheeks fades to a nasty shade of gray that blends nicely with the wall behind him.

I grit my teeth. “I’ll get your stuff. Did you have anything besides your bat bag?”

“You don’t have to. I’m going to be okay.”

He doesn’t look okay. He looks awful.

“Sit.”

His face collapses into a frown, and he hunkers down in the chair. “I’ll bring the van around curbside.” I point to the bench outside the sliding doors. “Do you think you can make it that far without passing out, or …”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat like it’s dry. “Probably.”

Probably is going to have to be good enough.

I gather his bags—an enormous red duffel was the only other thing on the carousel besides his equipment bag—both labeled with his last name in permanent marker. With a grunt, I haul the monsters out to the van. The burning in my muscles ignites some inner reservoir of anger I’ve stored up against prima donna athletes and their ridiculous lifestyle choices.

Don’t get me wrong: there are usually only a handful of jerks. The majority of the guys are hardworking, decent people. But we can’t go an entire season without one highly talented, self-absorbed athlete who thinks he’s untouchable. Like Sawyer Campbell.

My cell phone rings as I sling open the van’s back door. I chuck Campbell’s bags inside, hoping they’re full of valuable electronics and Rolex watches, but they clunk like wood bats.

Too bad.

The words Office of the General Manager float across my screen, and a kitschy 1920s version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” fills the parking garage. I can’t ignore the call no matter how much I want to.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“Are you and Campbell on your way back?”

I wish. “Not quite yet.” Do I out Campbell now? I bite my bottom lip as I consider it. I think about the way his eyes looked when he apologized, and I pity him a little. He is young and probably dumb. No one said you had to be smart to be a good athlete. This time I’ll let it go with a warning. “We had a bit of a luggage issue.”

“But you have his bags now? You’ll be on your way soon?” My dad never sounds nervous, but there’s a clear undercurrent of urgency in his tone. He manages the Buckley Beavers like it’s a walk in the ballpark—that’s a business joke.

Tonight is Thirsty Thursday, and the half-price beer promo fills the stands with loud drunks. A great promo for weekday revenue, but we’re also hosting a huge party for the local Baptist ministry. Last time those groups mixed, somebody gave a sermon on the evils of overindulging in alcohol, and someone else got reminded to keep their judgments to themselves. To make sure everyone has a good time and wants to come back, we’ve got to make sure the groups stay seated on opposite sides of the ballpark. Add all of that to the pregame autograph signing, and a wasted athlete waiting curbside …

I wipe a trickle of sweat off my forehead. “We’re loading up now.”

“All right, Ry. Be safe.”

I fire up the old Beavermobile and cruise back to the terminal at a careful five over.

Campbell has made it to the bench under the awning, legs spread wide like he owns the whole seat. If he ever becomes something big, you can bet your bluebonnets that someone will slap a placard on that bench. All because his butt touched it once.

Sports are sort of a huge deal in Texas.

He stands as I roll to a stop in front of him, seeming a little more stable on his feet. I don’t give him credit for his power of observation, though. It’s hard to ignore a full-size van with a giant beaver face painted on the hood.

“Nice ride,” he says as he slides into the passenger seat and drops a backpack on the floor.

It doesn’t matter if he means it like a joke or a passing remark, because the smirk on his face is so condescending.

“You know what, Campbell? This is minor league baseball. We don’t have limo services to haul around drunk shortstops who probably won’t live up to their hype.” I shift the van into drive and stomp on the accelerator. His head snaps back with a satisfying thunk. “In the minors, everyone pulls their weight—the front office staff, the ground crew, and especially the players who want to stick around long enough to be promoted to Triple-A or above.”

I open the console minifridge installed between the seats. Mascot costumes are wickedly hot, and we’ve lost a couple of Beaver-attired staffers to heat exhaustion. I toss a bottle of water at him, which he manages to catch before it rebounds off his chest.

“Drink that. Get yourself right.” I shoot him my most venomous glare as I pull into traffic. “You’ve got hundreds of adoring kids who will be waiting at the park to meet a future all-star and not an alcoholic.”

“I’m not drunk.” His voice is low, his tone defensive.

“Whatever.”

“I don’t drink. I never have.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Traffic—surprise, surprise—grinds to a halt. The eighty-minute car ride from Bush Intercontinental Airport to the field will surely stretch into a painful eternity. The silence drapes between us like a sign on the centerfield fence, weighted at the corners so it won’t blow away easily.

“I think I have food poisoning,” he says, after we’ve been parked for a good five minutes.

I focus on the bumper of the truck in front of us, trying to keep my eyes from straying anywhere near the passenger seat. “It’s a good excuse. Make sure to use it if a reporter asks why you blew chunks all over the airport.”

“Because everyone who throws up is drunk, right?” His voice has a dry ring of sarcasm to it.

I roll my eyes at him. “I’m sure you have a better explanation.”

“I was starving when I woke up this morning and ate leftover chicken strips.” He grimaces like he’s remembering how they tasted on the return journey. “They’d been in the fridge for a few days.”

For all I know Campbell is a good liar—he wouldn’t have been the first guy to lie to me convincingly—but if he is telling the truth, I’ll feel bad about it later. “Sorry for the accusation.”

“I don’t blame you.” He gives a self-conscious half laugh. “I practically puked in your mouth.”

I try not to think about how many times more horrible that would have been. “Ugh. Can we please not talk about this anymore?”

“Yes. Good plan.” He drags a hand down his face like he’s tired, but from the corner of my eye I see him gearing up again. Like he can’t let it go. “I feel so bad. We really got off on the wrong foot.”

“You puked on my right one. So …”

His face breaks into this cheek-dimpling smile, and something in the back of my neck relaxes. He’s grateful that I’m teasing.

“Here.” He opens his backpack and pulls out a package of Wint-O-Green mints and a tightly rolled navy bundle. “This’ll probably be too big, but at least it won’t … you know … stink.” He’s offering me a lightweight T-shirt. Just looking at the clean material makes me itch to strip out of my nasty clothes.

“If you want to pull over and change, I won’t look.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I’ll even cover my eyes.”

There’s a little smirk at the corner of his mouth, which doesn’t make me feel any better. Still, I could climb over the seat and change in the back—that’s what the space is intended for anyway. Usually it’s used by our mascots. I take the material out of his hand. It’s uber-soft, one of those shirts that’s been washed a million and five times.

“Thanks,” I mumble and pull off the road.

I’m not sure what my dad will say when I show up wearing a different shirt than I left in. But at least I’ll be clean.

Well … cleaner.