Stealing Home

I DIDN’T SEE CAMPBELL AT ALL YESTERDAY. MIA DROVE HIM TO THE field. Ollie drove him back to Mia’s. It’s like we had some sort of unspoken agreement to pretend that the other person doesn’t exist. I’m not positive, but I think it’s partially because he’s not trying to stir up any more trouble with Pearson, and because today’s his first game back. It needs to be huge, proving that his injury hasn’t slowed him down at all.

Dad had already left for the office when I got home from my run. Weird, but not unheard of, so I pick him up a sausage kolache and some hash browns on my way to the stadium.

All the lights in the main office are off, except for Dad’s. His door is cracked open, and he’s sitting behind the dark wood desk that’s a lower version of mine. Piles of paper are spread across the surface—this is nothing new—but the look on his face is something I haven’t seen before. He’s rubbing his chin as he reads whatever is in the folder in front of him, and his skin is pale underneath his ballpark tan.

He looks scared or sick or both.

“Dad?” I say softly, peeking my head into the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes find mine, and he doesn’t say anything for a minute, like he’s really studying me. A slow, sad smile spreads across his face, and he waves at me to come in.

I drop the bags of breakfast on his desk, but he doesn’t even look at them.

“Are you happy, Ryan? Do you like working here?”

“What?”

“Do you feel like this business …” He lets the sentence stretch for a few seconds. “Has it stopped you from doing anything you’ve wanted? Like being in clubs at school or spending more time with the cross-country team?” His smirk is a forced thing. “Or having a boyfriend?”

Did he hear about the training room disaster? Did he wonder why Campbell was gone when he got home? I open my mouth to explain, but Dad gives a snort–laugh.

“Your mother says I’ve stolen your childhood. That I’m violating child labor laws. That you’re not experiencing high school like a normal kid should.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Anger makes my eyes burn. “I love the Buckley Beavers.”

“I know that. I’ve never questioned your dedication.” He swallows like he’s gagging down regrets. “But if you wanted to leave today and never look back, I wouldn’t be upset with you. Don’t keep working for the team out of loyalty to me.”

“Dad.” My voice is more watery than I intend it to be. “Would you be asking me these same questions if we owned a watermelon farm like the Campbells?”

He shakes his head. “That’s different.”

“But it’s not. I listened to you and Sawyer talk about what it’s like growing watermelons. It’s hot, miserable, backbreaking work. Some seasons are successful, and some are failures, but the Campbells have owned that farm for—”

“More than a hundred years,” he finishes for me.

“And they love it. If Sawyer wasn’t playing baseball, he’d be back in Georgia working for his family.” I lick my lips, suddenly nervous to voice my dreams out loud. Maybe I’ve picked up some of the players’ superstitions. “I’ve always wanted to follow in your footsteps. To run this team. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

Dad fidgets with the pen for a second, eyes focused somewhere beyond it. “Then if you’re absolutely positive—”

“Absolutely positive.”

“I’m glad I have you, Ry.”

I hurry around his desk and give him a half hug, cheek pressed against the top of his head. “You couldn’t do it without me.”

He laughs. “I really couldn’t.”

I DEVOUR A FOOTLONG AS A SACRIFICE TO THE GODS OF BASEBALL ON Campbell’s behalf, but they must not accept my offering. He strikes out twice, pops out, and walks.

We’d originally planned to meet up at Mia’s after the game and go over my presentation, but he texts me that he’s going to bed early. I can’t blame him.

The lights in the pool house snap off pretty soon after I get to Mia’s house, so I don’t check on him. I’m sure he’s beating himself up over his performance.

Mia and I work late, finding an argument for every possible reason my mom wants to sell the team—using the sound of the waterfall in the Grotto to cover our conversations. When I get home the TV is off, so I figure Dad has gone to bed. He knew I was at Mia’s and had no reason to worry.

But then I see a shape on the sectional that isn’t one of the throw pillows that Mom used to have littered around.

“Dad?” I whisper, edging closer. The front porch light throws a patch of brightness that illuminates the coffee table well enough to make out a small glass and a half-empty bottle of brandy. He’s had the bottle for as long as I can remember. The only time I’ve ever seen it out was the night Mom left.

“Hey, sweetie.” He looks over the back of the couch at me. “How was your night with Mia?”

“Good. We went swimming for a little while. It was nice out.”

He returns to his bottle and puts the cork back in the top, hammering it down with the bottom of his fist. “I’m glad. The Rodrigueses are good people.”

“They are.” I swallow hard, as if I’d swigged down a shot. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Just tired.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He turns halfway on the couch and puts his hand over mine. It’s big and warm, still callused from years of holding a baseball. “Nothing for you to worry about. We can talk more in the morning.”

That imaginary shot makes my eyes burn. I’m not sure what’s made my dad bring out the good stuff, but I’m guessing that it has something to do with Mom and the fight last night. I don’t blame him. We know a lot of people who drink too much to forget bad relationships. Actually, there are a lot who work for the team.

“If you’re really okay—”

“I’m fine, Ry.” He hurries to say, “Thank you.”

I lean over and give him a hug that’s half stranglehold. He laughs and pats my arms where they lie across his neck. “Get some sleep, okay?”

“I’ll head there soon.”

He doesn’t move as I walk away.

The green charge light of my laptop draws my attention as soon as I open my bedroom door. I’m exhausted and sunburned, but tomorrow is the day. I’m meeting my mom at ten a.m. at the stadium. The promise of a second meeting with Advanced Machining isn’t as strong as having a signed contract in hand. Is the potential of bringing them or Chestnut Oil on as sponsors going to be enough to convince her? Will the truth about what Black Keys has done to teams like the Beavers be enough to change her mind?

Sitting down at my desk, I open the file and search through it for any mistake, for any place I can make it stronger. I mouth the words I’ve scripted for myself over and over, until I don’t stutter over a single one.

This will work.

It has to.