Page 2 of Whoa There Cowboy
I slip back in my truck, then close the driver’s door behind me and check my mirrors to make sure none of the other animals have wandered in my path. I’m about to peel out of this place when I catch my father jogging toward me, holding up a finger.
I let out a heavy sigh and roll the window down.
“What?” I’m short with him. He’s lucky I speak.
My father’s mouth pulls into a tight line, and I recognize the expression because it’s the same one my face dons when I’m frustrated. His brow furrows like mine does, too. I hate it.
“Jake, I hope you know I’ll do everything I can to not be a distraction for you. I know how much this season means to you. But if I can help?—”
I laugh out once. And hard.
“You wanna help.” The words tumble out of my mouth with an incredulous chuckle.
“I do.”
I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep my stare out the windshield for a few quiet seconds. It’s not that I’m mentally sorting through what to say. It’s that I’m weighing the worth of punching him in the nose right now. I doubt he’d tell anyone what caused his face to be all busted. I’d get a free shot. But I don’t want anything for free. And that’s it, really—I don’t want a thing. Not from him, at least.
“See ya at practice, McKinney,” I spit out, rolling up my window as my tires spin out and I speed out of his driveway.
My pulse is racing as I mutter to myself during the short drive to the ballpark. I have the same pretend arguments with him in my head that I always do. I say all of the shit I’ve been holding on to for years, questions about why he walked out on Mom when he knew I was in the picture. Thing about these talks, though, is they’re always one-sided. I don’t make up words for him to say in return. It’s because no matter what he has to say, it won’t be enough. I don’t even want to hear it.
I skid into the corner spot in the player’s lot and glance around to make sure nobody watched me come in hot. I already have a reputation for being a bit of a hothead. I don’t need to lend more proof to it. Not that being a hothead is the only reason I haven’t gotten the call up yet. I know my weaknesses as a player. My bat is less than average. I’m slow. And as my mom already reminded me this morning, a positive outlook isn’t exactly something I bring with me into the clubhouse. But my arm is a cannon. Just like Roddy’s. If I could just get a shot behind the plate for enough games to prove it, my pop time and caught stealing percentage would be enough to at least open the door. And I’ve been working my ass off to improve the rest of it.
This is the first year I’ve been given an actual contract.I’m usually non-tendered before I get a shot at proving my worth, so while I may be a negative asshole most of the time, there’s a bit of a fire in my belly that this year might just be the one for me. And if not, well then . . . I wasn’t exactly joking about quitting in my conversation with Mom this morning.
I’m early on purpose. I know that my father and the more seasoned guys won’t roll in for another hour yet, and I like having time here on my own, without his shadow looming so damn close. But also, I’m trying to show off the effort I’m willing to put in. Usually, it’s just the pitchers out here earning brownie points. But I figure they need someone to catch for them, and I need all the face time with the coaching staff I can get.
I let out a heavy breath, abandoning the weight of my morning run-in with my dad as I exit the driver’s side. I snag my gear bag from the truck bed, thankful that Willie 2. 0 didn’t chew the straps off during his short ride. I sling the hefty bag over my shoulder and push my sunglasses down my head and the bridge of my nose.
That’s when I spot her.
Hair the color of honey streams down her back in waves, and the fitted white blouse tucked into the snug black skirt that stops at her knees hugs her curves like glaze on a piece of pottery. I’ve seen her around the complex the last few days. Campbell Hines. I only know her name because I overheard her leaving a message for someone when she walked by the bullpen the other day. I think she’s the new marketing rep. She has that PR polish about her. And I can’t deny that she’s good for our image. Hell, with a body like that, she can make anything look good—even a Triple-A club squeezed between a dying ranch town and a college hub.
She’s pacing near the front offices, her phone pressed to her ear. She’s on that thing a lot. I drop my gaze as I close in on her, not wanting to appear like I’m ogling or anything. Even if I am.
“I hear what you’re saying, Skip, but what I’m telling you is I’ll get you a lead story. This place is so exciting right now. The club is on the brink of a killer season, and the talent coming through here . . .” Her lashes flit about a second before her green eyes meet mine. Her lip inches up on one side, the glossy red color taunting me like one of those apples inSnow White.
“Hi,” she mouths through her smile.
“Mornin’,” I say with a nod. I’m still dressed for ranch work, my boots dirty from the barn and my forehead damp with sweat. My hair is mushed under my Stetson. I feel burlier than normal, like a bear trying to maneuver his way into an office. But I manage to hold open the glass door for the goddess giving hell to whomever is on the other end of that phone call, and when she whispers “Thank you” as she passes me, I swear I’m hit with a rush of dopamine and citrus blossoms all at once.
“Got it, Skip. I’ll deliver. Thank you,” she says, ending her call where the hallway splits in two directions—left for players and right for the money folks.
“Thank you, by the way,” she says, spinning to face me before we part ways. My heart speeds up, and I realize as her hand juts toward me that my palms are suddenly sweating. I run my hand along my thigh and take her slender palm in mine. She gives me a tough shake, and it makes me smirk.
“What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t hold a door open for a beautiful woman?” I say, my eyes squinting withmy smile. I think my fucking cheeks are actually hot. What the hell is happening?
She leans into me during our shake, then whispers, “You’d be a real asshole.”
I chuckle and nod as our grips release.
“Well, I might be that already.” I figure I might as well lead with the shit she’ll figure out on her own soon enough.
“I’m Campbell,” she says.
I nod and smile.
“Yeah, I know your name. You stand out around here. The last marketing rep was, well, in his sixties. And let’s just say his jeans hung a little too low on his waist.”
