Page 76 of Whoa There Cowboy
Neither of us says a word. The silence is thick, heavy with years of unspoken words, but the old tension is entirely gone. In the quiet space between us, a shared secret passes from father to son. He didn’t pull his hamstring. He didn’t tighten up. The old man faked the entire injury the exact moment he saw the scouts in the stands, intentionally stepping off the stage so I could have the spotlight all to myself. He gave me the game. He gave me my moment.
He takes a long sip of his drink, his face completely expressionless, though the very corner of his mouth twitches up in a barely perceptible signal.
I nod back, a simple, silent acknowledgment of the gift. The bridge between us just may finally, officially, be rebuilt.
TWENTY-SIX
CAMPBELL
ONE WEEK LATER
A cardboard cup of black coffee is the only thing keeping my hands from shaking. I lean my hip against the hood of my car, the metal warm beneath my jeans, and stare at the frosted glass door of the Mavericks’ front office.
Twenty minutes ago, Coach Shuster called Jake in for an unscheduled meeting. No context. No warning. Just a quick, tight nod that had Jake dropping his duffel bag on the pavement and following them down the concrete corridor after a tough game.
I may never sleep. I’ve guzzled down two of these things in the time he’s been in the back offices, and tonight’s game went into extras, so it’s closing in on ten o’clock. But the coffee machine might be the thing I miss most about this lobby, and I’ve never been good at sitting on idle hands.
I take a slow sip, my eyes locked on the brass handle of the door straight down the hall from me, waiting as the seconds stretch out. The hum of the cleaning crew’s vacuumbattles for center stage in my ears against the constant thump of my heartbeat. Then, the door doesn’t just open—it flies backward, hitting the interior rubber stopper with a loud, ringing crack.
Jake steps out, his hands over the bottom half of his face, his eyes red but clearly full of bliss.
He looks like he’s floating on air. His chest is pushed out, broad shoulders squared, eyes wide, glassy, and completely unfocused. It’s as if he’s trying to process a language he’s never heard before. Behind him in the doorway, Coach Shuster and Coach Davis stand shoulder-to-shoulder, both of them sporting massive, identical grins.
Jake stops dead in the middle of the hallway, his hands dropping when his gaze lands squarely on me.
“Jake?” I say, setting my coffee cup down on a nearby ledge, my heart hammering.
He doesn’t answer with words. He closes the distance between us in a dozen explosive strides. And before I can brace myself, his hands wrap around my waist and he swings me in circles, my feet nowhere near the ground.
“Campbell,” he says, my name coming out in a breathless pant, as if he just finished running a mile.
“Jake! Put me down, you’re going to pull your shoulder!” I laugh, my hands automatically flying to his chest, gripping the fabric of his Mavericks hoodie as the stadium spins around us. “Tell me! Say it out loud. I want to hear you say it so we can celebrate.”
He slides me down his body until my boots touch the concrete, but he doesn’t break our embrace. His hands stay locked on my hips as he looks down at me, his eyes blazing with a lightness I’ve never seen in them before.
“Arlington,” he says, the word rushing out of him like a password he’s been waiting to use his entire life. “Coach justgot the call. It’s happening. They’re calling me up. I’m going to the show. I leave for Texas in, like . . .” He glances at his watch, then back to me. “An hour.”
A rush of tears stings the corners of my eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face. The pure justice of it hits me like a hurricane. All the grueling bus rides, the cheap motels, the agonizing weeks on the bench, the burden of his father’s legacy—and the pain of not knowing him like he wanted to for years. Through it all, he did it. He earned it on his own, under his own name.
“I knew it,” I whisper, my voice breaking as I reach up, my palms framing the rough stubble on his jaw. “I told you. I knew your time was coming.”
“We have to move fast,” he says, his eyes blinking rapidly with little to no focus, his fingers tightening against my waist as if he’s afraid we’re going to wake from a dream. “I need to get to the apartment, pack whatever can fit in a backpack. I don’t think I even own a suitcase. Fuck, do I have a backpack? And what about you? When can you leave? How will I get you from the airport if I’m at the ballpark?—”
“Jake, look at me,” I interrupt softly. I lean into him, holding him steady with my body and my eyes. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll get there in time. This is what I planned for with Sarah. Launching our business with me living anywhere. As long as it’s with you.”
I slide my arms up around his neck, pulling him down until our foreheads touch.
“I’m on your team, Jake. Whatever it is. Wherever it is. Because I love you.”
Jake’s body goes rigid, and his head pulls back just enough for our eyes to meet. His faint smile is caught between surprise and satisfaction.
“Is it because I’m so good at doing media? Is that what made you fall in love with me?”
I blink twice and let out a sharp, singular laugh.
“Uh, no. I love you despite the way you handle the media,” I throw back.
His hand slips to the back of my head, and he wraps my hair around his palm, giving it a gentle tug. A playful smirk touches his lips.
