Stealing Home
: Chapter 3

CAMPBELL’S SHIRT SMELLS LIKE HEAVEN AND FEELS LIKE BUTTER against my skin. I’ve had boyfriends, but I haven’t had one long enough to acquire any of his clothes. And I’m not sure I’m the type of girl to wear a boy’s clothes anyway.

But this T-shirt is perfect. Long enough to cover all but the hem of my shorts and comfy enough to forget I’ve got it on. Stealing it would be totally inappropriate, but maybe I could borrow it. For a long-ish time.

“Let’s try this again,” I say as I climb back into my seat. The neckline dips off my shoulder, and I tuck it under my seat belt to pin it in place. I offer him my hand to shake, all professional-like. “I’m Ryan Russell, assistant of game-day operations for the Buckley Beavers.”

He takes it, and a grin spreads onto his face. “Sawyer Campbell. Nice to meet ya.” His voice is like my favorite barbecue sauce, rich with southern flavor and as slow-moving as honey and molasses.

My job has put me in contact with some devastatingly good-looking men, but the better-looking they are, the worse they usually are to work with. I don’t want to pre-judge Campbell based on his appearance, but experience is tough to ignore. Mentally, I put him on the line between the Okay Guy and Horrible Human categories. Only time will tell which heading he belongs under.

“Let me give you the official breakdown of how things work with the Buckley Beavers.” I switch into tour guide mode, filling him in on housing assignments. “You can stay at the team’s motel or wait for a member of the booster club to volunteer a guest room.”

“Oh. I thought …” He finishes off his water bottle and crushes it into a tight wad. “Never mind.”

A first-round draft pick will have plenty of folks offering up their extra rooms or garage apartments. I get the sense that he’s a little bit uncomfortable with either choice, but if he’s worried about accommodations, he’s got enough money to rent an apartment or stay at a nicer hotel.

As we roll into Buckley’s outskirts, I point out our few meager landmarks, the good restaurants, and the new outlet malls. There’s one small movie theater with six screens that I never go to—the chairs are ancient. I’d need a can of Lysol just to sit down.

I don’t tell him that part.

During home stretches, the players have a lot of free time on their hands and put to use what little entertainment Buckley has to offer. I’d rather have Campbell at the movies or mall than at one of our two bars. No players arrested this summer, thank you very much.

His phone chirps, and he groans at whatever the notification has delivered. He looks out the window and then grimaces. “What’s a five-letter word that starts with Z?”

“What?”

“I’m playing a game with my brother.” He looks at me like this should clearly mean something.

It doesn’t. I don’t have time for stupid games. I barely have time to return text messages. The upside of him being a Scrabble nerd is that he’ll probably spend less time getting wasted. “Google it.”

“That’s cheating.”

“And asking for help isn’t?”

He tips his head in half agreement. “Zebra.” He turns his phone to me, and from the corner of my eye I see confetti fire.

“Wow,” I say without any enthusiasm. “You get a trophy for that?”

Campbell laughs like I’m funny and not offensive. “Sorry. You were telling me about Buckley.”

“Right.” I try to remember where I left off. “We also have a good library. The team does two story times there every month, one in English and one in Spanish.”

“That’s cool.”

Most players have a stint in short-season Class A baseball—it’s for the guys who were drafted in June after high school graduation or when their college seasons end—but the really promising athletes get to skip Class A all together, moving through the farm system to Class AA or Class AAA. They also don’t get initiated into the fabulous world of sponsorships, promotions, and community relations programs.

I take a deep breath before launching into my memorized spiel. “I’m not sure what the contract details are between you and the Rangers, but most members of the Beavers are required to participate in sponsor-related activities, attend autograph signings and press junkets.” I check to see if he’s already glazed over but replace him staring back at me with the oddest expression. “What?”

“How old are you?” He squints at me like I’m some sort of bug.

Ah. That question. “I’m seventeen, but the Beavers are a family business, so this is my fifth season working full-time for the team. I am qualified to do my job.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” He gives me a questioning eyebrow quirk. “You’re sort of … intense.”

Cannot count the number of times I’ve heard some variation of that. Relax, Ry. Take a breath, Ry. You’re no fun, Ry. Whatever. I’m the master of getting stuff done. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He holds up both hands defensively. “It’s not,” he corrects quickly. “I’m intense. Intense is good. It’s just that I don’t know many girls who are intense about baseball.”

“Baseball is my business.” The words come out snippy and defensive. I don’t mean them to, but the subject’s a little sensitive.

“Do you like your job?”

“I can’t imagine doing anything else.” And I hope I never have to. After college—and during the summers—I intend to come back and keep working at the ballpark, eventually taking over for my dad. General manager by twenty-two? That’s the plan. I’m going to be the youngest GM in the history of minor league baseball, and one of the few female GMs in the business.

“It’s cool to meet someone who loves baseball like I do,” Campbell says, his face lighting up like we’ve arrived on common ground. As we pull into the stadium parking lot, his face drops into a look of absolute awe, and I realize that maybe we have.

John M. Perry Park—Home of the Buckley Beavers—sits atop the city’s highest hill like a crown on a monarch’s head. It’s built in an older style, with brick walls and exposed girders, like Wrigley Field in Chicago, but with only two decks and a grassy hill in the outfield instead of bleachers.

It’s beautiful.

Larger-than-life banners of famous MLB players who’ve graced our field drape down the walls, and as I pull the van into a fenced-in side lot, a late-June breeze sends the images fluttering. A few cars speckle the enclosure, mostly food vendors and seasonal staffers. We’re still an hour early for team arrival, but the field manager and other coaches always have a pregame meeting in the lower level conference room. I’ll deliver Campbell to them and get back to work.

I jump out of the van and discreetly detach my shorts from the back of my sticky thighs. “Grab your stuff, and I’ll introduce you to Mac, our clubbie, and—”

Campbell doesn’t move. He stands outside the passenger door with his head tilted back to the pale blue sky. The goofiest grin I’ve ever seen stretches his face, like he’s some little kid I’ve dropped off at Disney World. “This is …”

He turns his full-wattage smile on me. It’s more potent than the self-conscious, the embarrassed, and the flirty smirks I’ve faced so far. My mouth wants to match his, to share some of the excitement he’s clearly feeling. But I’ve got so many things to do.

“I’ll play my first professional game at this stadium.” He speaks with a sort of quiet reverence.

My foot lifts to start tapping, but his wonder … I can’t ignore it, even though I want to. If today was my first day taking over the team, how would I feel?

Amazed. Grateful. Overwhelmed.

I swallow. “Do you want me to take your picture?”

“That would be great. My mom would love it. My family will—” He digs into his pocket and hands me an old iPhone with a cracked screen and then just stands there. In the parking lot. Like this will be a picture worth sending home.

Boys are idiots.

“Come on. I have a better idea.” I turn and stride off. I can give him three minutes. Three more minutes won’t kill my schedule completely. “I’ll take you to the main gates.”

Apparently he’s recovered from the barfing episode, because he springs forward like a puppy. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.

I take several pictures of him leaning against the gatepost, one with him draping his arm around the statue of Mr. Perry—the guy who donated most of the money to build the stadium—and one pointing to the posters on the walls.

Campbell is ridiculously photogenic. The dimples. The square jaw. The contrast of blue eyes against dark hair. I really want to hate him, but what kind of person can hate a puppy? Sure, they’re sort of stupid and sometimes throw up on your feet, but the bounding happiness? The big puppy eyes? The wagging? Sigh.

“We’re going to be late.”

I show him a secret passageway that snakes under the seats and connects to the left field ticket office. The door is heavy and a little corroded, so I give it a good shove. It pops open, and I trip over the body sprawled on the floor.