Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance
Stealing Home: Chapter 11

BASEBALL HAS ALWAYS BEEN PART OF MY LIFE, AND YET I’VE never been to an MLB game. It sounds pitiful, but our minor league season always overlaps with the major league one. And on the rare family trips we’ve taken, hitting up ballparks in the off-season never seemed like a real break from work.

I’m not prepared for the way the stadium appears off the expressway, this mammoth redbrick building with glorious white stone archways and glistening windows. It steals my breath like a punch to the throat.

Campbell must see the awe on my face as we turn into the parking area. “Have you never been here before?”

“Never to any major league ballpark.”

“It’s a game day. Wanna stay and watch? I bet I can get tickets for free.”

I’m tempted—by so much more than staying for my first MLB game—but I know better. “I guess we’ll see how long your appointment takes.”

“You know they’re building a new stadium, right?” He turns and points south. “This one will only be open for a few more years. You should enjoy it before they tear it down.”

His words are said with such good intention—Have fun. Enjoy this.—but they drive a spike right through my heart. “If they tear down a building this beautiful, what will people with more money and big ideas do to Perry Park?”

Campbell’s happiness fades. “We’ll replace a way to convince your mom. Maybe the answers you need are here?”

He says “we” like he’s really invested in this, and I’m grateful enough that I squeeze his hand, just once, before I climb out of the van.

EVERYTHING IN THE FRONT OFFICE IS SLEEK AND STREAMLINED. Polished wood dominates the design, but the carpet, couches, paintings, and other decorations carry the team’s colors and logos. The receptionist desk is as tall as mine, and two professionally dressed women wearing headsets sit behind it. They alternate between directing calls and greeting guests. And they do it with amazing efficiency, switching between Spanish and English like they’ve been programmed to do so.

“Hi. Ryan Russell to see—”

“We’ve been expecting you.” The receptionist flashes beautiful white teeth behind perfectly red lips. I suddenly feel shabby in my khaki shorts, team-branded polo shirt, and high ponytail. “If you and Mr. Campbell will take a seat.” She points to the leather couches behind us.

Campbell has barely set his crutches down when a woman in a charcoal pencil skirt, black scoop-neck blouse, and four-inch-tall stilettos comes clicking down the hall. Her dark brown hair is parted down the middle and tied at the base of her neck in a super-sleek ponytail. She stops in front of us, exuding confidence like expensive perfume, and I realize she’s only a couple of years older than I am.

“Welcome to Ranger Stadium! I’m Amerie Pierce, and I’ll be showing y’all around today.” She picks up Sawyer’s crutches and offers them to him like he’s helpless. “Let’s get you up to the training area, Mr. Campbell, and then I can show Ms. Russell around the ballpark.”

She launches into what must be a memorized script as she guides us toward the elevator, describing important elements of the architecture and the memorabilia that hangs along the walls. She has a special key that gets her to floors restricted from fan entry, and the elevator zooms to an upper level.

“Do you need any further assistance, Mr. Campbell?” she says as the doors spring open to a world-class gym and training area. A couple of guys are working out, but I don’t want to gawk at the incredible facility or the players. More than likely, some of them came through Buckley at one point.

“I’m good.” Campbell seems a little overwhelmed by the poshness of the training room or the ballpark or the thought of meeting his future teammates, but adds a hasty “thank you.”

I almost follow Campbell out of the elevator, but realize Amerie hasn’t moved. “Text me when you’re done and we’ll figure out where to meet.”

He gives me that small, nervous smile that makes him look seventeen. “Will do.”

“Good luck.” I’m tempted to hug him, but I settle for the little wave that always makes me feel incredibly stupid.

The elevator doors close as Campbell crutches across the room, and once it drops a few feet Amerie turns to me, eyes wide. “Wow. He’s … wow.”

The crack in her professional façade throws me a little, and I give a half laugh.

She leans against the elevator rail and rocks back on her heels like it isn’t a gravity-defying feat. “You are crushing on him so hard.”

“What? No.” I shake my head and make an X with my hands. “I’m not. I’ve only known him for like two days and—”

“It’s okay. It happens, and I don’t blame you even though he’s off-limits.” She drops back onto the part of her shoes that are intended to be walked on. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t think so.” Because I’m pretty sure he would have mentioned that during our painful “business partnership” conversation.

“It’s always best to assume guys like him are with someone. He’s probably left some gorgeous girl back in Mississippi, or wherever, but hasn’t talked about her,” she says with a pinch of bitterness, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s speaking from personal experience. “It’ll give you another reason to keep your distance.”

I don’t need the reminder, but once she’s put the idea of Campbell having a girlfriend into my head, it sticks like brisket between my back teeth: small, irritating, and something I can’t quite ignore.

When we exit the elevator, she’s back to being super professional, returning to her perfect posture and scripted tour. Maybe everything that’s said in the elevator stays in the elevator or something.

The stadium is nothing short of amazing. The suites are a million times nicer than ours, with real leather chairs and huge flat-screen TVs. Some even have their own bars. I expected everything to be glamorous and over-the-top, and I’m not wrong. But it gives me such a sick feeling that I can barely enjoy all the behind-the-scenes things Amerie is showing me.

“So what do you do for the Beavers?” she asks politely as we walk down a long hallway behind the bullpen.

“Officially, game day operations.”

Her nose squishes up. “You mean you work for your dad?” She shrugs like she recognizes the way she said it might be offensive but doesn’t actually care. “I’m only an intern.”

“Really?” She seems too polished to be a temporary employee.

“Yep. So we’ve basically got the same job.”

I almost counter but then I realize that she’s not wrong. I get stuck with all the jobs no one else wants to do. I work more hours for less pay. And sometimes my job includes driving injured players to faraway stadiums on a game day.

I’m a glorified, permanent intern.

Every year in the spring, Dad always makes a big deal about inviting sponsors to take batting practice on the field. He pitches and the staff, players, and I shag balls. There are hot dogs and beer and cotton candy, and it’s an amazing time. Three or four years ago, one of our construction partners was out in left field with me, catching the balls that flew that way. He’s a huge dude—big enough to make Campbell look small—and we went after the same ball. I don’t know if he thought I wouldn’t get to it or if he couldn’t see me, but he ran over me. Knocked the wind right out of me and left me gasping for air on the warning track. I shook it off like it was nothing and hurried to the dugout, claiming I needed a drink. Really, I needed a place to cry alone.

Realizing that I don’t matter any more than an intern leaves me feeling like I’ve been laid out by that three-hundred-pound construction foreman all over again. I shake it off, replaceing a smile for Amerie, but maybe later I’ll replace someplace private to cry.

MY PHONE BUZZES WHEN WE LEAVE THE BULLPEN—APPARENTLY THE Rangers don’t have any problems with reception in their stadium—and it’s Campbell. He’s finished and wants to join us on the tour.

“Why don’t you tell him we’re done and to meet us back at the front office?” Amerie suggests.

I feel like I’ve seen all there is to see anyway, and we circle back through the building. Campbell is leaning on his crutches in front of this big architectural drawing of the new park.

“Ry, check this out.” He touches the glass, pointing out the plans for a glassed-in building that’s separate from the stadium. “The new ballpark is going to have an events center.”

Amerie jumps in, suddenly interested in telling us everything about it. “We’re adding an entire events staff—caterers, florists, decorators. It will be used for everything from business conferences to weddings.” She pauses and touches the glass-covered picture with her finger. “They’re still looking for a naming-rights sponsor for the additional buildings.”

“They can do that?” I ask, surprised.

“Sure. It’s not officially part of the ballpark. Some teams even have different names for their playing fields. Something like John Smith Events Center at Globe Life Park.”

“You’re getting money from selling the same space twice?” Campbell asks, forehead creased.

Amerie puts her fingers on his forearm. “No, it’s all contracted very carefully, so the sponsorship packages don’t overlap. Plus, the naming rights cover the cost of running the building until it turns a profit as an events center.”

Ideas are bouncing around in my head. New things I’ve never considered and seriously doubt my parents have. Not only could something like this make our park even more appealing, but it would be amazing for the community. More jobs. More opportunities to partner with local businesses.

No reason to sell to a conglomerate.

I’m ready to go, itching to do some research. “Thanks for the tour, Amerie. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too!”

We’re almost to the doors when she calls Campbell back.

“In case you’re ever in Arlington and replace that you need anything—tickets, recommendations for dinner—anything.” She offers him a business card, then pulls her long ponytail over her shoulder, smoothing its already shiny length. “My cell number is on the back.”

I start walking before I can see what happens next. Because it doesn’t matter to me.

Not at all.