Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance
Stealing Home: Chapter 8

THE STADIUM LIGHTS ARE OFF, BUT THE SPOTLIGHTS FROM THE Christian concert throw bright beams over the walls. Music pours into the parking lot, where I leave the Beavermobile. The bass thumps in time with my heart as I break into a jog. Dad’s last message said he’d be in the training room, but he hasn’t answered my calls. The lack of cell service under the stadium has always been a pain, but this is the first time it’s given me a reason to panic.

Dad’s standing inside the glass door, arms folded across his chest, and I take a relieved breath. I didn’t know what to expect, but my mind conjured up a dozen scenarios. Most of them stupid. Dad wouldn’t have been texting and calling me if he’d had a heart attack or broken his neck falling down the stadium stairs, but those were my first thoughts.

When I step inside, I don’t notice the training room’s ever-present stink. Directly across from the door, Campbell is sprawled on his stomach on one of the pleather-covered training tables. Blood drips off his leg in a steady stream and plinks on the cement.

Our field manager, Duke Kartchner, stands to one side of the table, talking to someone on the ancient landline. The curly phone cord is pulled taut, stretching from Red’s office between the training area and the gym. Duke is sort of a slow-moving man—round belly and a lip full of tobacco—and in the five years he’s been assigned to the Beavers, I’ve never heard him speak with such concern.

Ollie’s leaning against one of the other tables, hat backwards, arms folded, frowning while a glove-wearing, scissor-wielding Red snips off Campbell’s sock.

“It’s not that bad,” Campbell says, voice muted as he speaks into his folded arms.

I don’t know him that well, but the lie is clear. The muscles in his back stand out through the material of his thin workout shirt, and his hands are clenched into fists.

Whatever happened to his ankle, it hurts.

“Dad?”

He slides to the side, then drapes an arm over my shoulders and kisses the top of my head brusquely. “Thanks for coming so fast.”

“Sure.” I look between Dad and Campbell. “Why do you need me?”

“It’s just a cut.” Campbell lifts his head, and his face is pale. “I only came in here for a Band-Aid. Can’t you slap some tape on it?”

“Quiet.” Red peels back the sock’s two halves. “Be still.”

“Oh, no,” Duke says, more to himself than to the person on the phone. “It looks like raw hamburger.”

Ollie makes a face like a cockroach crawled across his dinner and turns away, but Dad steps forward, absorbed in the gory sight. “The EMTs are still here for the concert. Do we need the ambulance?”

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing. I don’t need an ambulance.” Campbell’s laugh is forced. “Come on, Mr. Russell. You know we get worse injuries on the farm.”

“EMTs can’t do anything for this, and he’s not going to bleed to death.” Red looks up and catches my eyes over his bifocals. “Go wash your hands and help me, Ry.”

Everyone turns to look, and I wish that I would have taken off my swimsuit instead of throwing my shirt and shorts over the top. My butt is wet, and I’m sure there are boob circles from the padding in my bikini top.

“I—”

“Don’t dither,” Red snaps. “You took sports medicine. I helped you with your homework. We’re making a compress. You’re going to glove up and apply pressure. Not difficult.”

I snap into action because that’s what I do best, and replace myself wearing latex gloves and looking into Sawyer Campbell’s body. A gash a half-inch wide and two inches long cuts clean across his Achilles tendon.

“What happened?” I ask as I accept a roll of gauze from Red. He puts a pad across the gaping hole.

“It was an accident,” Campbell answers around gritted teeth.

“He convinced me to stay late and hit a couple buckets of balls,” Ollie says, facing me now that Campbell’s wound is covered. “You know how the doors to the batting cages automatically lock when they swing shut? My arms were full, so Campbell stuck out his foot to stop the door and …”

Ollie finishes the sentence with a shrug. I can see for myself what happened. The doors to the batting cages, like the rest of the doors in the stadium, are made of heavy-gauge steel. They’re supposed to be break-in resistant, fireproof, tornado-proof, and apparently foot-proof.

“The edges of those doors are sharp.” Red signals for me to slide my fingers out of the way so he can tape down the gauze. “At least it’s a clean cut. Nothing a dozen stitches won’t take care of.”

Duke turns the mouthpiece of the phone upward. “We have to take him to the ER. The team orthopedic will have to look at it.”

“A surgeon?” Campbell’s voice squeaks a little.

“For caution’s sake, son.” Red strips off his gloves. “The organization has to look after its investment.”

Any color left in Campbell’s face drains away. It’s a shade I recognize, and I look for the closest trash can.

“Now, don’t you worry.” The old man’s tone is gentler than I’m used to hearing. “I’ll grab you some crutches. Ollie, you and Ryan get him loaded into the van.”

“I’ll drive.” Dad mimes for me to hand over the keys. “We can call your mom and let her know what’s going on.”

Campbell doesn’t really need any help getting into the Beavermobile. He seems a little pissed off as he hefts himself over the bumper and onto the bench seat. Ollie hands up the crutches and shuts the door.

I pull an ugly face at Ollie. “This should be fun.”

He gives a tired-sounding laugh. “Keep me posted?”

“If you want.”

“I do.” He takes off his hat, smooths back his dark hair, and puts it back on his head. “I feel a little responsible for the kid.”

“First of all, he’s not a kid. He’s the same age I am. And second, no one thinks you’re responsible for anything.”

“Nope.” He gives me a gentle push toward the passenger-side door. “Everyone expects you to be the responsible one.”

THE HOSPITAL’S WAITING ROOM IS QUIETER THAN I EXPECTED. Besides one older couple, some fake potted plants, and a Wheel of Fortune rerun on mute, I’ve got the place to myself.

“He’s asking for you.”

I jump, realizing the voice is directed at me, and look up from my phone and into a nurse’s wide grin. I guess those funky hospital shoes make her extra stealthy, because she didn’t make any noise until she was right in front of me. “Excuse me?” I ask, blinking my gritty eyes.

“That sweet boy, Sawyer, says he’d like you to come back and sit with him for a few minutes.” She winks at me. “I know you’re not family, but I’ll overlook it tonight, seeing as you brought him in and he’s got no one else.”

My dad helped get Campbell all arranged and has been outside ever since. I can see him pacing in front of the building. He’s been on his phone the whole time. With Campbell’s mom, Brenda, and then the head office, and the surgeon’s office.

I tighten my still-wet ponytail and follow the nurse toward the giant ER doors. They glide open, bringing with them the hospital smell—chicken soup and disinfectant. She leads me to a room with a curtain door, but before she can fling it aside, I grab her wrist.

“He’s still dressed, right?” Visions of Campbell in an open-backed gown flash across my mind. It’s not quite as pleasant as you’d imagine.

The nurse gives a belly laugh that Campbell is certain to hear through the partition. “Honey, his injury is on his ankle. We didn’t strip him down for that.”

She nods for me to enter, and I push beyond the curtain. Campbell’s lying on his stomach, big body filling the entire bed, feet dangling off the edge, and shoulders wedged between the roll-off bars. They haven’t touched Red’s compression wrap, but his other sock is missing. He’s tucked a pillow under his chest to prop himself up, and his head is turned so the phone is balancing on his face.

“Hi,” I whisper, and make some sort of circular motion with my hand.

“It’s my mom,” he mouths, then rolls his eyes. “Do not fly out here. It’s too expensive and it’ll make Dad mad.”

His signing bonus had to be several million dollars. How much could one ticket set him back? There’s a chair close to the bed, but I don’t feel comfortable walking in and sitting down. “I’ll go.”

“Please don’t.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or his mom, so I hover against the wall.

“Ryan’s here. You’ll listen to her.” He holds the phone out toward me. “Tell her I’m okay.”

I back away from his phone like it’s venomous. “I don’t know that you’re okay, and I’m not lying to your mom.”

He covers the phone with his hand. “Just tell her the team will take care of me.”

“No.” My eyes narrow. “Is that why you called me back here?”

“Please, Ryan. It’s the middle of the watermelon harvest, my dad needs my mom’s help, and I’m not there this year to do my share of the work.” He’s pleading, eyes wide and bright. “Please.”

I hesitate before taking the phone. It’s warm from his touch, and a streak of dirt smears the heavy case. “Hello, Mrs. Campbell!” My voice is too loud in the small space, and I clear my throat nervously.

“This must be Ryan! You sweet girl. I’m sorry my son has got you out so late. I’m sure you’d rather be sleeping. I’m so, so grateful he’s got such good folks to help him out.”

I don’t know Brenda Campbell. Maybe she’s an awesome actress or she’s polite on the surface. But her voice is like a hug, wrapping around you and welcoming you into her family. “I’m happy to help, ma’am.”

“My son, bless his heart, is trying to convince me that he’s going to be fine. But I’m his mother. I know him.” Her tone is full of worry, and the last word quivers a little. “He tends to ignore injuries because he and his dad think there is some silly sort of honor in never admitting they’re in pain. It’s simple bullheadedness, if you ask me.”

“Tell her I’m fine.” Campbell pulls a teeth-gritting face he must think will coerce me. Ha.

“Well, Mrs. Campbell, I’ll be honest with you …”

“Please don’t,” he mumbles into the pillow.

“His ankle looks like it’s been through a shredder.”

“Gah,” Campbell groans, and drops his fist onto the mattress hard enough that it makes the bed shake.

“But our trainer is an old family friend. I’ve known him since I was a little girl, and Red promised that if Campbell was careful and stayed off it for a week or so, he’d be fine.”

Mrs. Campbell sighs into the phone. “That’s what Sawyer said. But he’s not good at staying down. It will take a lot of babysitting to make him stay on crutches.”

“I can think of a few million reasons he’ll stay on those crutches, ma’am.”

She laughs at my boldness, and I continue. “I haven’t known Camp—er, Sawyer—for very long, but I don’t think he’s stupid.” I give him my dirtiest look, which only seems to amuse him. “He’s going to want to get back to the field as soon as possible, but he knows and Red knows and the head office knows that he’ll need time to fully recover before he tries to walk on that foot.” She sighs. “Forgive me, Ryan, but he’s my baby. Big as he is, he’ll always be my baby and I can’t help but worry. He pushes himself so hard. Being injured gnaws at him.”

I can only walk three steps before I have to turn and start back in the opposite direction. Campbell’s eyes follow me as I pace. Ignoring him doesn’t work, and there’s something about knowing he’s watching me that makes goosebumps rise along my arms.

“I totally understand, ma’am, and I promise if something happens—” The phone beeps in my ear, and I check the screen. Someone named Jay Street is calling. Well, Jay Street will have to wait until I’m done making promises to Campbell’s mom. “If there is something worth worrying about, I’ll call you. Personally.”

I could be brokering a sponsorship package for all the assurances I’m offering. And a southern accent I don’t actually have keeps slipping out of my mouth. Apparently, people are more likely to buy lies and fence signage if you’ve got a drawl.

“Oh, Ryan, thank you. It does my heart good to know that you and your daddy will be watching out for him.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Campbell.”

The phone beeps again. This Jay person is persistent. Campbell holds out his hand for the phone, a smarmy grin on his face.

“Someone named Jay Street keeps trying to call,” I say, and Campbell’s expression collapses.

He takes the phone out of my hand. “Mom, I’ve got to go. Jay is on the other line. I’ll call you back.” He switches to the other call as she’s still saying goodbye. “Jay, yeah—”

Campbell’s words are immediately cut off by a very loud male voice. I try not to listen, but it’s hard not to hear.

“I was going to call you—”

This person isn’t great at waiting for people to finish a sentence, simply overriding everything Campbell tries to say.

“I know,” Campbell manages to break in. “I know it’s bad.”

I thought I’d seen every shade of Campbell’s paleness; I was wrong. His face goes as white as the pillowcase, and he tries to sit up, bumping into the bars, face flinching. I step closer to the bed, wanting to help in some way, but he stops moving. Except for the fist holding the edge of the pillow tucked under his chest. His grip tightens and tightens, wrinkling the material and smashing the fluff inside.

His eyes pinch shut like he’s in pain, but I don’t think it’s from his ankle. I’m pretty sure whatever Jay said is tearing Campbell up on the inside. I’ve only known this kid for a day, but it still hurts to watch his reaction.

“I swear I’ll stay on top of it. This won’t slow me down at all,” he promises. “I’ll be back in a week and—” He listens for a minute more, then says, “Okay.”

The call must end, because Campbell lets the phone drop onto the mattress, then his head follows. He mumbles a string of obscenities into the sheet.

Do I sneak away? Pretend I didn’t witness some sort of epic meltdown?

Instead, I aim for funny. “Jay Street sounds like a real nice guy.”

It must have hit the mark at least partway. Campbell gives a snort–laugh before lifting his head. “He’s my agent.”

“Oh.” Oh. I know agents are supposed to work on their clients’ behalf, but sometimes they work over their clients. Arranging sponsorship deals. Building their images. Dropping them off at rehab.

“But you’re not wrong about him.” Campbell looks at me over his shoulder, maybe a little less pale. “He called to remind me of my injury clause.”

Sometimes teams give a list of activities players are not allowed to do because it could cause an injury. Like skiing and riding motorcycles and other potentially dangerous stuff. “But you were taking batting practice.”

“It wasn’t team sanctioned.”

“It wasn’t?” I can’t imagine any coach forbidding his players to practice. Campbell isn’t the first guy to stay after the game and hit some balls, but maybe because he’s a first-rounder he’s not supposed to?

“And Jay is pretty sure that the Rangers won’t hold it against me, but …”

“But they might?” I finish for him.

He nods.

“They couldn’t cancel your contract, could they?”

“Probably not cancel it completely, but if this messes up the way I play—” He cuts off with a frustrated head shake. He doesn’t have to say anything else.

“You’re going to be fine. In a couple weeks, you’re going to be back, knocking the ball out of the park, turning double plays.” I swallow, trying to muster my reassurances, but I must have used them all up with his mom. My voice comes out soft. “It’s just a bump in the road.”

“I can’t afford any bumps in the road.” His hand is gripping the corner of the pillow again. “My family literally can’t afford it.”

I raise my eyebrows, but he’s not looking at me, and he doesn’t need the cue to continue.

“Remember how your dad and I talked about my family’s watermelon farm last night? And your dad asked if we’d sold out?” Pink spots burn bright on his cheeks. He’s focused on the mattress, speaking to it instead of me.

“Yeah. You said some years are tougher than others.” Which is true for both farms and farm teams, apparently.

“Well …” He glances at me then turns back to the bed. “I didn’t want to say anything to your dad, but my signing bonus is the only thing that’s keeping the farm afloat.”

“Oh.” My heart clenches like his fist is wrapped around it instead of the pillow.

“I don’t want anyone to know. My dad would be embarrassed.”

“I won’t say anything. I swear.”

He turns to look at me and holds my gaze, eyes intense. “This injury. It could ruin so much more than my baseball career. You know?”

My dad relies on me for a lot, but I can’t imagine being responsible for my family’s livelihood. From our conversation last night, I know their family has run the farm for generations. They live in a little old house right on the edge of a watermelon field. Would they lose all of that if Campbell couldn’t keep playing? A little panic wells in my chest just thinking about it. How much worse must he be feeling?

“Look,” I say, leaning forward so our faces are level. “I’ve seen guys come back from so much worse than this. I’ll be here to help you, and so will my dad. You have nothing to worry about.”

Behind me, the whisk of the curtain stops whatever Campbell’s about to say.

“Doctor’s coming in.” The nurse smiles at me sweetly. “Which means that you’ve got to go.”

I stop long enough to squeeze Campbell’s forearm before I leave the room. “I’ll be here when you need me.”