Warning Track (Callahan Family #1) - Carrie Aarons Page 0,12
request my order and not indulge him in more shop talk, but this is my day off. The day where I don’t have to talk about baseball. I love the sport, but even I need a break.
He rings me up, grabs me my coffee, and I thank him with a salute of my cup and an extra ten-dollar bill in his tip jar.
As I exit Buzz, I nearly bump into someone on the sidewalk.
“Oh, excuse me—”
“I’m sorry—” someone says at the same time as I reach out an arm to steady them.
A jolt of awareness shoots up my arm, settling somewhere in my gut, because a bunch of honey-brown waves swirl over blushed cheeks.
“I didn’t see you there.” Colleen smiles, as if I haven’t scowled in her directions every time our eyes met over a press conference table or in a hallway of the facilities.
“Come to make sure that I abide by the grooming policies?” My voice is filled with snark.
Colleen blinks, those big, amber doe eyes surprised. “I was actually just going for a walk around town on my day off. I didn’t want to send word to Terry about that, unfortunately, but it’s my job.”
“Ah, so it was you. I figured.” I nod, confirming my suspicions.
I’d thrown the first punch, and Colleen was firing back about the comments I’d made to her that night after the weight room.
“I’ll take responsibility, though it’s a policy I’m working to change. I think it’s good for player morale, and baseball superstition, if you can exercise freedom over personal appearance, jewelry, things of the like.”
“What next, we’re all going to get matching Pistons tattoos? How revolutionary of you.” I roll my eyes at her courtesy.
The sun shines down on me, and I realize I forgot my sunglasses when a car drives by and I’m blinded by a reflection in the windshield. Funny, that she’s out on a walk on her day off as well. Looking down, I see her tight black workout pants paired with a dark indigo sweatshirt, and for some reason the color brings out her eyes. She’s dressed down, her hair loose and catching in the wind. It makes her look younger than the fierce suits and severe ponytails she wears to the office.
Colleen bites on her full lower lip, which is the color of cherries, and it does something sinister to my balls. It doesn’t help my attitude that this woman is so damn gorgeous.
“Can we please lay our weapons down? I think we really got off on the wrong foot. Listen, I’ve been an admirer of yours for a long time. I love how you play the game, and I think you’re a great ally taking the world of baseball to the community and those in need. Truly, Hayes, I apologize for the way you got here. Maybe no one has said that to you yet, but I’m saying it now. It was shady, it was wrong, and I don’t condone any of it. If I could overrule the league’s decision and let you and these other players choose to leave, I would. I’m a baseball purist, so it hurts my heart, too. But I am not the enemy. I am not my father. And if you’ll stop hurling insults at me, I may be able to help, or make things marginally better during your time here in Packton.”
Internally, I cringe. Because Colleen Callahan isn’t her father. From the interviews I’ve seen and very few times I’ve personally interacted with Jimmy Callahan, he was a cold, manipulative bastard that cared more about his pockets and his trophy cases than his players. Clearly, she fell very far from the apple tree. And I’m being an ass. My mind floats back to a week ago, when I didn’t stick up for her to the guys objectifying her. It was time to, as she said, lay my weapon down. We didn’t have to be best friends, but I didn’t need to be a piece of shit.
“I apologize. It’s unprofessional and honestly, just a dick move on my part. I’m not happy about being here, and I’m not happy with your family. And although I have my doubts that there weren’t more people in the Pistons offices involved in what your father was doing, I can say that I don’t think you’re one of them.”
A look of pained relief passes over Colleen’s delicate features. “You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”