Warning Track (Callahan Family #1) - Carrie Aarons Page 0,4
the thing we love even more than we hate the Callahans; the game of baseball. And for me, someone who only has a few good seasons left, I’m not willing to sacrifice one.
Colleen’s eyes narrow, and that button nose scrunches slightly, but aside from that, she gives no other reaction.
“Of course not, all the players and staff here garner every ounce of my respect. If you’d prefer I address you by a formal title, I will be more than obliged to do so. Just let me know. I’m actually glad I caught you, because I’ve been meaning to contact you or your assistant. I’d love to have a sit down with you. As a veteran player in the league, I’d love to talk over some strategies for rallying the locker room. I know this season won’t be easy—”
There is so much rage in the hand I hold up, inches from her face, to stop her from speaking, that I’m shaking.
“I’ll play my damn heart out, because this is my team now, and I’m never the guy to abandon my men on the field. But don’t for one second think that I want to be here. Don’t even dare speak my name in your press conferences, or attempt to make me this club’s poster child for rebuilding its image. The minute my contract is up, I’m done with the lot of you crooks. Your family is a stain on the name of major league baseball, and I don’t want mine associated with it in any way.”
I see it when it happens. That one millisecond of pain, of shock, that flits across her expression. But in the next breath, she’s locking it down, squaring her shoulders.
This woman is unflappable. I’m kind of glad about that, because she’s going to need it. This season is going to be a shit-storm for her, both personally and professionally.
“Understood. I wish you the best of luck in your season here, Mr. Swindell. From what I’ve seen, you’re a grade A player with both talent and hard work behind you.”
On the other hand, it makes me livid that she can be so cool in her response, that I didn’t make her want to swing back at me. Makes me wonder who did a number on this woman to make her so robotic.
As she nods her goodbye and walks away with careful and measured steps, my ire burns even brighter, deep in my gut. How that woman can occupy her father’s office, how the Callahan family can expect anyone to respect their involvement in the sport moving forward, is beyond me.
Luckily, I only have to make it one season with these crooks. One calendar year of baseball, and I’m a free agent.
And then I’m out of Packton, Pennsylvania for good.
3
Colleen
“Smells like Opening Day.”
Walker leans back in his chair, the Pistons Under Armour long sleeve he’s sporting rustling a bit.
“It does. That fresh popcorn, clean seats, mowed grass kind of scent. I wish they’d bottle it. I’d use it as perfume.” My aunt Gina sniffs at the air, as if she can smell any of those things from inside the luxury restaurant.
“Where the hell is Sinclair?” My uncle Daniel, otherwise known as the owner of the Packton Pistons, impatiently looks down at his multi-thousand-dollar Rolex.
He’s annoyed that his son hasn’t shown up for the family meal yet, but then again, when has Quinn ever done anything close to meeting his expectations? My uncle bears a striking resemblance to his brother, my disgraced father, with that same graying light brown hair and the whiskey-brown eyes that both Walker and I have, too.
“Probably sleeping off his latest one-night stand, or hangover.” Walker, Daniel’s firstborn, chuckles into his coffee.
My cousin, the one who is present at the table and not off snoring in his mansion on the outskirts of town that his daddy bought him, looks out onto the field. He’s playing today, as he’s played for our family’s team since he became a professional baseball player. Walker Callahan is the family golden boy, the one that this dynasty rides on. His story is one that is told on ESPN at the start of every season, the little boy who grew up to play for his own father.
He’s also like a brother to me, my best friend, and I can tell just by reading his energy that he’s nervous. Which worries me, in turn.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, so the rest of the family at the table can’t hear me.