Warning Track (Callahan Family #1) - Carrie Aarons Page 0,34

Does that sound fair?” Hayes smirks like he’s the cockiest asshole to sit in the dugouts of the major league.

I know I said I wasn’t going to cry in this presser, but damn, Hayes just initiated the waterworks. In all my time working for the organization, in all my time as general manager … hell, probably in all my life, I’ve never had anyone stand up for me like that.

Rapidly blinking, I look down at the table containing my shy smile. With all the ups and downs the two of us have gone through in our short time knowing each other, there was no obligation for him to say those things. But he did. Which just speaks to how noble of a man he is.

The journalists are silent for a moment, and then they start peppering him with questions, mostly about his time as a Piston, his vow to pay a million to charity, and about today’s victory. I’m thankful that they seem to have taken his recommendation and put their grilling of me to rest, at least for the time being.

But I can’t help sitting rooted to my spot, playing his words over and over in my head, as the interview continues for the next thirty minutes or so.

It was getting dangerously murky, whatever was going on between Hayes and I, and he just further complicated the relationship. I’d put a no-cross boundary on myself when it came to him, but he’s gone and trampled right over it with that little speech.

There’s no ignoring the lopsided gallop of my heart every time I slide my gaze down the table to him.

16

Hayes

Dark has settled in by the time I make it out of the stadium, my muscles sore and aching with every step.

Tonight’s home game was hard fought, and I got not one, but two pairs of cleats to the shin throughout the eleven innings. We played into extras, which, when you’re in it, sets your bones on fire with adrenaline and the will to pull out a victory. But afterward, these types of games always leave me exhausted, especially as I get up there in age.

I’m not old, not by any standards, at thirty-two, but in terms of baseball, I’m ancient. A lot of guys don’t even get to have as long of a career as I have, and for that I’m lucky. While I know that, there is still so much I want to do. But I feel the aches, the pulls, the way my body doesn’t recover like it used to. I’m aware that every day the stopwatch is ticking down, counting the days that I still have left in this league.

Which is why I’ve been giving my game everything I’ve got. Bryant was right when he reprimanded me for phoning it in. Even though I despise that I’m playing for the Pistons this season, the team is actually winning a decent number of games. We’re top of the division, and if we can sustain some of this winning streak, we could be in a good position for the number one playoff seed. If this is the year I get another chance at a World Series title, then no matter who I’m playing for or how much I’d like to leave Packton after my contract is up, I’m damn well taking my shot at it.

My keys dangle in my hands as I walk through the parking lot, only a couple of cars dotting the massive expanse that wraps around the stadium. It’s strange, seeing a ballpark at this time of day, so quiet and humbled. Normally, these coliseums of sport are alive with energy, music, physical exertion, and tons of noise from fans. Hours after practice or games are done are some of my favorite times to admire the stadiums I’ve played in, the sleeping giants just awaiting their next competition.

The noises come before I see what’s going on, the sound of a scuffle and protest of uttered no’s. I hear a cackle, a scrape, and then a yelp. And as I turn the corner, I can see the three of them, illuminated under one of the lamp lights in the parking lot.

Two men, with their hands on a woman … and it takes my brain a minute to register that it’s Colleen.

“Stop … no … get off …” She struggles against them, holding her arms around herself as they paw at her.

My eyes flash red, everything I hold in them drowning in the fury I feel.