I arrived last night on the family jet and was whisked to our house. And when I say house, it’s more like a compound. The Callahan Florida property is actually a main house and two guest houses on five acres of land, complete with an Olympic-sized swimming pool, tennis courts, and a full batting cage operation. And when I say main house, the place has five wings, a butler’s kitchen, lap pool in the basement, and movie theater that seats twelve.
For the next three months, I’m pretty much the sole occupant. Sure, my dad will be down as the owner to see some spring training games. I’m sure my brother, Walker, who plays for the team, will stay here at some point. Though now he rents his own house since marrying his wife, Hannah, and taking on her daughters, my nieces, Noelle and Breanna. And Colleen, my cousin who now runs the team as general manager, will be down here with her retired baseball player husband, Hayes.
But aside from those brief visits, it’ll likely be just me haunting the expanse of the grounds. So much for downsizing and fighting off some of this loneliness.
At least I’ll be busy. My alone time in the house doesn’t last for long since I’m up this morning at the crack of dawn to get ready for my first day of work.
Assistant Video Production Manager.
It sounds boring, to be honest, but then again, no job has ever sounded exciting to me. Dad didn’t make me a lowly intern, which he almost should have considering my résumé. But no, I get to be a manager when I haven’t even worked for it, nor do I have any experience. It’s a blessing and a curse, bearing my family name.
So here I am, sweaty, unenthusiastic, and yearning for something as I step out of the Benz that is left in one of the garages at the Florida residence. The sun flashes against my dark glasses as I take in the Packton Pistons southern facilities in Fort Myers. It’s a place I’ve come to nearly all my life, but I’ve been a guest. I’ve been a kid, running around the executive suites. I’ve been a teen, trying to hit on girls in the stands while binging free popcorn and cotton candy. I’ve been an adult, taking full advantage of the free top-shelf liquor that seems to flow like candy in the Callahan box seats.
And now, I’m an employee. I ditched my expensive designer jeans and plain gray or black T-shirts that cost two hundred dollars for a pair of khaki slacks and a Pistons polo. Jesus, not only am I sober, but I’m even dressing like a square.
“Mr. Callahan.” An older-looking Hispanic man at the gate nods in greeting, hopping to it to scan me in.
I don’t even have to introduce myself. The employees here are probably given a packet to memorize about the Callahans. They probably get docked if they don’t know us, even if we are pretty much employees just like them.
“Good morning. Please, call me Sin. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.” I shoot him my signature easy smile.
“Of course, Sin.” The man smiles as well, but almost like he has a secret.
“Thanks,” I glimpse his name tag, “Jorge.”
He tips his head again, and I walk inside the big glass dome. I’m supposed to be reporting straight to the field this morning and head toward that direction. The massive glass building, the smell of the baseball season starting, the bustle of dozens of Pistons employees scurrying about … it does absolutely nothing for me. My family may deal in baseball, it may be our life blood, but I’ve just never been the biggest fan. Yes, I played up until my high school graduation, simply because it was what was done as a Callahan.
But I’ve just never been in love with the sport like the rest of my relatives. As if I haven’t always felt like the black sheep, that’s just one more mark against me. Not only is Sin lazy, but he’s a freak who doesn’t appreciate the sport that funds his entire existence.
That age-old guilt and sense of not belonging burns in my gut. It turns out that not even getting sober can make those feelings go away, much to my dismay.
When I round the corner for the tunnels, familiar with the layout of the facilities, I’m caught by surprise when someone runs straight into me.
“Oof.” The person reacts, their head only hitting somewhere below my collarbone.
My arms shoot out, steadying my attacker, as I absorb the blow to my abdomen.
“Jeez, I didn’t see you …”
My words evaporate the second my eyes latch onto the culprit’s face.
Dewey freckled skin.
Foxlike eyes the color of brilliant amethysts rimmed with thick black curled lashes.
High cheekbones the color of dusty cherries.
Fiery hair that reminds me of the last kiss of sunset on the horizon, curling out from under the brim of a Pistons ball cap.
A tiny beauty mark winking at me from the left side of her mouth, just above the place it would lift up in a smirk if she made one.
Her hair and eyes. It’s such an odd pairing of colors that on anyone else would just not work. But for some reason, it was like she was born to clash. She’s so visually stunning that I almost forget to breathe, and I’m positive I’ve been staring at her for way too long without saying anything.
“Um, sorry.” She nervously steps out of my grasp, and the moment my hands drop, they’re tingling from the contact on her skin.
When she moves back a pace, my eyes can’t help but fall to her body. And holy hell, is it a body. She’s in workout gear, skintight workout pants, and a gauzy Pistons T-shirt that clings to all the right places. Sinews of muscle in her arms, thighs that are sculpted and lean, a trim waist, and tight torso.
An ass I swear I’ve had wet dreams about since I was ten. I only get a side glimpse of it, but I can already tell that’s a butt that should be worshipped. If I can somehow sneak a full view, I think I’ll name a religion after it.
This woman has more muscles than me, and yet it’s insanely attractive on her. She’s not built like one of those female body builders, something that really doesn’t turn me on. But she’s lean and curved in all the right areas. You can tell she puts in work at the gym, but that she also knows what she wants her body to look like.
And I can appreciate that. I can appreciate that a lot.
“Sin.” I stick out my hand, giving her a cocky grin.
“I bet you are.” She hands my confidence right back, and it makes me chuckle.
All of the nervousness she coughed out in her apology just a second before has vanished. This woman has authority now written all over her.
“And your name?”
She taps her badge. “Frankie. Well, Francesca, but no one calls me that.”
“And what do you do here, Francesca?” I ignore her, because I like the way her full name rolls off my tongue.
Those violet eyes narrow, and I can tell she’s annoyed that I didn’t call her by her common nickname. “I’m the head strength and conditioning coach.”
I let out a low wolf-whistle. “A female strength coach? How progressive.”
Her gaze gets even more scrutinous. “Yes, well. Do you work here? Are you lost?”
She doesn’t recognize me. Holy shit, she has no idea who I am. The realization dawns on me and blooms out, an unfamiliar feeling. I am used to everyone within the Pistons organization knowing who I am. After all, I’m a Callahan. I’m the owner’s son, but I’ve also grown up in the limelight. The Callahans are the new Kennedys to this country; they documented all of our family vacations to Sanibel, family weddings have been covered by People Magazine, and don’t forget the entire scandal with my uncle that was splashed everywhere for years after it happened. I’m used to being recognized no matter where I go, especially by women, since the media has deemed me the bad boy, black sheep Callahan.