Around the time she got pregnant with her second, I noticed her absence. She’d miss games, wouldn’t show up to food drives she’d signed up for, and one year, Shane showed up to the Christmas party at Dad’s mansion without her.
In all of my own duties and scandal, I guess I let her escape the window of my concern.
Unless she says something to me, or it gets so bad that something is caught on video, there really isn’t any action I can take. Which is downright horrible. That bruise isn’t normal, and neither is her anxious energy or the way she couldn’t stop twitching. I have no idea the pain or torment she’s going through, and the thought eats at me.
Making a mental note to keep an eye on the situation, I walk toward the windows that allow us to look down on the field. My focus is on the game for the next hour or two, and the whole room erupts when Hayes hits a massive two-run homer to right field that nearly goes over the back wall.
In the background, a familiar voice catches my ear. Everyone else’s attention is still on the game, the ninth inning being the culminating point of any game. What happens in the next twenty minutes will determine how their loved ones will walk off the field, what kind of mood they’re in, what soreness they might be bringing home.
But I turn to the huge flat screen on one of the walls, because the voice beckons me. And that’s when I see it: my father’s face. He’s smack dab in the center of the screen, his hair grayer than I’ve ever seen it, a bright orange prison jumpsuit settling on his now-thinner frame.
And his mouth is moving. The noise in the room is too loud for me to hear what he’s saying, but I can read the script accompanying whatever preview this channel is playing.
An exclusive interview with former Packton Pistons’ general manager, Jimmy Callahan. May thirtieth at eight p.m. EST.
My heart drops to my feet, my hands start to shake.
Dad is giving his first interview. He’s going to talk. And I’m suddenly petrified about what he’s going to say.
10
Hayes
We’re a month into the season when I’m forced to attend my first Pistons gala/booster/schmooze with the donors and high-paying season ticket holders event.
I’ve, of course, been dragged to these by all the other clubs I’ve played for, but I’m still just as surly attending them twelve years into my career as I was on day one of being drafted.
These events are long, they’re boring, I can barely breathe with the required tuxedo dress-code choking me around the neck, and as a player, I’m expected to keep my head about me. Which means a two drink maximum, mandated by Grade himself.
And tonight is the worst version of these events, because us single players have been convinced, or blackmailed basically, into offering ourselves up as dates on an auction block.
I pass the sign at the entrance to the ballroom, with its swirly gold script, that reads Pistons’ Bachelor Auction, Bid on a night with one of our eligible players! My eyes nearly roll to the back of my head, and I’m absolutely dreading old women or horny bat bunnies holding up their paddles later, thinking they’re paying money to do a whole lot more than go out to dinner with me.
I’ll be polite, pay for a meal, make small talk. I do my duty, and open my checkbook both willingly and ready to give at these events. I know it’s a necessary evil, that these people help the club run, that this is how the system of professional baseball works. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Dude, they got you in a monkey suit? I was damn sure you’d blow this thing off.” Clark, one of the team’s relievers, chuckles as I approach the cocktail table he’s standing at.
His brown hair is gelled back, he’s in a blue three-piece with small white pinstripes, and I’m pretty sure he’s sipping on a very expensive scotch. A waiter passes, and I request the same drink. I know our manager said two, but I’m here and grumpy, so I don’t exactly think I’m following the drinking rules tonight.
“I come because it would be even worse if the press got a hold of the fact that I didn’t make an appearance,” I grunt out.
“Those fuckers have really been on you, huh? You don’t owe this team anything, and yet they’re painting you out to be our captain or some shit.” Clark smirks. “Hell, maybe there will be some fine-looking women here tonight, make it a little easier to bear. You think I’ll get bid on by a bat bunny?”
The tone of his voice makes me believe that he’d love that. Clark is known as a playboy in the major league circles, it’s no secret that he messed around with a lot of the girls who trailed the team hoping for attention.
“I’m thinking it’s a good shot.” My drink arrives and I take a hearty gulp.
“You better not rake in higher bids than me.” He scowls good-naturedly.
“Well, well, well, you don’t clean up so bad, Swindell.” Walker joins us at the table, and he’s ever the picture of the Callahan golden boy.
The all-American genes, with his wavy brown hair and strong jaw, the impeccable tux, the dimple in his cheek. This guy is probably going to revel being up on that bachelor stage.
“Still hasn’t cut his hair, though. For all the grief he claims I’ve given him, I haven’t pushed that one.”
Colleen moves out from behind Walker, and I’m struck momentarily speechless. The woman attracts any man’s stare in a five-mile radius on a normal day, but tonight? Lord, I’m basically sporting a semi with just one look at her.
Her bombshell body, which she usually hides under those professional suits, is showcased in a shimmery black dress that falls to sweep the floor. It catches the light with each slight move of her body and is made of sequins or silk or something my male brain doesn’t quite know about. The thin straps reach up to tie high at her neck, and I can tell for a fact that she’s not wearing a bra. Two pert nipples wink at me, and my mouth waters as I try my fucking hardest not to lock my gaze on them.
Her body is liquid sin, flowing with its petite curves and exposed skin, that if I reached out and touched, would most likely slide like warm butter under my fingertips. Endless waves of that amber hair fall down over her shoulders and back, and it’s pinned off her face with a sparkling hair piece. Those brilliant whiskey eyes are rimmed with dark shadow, making her look more mysterious and sensual than she usually does.
“Ms. Callahan, you look stunning.” Clark’s eye spark with appreciation as he takes her hand and kisses it.
If I did that, I’d look like a creep hitting on the female general manager. But he does it and she giggles like it’s the most charming thing that’s ever happened to her.
“Save it for the auction, Clark. I have a feeling you’re going to make the team a lot of money tonight.” She winks, the sweep of her lash on her pink cheek catching my attention.
“Don’t I already make y’all money with my superior hands?” His Texas twang comes out.
The way he’s flirting with her is shameless, and jealousy bubbles inside me.
“You’re right, you’ve been playing really well. Keep it up.” Colleen grins at him.
“Is Aunt Barb drunk as a skunk yet?” Walker asks his cousin.