This doesn’t include the hundreds of hours I spent under Dad’s tutelage. He was adamant that I, his only child, take over as general manager when he could no longer fulfill the obligations of the position. Late nights, early mornings, week-long road trips, scouting visits … you name it, and he dragged me to it since I was a little girl.
Being the general manager of the Packton Pistons has been ingrained in me since I could talk, and my time to shine came way earlier than I thought it would. But that in no way means I am not prepared, that I don’t have the skills and tools to do this job effectively.
No, this office is not mine. Yet. Over time, I can redecorate. I can make it my own. Soon enough, with a good overhaul and some feminine touches, no one will even know that my own father occupied this seat for close to fifteen years.
But that ballpark? The one just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows? That is my ballpark.
It’s been my home, not even my second. I’ve walked its corridors, hid in all its crevices, watched its games deep into a cold autumn night. I’ve listened to players and coaches and management talk when they thought I was too little or too female to understand.
Home plate is the place I came and sat on the night of my college graduation, the whole place swathed in darkness, the open air swirling around my cap and gown.
Others might not see it yet, they may not believe it in the least, but I am going to restore this baseball franchise to its former glory.
And in the process, I’ll bring honor back to the Callahan name.
2
Hayes
This is not my team.
That’s the thought that keeps ramming into my brain like a freight train, each time I pump this barbell up and away from my chest. It’s the idea that fuels the fury raging through my veins during each workout, or frankly, anytime I step into this facility. My muscles burn against the acidic pain, and I heave out a breath, pushing through the frustration as my arms shake at the top of the rep.
In my ears, a Metallica song beats hard and heavy, distracting from at least a minuscule portion of the piss and vinegar I feel at all times now. The first game of my eleventh season as a professional baseball player is just three days away, and even if I fucking hate my current setting, it doesn’t mean I’m not going to kick some ass on that field.
But how I wished I was in Los Angeles right now.
Here I was instead, in the dim, cold spring of Pennsylvania. This time last year, I’d been sitting on the private beachfront balcony of my Malibu residence, gearing up for opening day in Los Angeles. Jimmy Callahan had not only illegally facilitated my trade, but he’d brought me to a town that I fucking loathed because of it.
Packton, Pennsylvania was nothing like the vibrant, sunny city I’d lived in for the past ten years. This place was essentially a small town with a major league baseball stadium smack in the middle of it. There were a few other national businesses here, financial firms, and one decently recognizable home construction company had its headquarters here, but other than the two or three measly high-rises Packton boasted, this was as small a town as I’d ever lived in.
The high school had a homecoming parade, complete with floats down Central Street before their first October football game. I know, because I got stuck behind the traffic of it one night trying to get home after a late practice. Each and every person who worked in a storefront on the main drag tried to learn your name from the first time you entered their business. I couldn’t get a damn coffee without Joe, the owner of Buzz Coffee & Tea, asking me how my day was going. For someone who craved anonymity, it was my worst nightmare.
The weight rack slams as I drop the bar back down onto it, sitting up as my head spins. I was down there for too long, with too much weight compressing me. I should lay off, considering it’s a game week and rough training sessions are frowned upon, but I need to work this anger out.
Sweat rolls off me as I stand, going to the counter in the weight room to retrieve my gallon jug of Gatorade. As I chug, I feel that my black tank and gym shorts are almost soaked through. How the hell long have I been in here?
A glance at the clock tells me that it’s been almost two hours, and it’s no wonder that I’m dizzy. I need to get some food, get some rest, and try to put my mind at ease. As it is, I’ll be tense as fuck when I step out onto the field on opening day. There will no doubt be fans protesting, and those sports nuts who hate the Pistons’ organization on principal now. They showed up at spring training to harass the team daily. We even need to have extra security details follow us around after one of the players was splashed with some kind of vinegar cocktail at a press junket.
Clicking my music off and throwing my stuff into my gym bag, I decide to call it a day. No one came in to train today, I’m pretty sure most of my teammates are afraid to come into the stadium facilities to practice. It means passing the swarm of media waiting outside, but I don’t mind almost running over screaming idiot reporters with my car.
The footsteps of another person echo down the large, concrete bowels of the stadium before I can see them around the rounded hallway. I steel myself, hoping it isn’t one of my coach’s or another player. I’m really not in the mood to chat, and I finished the season on a shitty note with most everyone.
After being traded from Los Angeles in mid-September, I was none too pleased. The trade seemed off; I was playing my best season I’d ever had, with a point three two batting average going into the playoffs. And then, just like that, I was scooped up by the Pistons for some reason that was shadily hidden every time I asked about it. The entire deal stunk from the get-go. It was no big shock to me when the allegations came out in October, and then Jimmy Callahan was federally charged. Sure, it’s the biggest scandal in baseball since Pete Rose’s gambling and subsequent lifetime ban. It’s probably even bigger than the steroid era suspensions.
I would come to find out, due to the testimony of the executives and owners who testified against Callahan in return for their own immunity, that he’d bribed both the general manager and owner of the Los Angeles ball club I’d called home for ten years. In return for finagling draft picks by throwing games, using players who were in on his scheme, he paid my former GM a whopping two million dollars to execute a clause in my contract that sent me packing for Pennsylvania.
None of it was above board. They’d fucked me over, sent me to a team that hadn’t made the playoffs in two years, and unfortunately, due to the ruling from the league, none of the dealings could be reversed. All the players and front office staff who were involved have been fired and banned, but unfortunately, there was no way they could reverse the trades and underhanded agreements Callahan and his goons had made.
So here I am, on a team that is not mine. Playing for a club I am ashamed to take the field for.
And standing in front of me in her enraging, fucking gorgeous, glory is Colleen Callahan, daughter of the traitor.
“O-Oh, Hayes,” she stutters before me, those damn heels coming to an abrupt stop.
I should just keep walking, pass her with no comment and no respect, but that itch of rage under my skin is still alive and well. I’m raring for a fight, and I just got the most worthy opponent.
Not that I’d ever consider going toe to toe physically with our new general manager. Though there was that one dream, right after I’d been traded and met her, when I’d woken with wetness in my boxers like some goddamn teenage boy.