Which he kind of has. I’ve never read a bad thing about him as a player, as a person, and he keeps his life extremely private. And my, could he have gotten into a lot of trouble looking like that if he wanted to. Dirty blond hair down to his shoulders that he sometimes tied up in a ponytail, clover-green eyes that sparkle like the rarest of emeralds, biceps that could swing a bat lethally, a big body that tapered into a waist and thick, bulging thigh muscles …
I have to gulp even sitting at this table at nine in the morning. Yes, Hayes Swindell could have had his pick of the litter out there in Los Angeles, and yet, the media could never grab one morsel on his dating life.
But it’s not like the man is silent. No, he donates and participates in several charities, started his own foundation, has won the league’s most charitable award two years running, and advocated for the player’s union on numerous occasions.
Hayes Swindell beats to his own drum, acting like some kind of baseball superhero, and right now, it seems me and my family are the villains in his story.
“He’ll be here soon, darling.” Aunt Gina pats her husband on the hand, breaking me out of my Hayes reverie.
Our family has a tradition dating back all the way to when my grandfather was owner of the Pistons; we eat a big breakfast together in the stadium sky lounge on opening day. Right now, there are approximately twenty Callahan’s scarfing down the continental breakfast the stadium chefs prepared. We range in age from Uncle Daniel, all the way down to my cousin Jaclyn’s one-year-old daughter.
No one has spoken about Dad today. Uncle Daniel has all but banned his name from family gatherings and the stadium alike, so it wasn’t a surprise. There is still a letter sitting in a drawer in my kitchen at home, one I can’t bring myself to open that has a returnee address for a prison in Florida.
Throughout the season, the number of people will taper off. The breakfast attendees will dwindle until it’s just Walker and me, sitting here before games shooting the breeze. But it’s part of my ritual always, so I follow it to a tee.
This morning, I left my simple ranch home on one of the side streets on the outskirts of town. My house is nice, but it isn’t the mansion my father used to occupy or the one Uncle Daniel has with his live-in staff and around the clock maintenance. I’ve never needed any of that. Not to say I don’t like my stainless steel fridge, or the heated tile floors I had installed in my bathroom last year—I realize just how privileged I am.
But I love this town for everything it is in the small town sense of things. Packton, Pennsylvania is often referred to as the biggest small town in the United States. Yes, it’s occupied by screaming fans and hordes of camera crews for a portion of the year, due to the major league team being its bread and butter. But it’s the quiet months that make me fall in love with it over and over again.
I love my hometown. This is the place I was born, raised, and know I’ll settle down in. We’d traveled a lot in my youth, either to away games or internationally because, let’s face it, I was a rich kid. Back when my mother had still been around, she’d wanted lavish vacations to European islands or resorts in the Maldives. Places that weren’t really fit for a child, but my parents had brought me along … probably because they didn’t want to spend time alone with each other.
Despite all that travel, I knew that my home was in Packton. Not only do I love the people here, with their “take care of your tribe” vibe, but this is where my beloved Pistons are. The baseball franchise that is smack dab in the middle of suburban Pennsylvania is my heart and soul, and there was no question whether I’d go into the family business.
So I took my usual walk this morning, with the rising sun as my backdrop. I got dressed, put on the lucky bracelet my grandfather had bought for me the year we won the Series when I was nine, and kissed his picture on my way out the door. Then I came to the ballpark, walking through the retired numbers monument before coming up here for breakfast. After this, I’ll go up to the owner’s suite with Uncle Daniel, but sit in the stadium seat in the railed off area. The one all the way to the right, where my grandfather sat for every game.
This is my first game as the Pistons general manager, and I am going to go about my routine as usual. Even if there is absolutely nothing routine about this opening day.
4
Hayes
Each locker room I’ve ever been in has its own energy, its own feel.
Some keep a vow of silence before games, with players pumping themselves up with their own music in their headphones. Some are more lax, with teammates shooting the breeze or joking around until we take the field. There are those locker rooms where hardcore metal or rap is blaring through speakers, and everyone is kind of beating their chests like egotistical primates.
But apparently, though not surprisingly, the Pistons locker room is full of chauvinistic men rating women on their looks.
“Did you see her this morning, in her Pistons red? That ass though …” Jimenez, our catcher, wolf whistles as he leans back in his chair, spreading his legs wider.
“Someone really should just smack it, just once. I’d like to see that jiggle.” One of the pinch runners, I forget his name honestly, snickers.
As if this ball club couldn’t sink lower in my opinion of it.
I’m sitting with my head in my locker, trying to do the meditations an old sports psychologist friend taught me years ago, and all I can hear are these two morons going on and on about tits and ass. When in reality, they’ve probably never had real ones in their faces. They seem the type to go for easy pickings, the bat bunnies who hang around after games or show up in hotel rooms.
“Y’all talking about Colleen? Good Lord, that woman is a freaking knockout.” Max, the left outfielder, joins the group next to me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, because of the name that just came out of his mouth.
Something close to jealousy, or maybe an itch of rage, prickles under my skin. They shouldn’t be talking about any woman like that, much less one that is their boss. But something about it being Colleen, the face I haven’t been able to stop from popping into my thoughts at random times, makes my hands clench into fists.
“I’ve been trying to get into those panties for years. Something about the coach’s daughter, man … that fantasy? God damn.” Jimenez keeps at it, and it’s a miracle I don’t take my Louisville slugger and crack him across the cheek.
“She’s not the coach’s daughter, never was. But her daddy is in prison. Think that means she’s got Daddy issues now?” the cockiest of the Pistons bunch, Shane Giraldi, pipes up from three lockers down.
I think I break a molar with how hard I’m gritting my teeth. Not only is that guy married, but he has daughters. How the fuck is he talking about a woman in that way?
Walker Callahan appears out of nowhere, anger and protective instinct rolling off him in waves.
“Knock that shit off, I’m serious. If I hear any kind of talk like that, I won’t hesitate to start swinging. You all think I have nothing to lose? Maybe I don’t. But I won’t tolerate stuff being said about Colleen. Not only is she your boss, but she’s also an intelligent, fair general manager. And she’s my family, so you can fuck right off if you think I’ll let that shit slide this season.”