Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One

by Aarons, Carrie

  Warning Track

  The Callahan Family, Book One

  Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2020 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

  To summer days listening to WFAN on my Dad’s old AM radio. I didn’t know it then, but listening to baseball would be one of my favorite childhood memories.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

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  Also by Carrie Aarons

  About the Author

  Prologue

  On Tuesday morning, former Packton Pistons general manager Jimmy Callahan appeared in court for his sentencing.

  Brought up on felony charges of conspiracy, making false statements to federal investigators, and bribery, Callahan was found guilty and sentenced to two years in federal prison. Along with these criminal charges, Callahan faces numerous civil cases from the players and owners he deceived, along with the ruling a lifetime ban soon to be issued by Major League Baseball.

  Long known as the only family-run ball club, the Callahan family has decided, against the tide of negative public sentiment, not to sell the team. Daniel Callahan, the defendant’s brother, will stay on as majority owner.

  Many have questioned his decision to bring on Jimmy Callahan’s twenty-eight-year-old daughter, Colleen, as the team’s general manager.

  Melissa Wayne, The Packton Gazette

  1

  Colleen

  This is not my office.

  That’s the only thing that keeps running through my head as I step inside, my sensible black heels clacking on the cherry hard wood and then sinking into the plush gray carpet as I near the desk.

  All the glass-carved awards sitting on the cherry and gold-plated cabinet. The bulletproof crystal lock box sitting on the right corner of the marble desk, housing five World Series rings. Each bottle of scotch on the expensive rolling bar cart set up on the far left wall.

  None of these things are mine. They are artifacts of a past life, one that was lived far more in this office than it ever was in our family home.

  Jimmy Callahan, my father, used to have his nameplate on the door to this room. Right now, that spot is blank. But come tomorrow, when the staff installs it, the new brass plate will read Colleen Callahan, General Manager.

  I catch sight of myself in a mirror that hangs on one of the walls. Everything about my appearance today screams capable, professional. I made sure of that. How else would I be able to prove to a room full of Packton Pistons executives that I, a not-even-thirty-year-old female could take the helm and run this ship successfully, especially in the wake of my family’s all too public scandal? It surely was not with my words, because I could see by the look on their faces that they thought I was some entitled brat who would be thrown out of the position in one baseball season.

  So, I coiffed my light brown hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. I’ve worn my grandmother’s most sensible pearls. The beige skirt-suit I’d chosen out of my closet was both modest and stylish. And the heels paired with it were professional; not too high, but still with that air of boss-bitch that I was going for.

  I had to will the confidence this morning, muster it up as I pulled into my usual parking spot outside the stadium. But within ten seconds of stepping foot into that meeting, I knew that even my own staff, the people who had known me and my work ethic for years, had little to no faith in me.

  They were betrayed, I get it. I was too. But I couldn’t come out and tell them that no one understood their pain and uncertainty more than I did. I had to be the leader, and we were moving on from the permanent stain my father had left on this franchise.

  Someone must have turned the TV on in here, albeit on mute. Maybe it was an executive assistant, or maybe it was one of the members of the janitorial staff. Were they trying to send me a message? Send my whole family a message?

  Either way, I watch footage of my father fleeing the courtroom, his face down, his lawyer doing all the talking. Fans and reporters alike hurl questions and insults, I don’t need the volume on to know that.

  It’s his expression that gets me, though.

  Stone cold, no room for remorse or other people’s opinions. It’s the one he’s worn for most of my life. I used to admire it a bit, even if I feared that about him. It meant he could be concise and cold; it meant he could do this job and win this club championships.

  I guess I just never assumed, underneath all of that, that it could be calculating. He could be calculating. My father had cheated the very game our entire family loved, and now we were all paying the price.

  Does he care? Does Jimmy Callahan lose sleep at night knowing he left his brother and his daughter, not to mention the rest of his extended family, to clean up the pieces of his horrible choices? I haven’t spoken to him since the sentencing concluded a month ago, but my guess would be no. If there is anything this scandal has taught me, it’s that my father is the cruel bastard I always hoped he wasn’t.

  Since the news about his dirty dealings and underhanded trading broke, our family have become the pariahs of the sports world. My great-grandfather had worked to build this ball club into a successful organization and then passed it down to my grandfather. Grandpa was one of the shrewdest baseball minds I’d ever met, and he taught me everything I know and love about the game. He molded the Pistons into the team and front office they were today, and made this family-run team a dynasty, as people in the industry liked to call it. When he decided to retire, he passed it down to his sons. Jimmy, my father, ran the team as general manager, while his brother, Daniel, ran the business end of things as the majority owner.

  And now, all my family worked for was essentially gone. The house of cards had come toppling down on our heads.

  It was a miracle we’d been able to salvage our ownership, much less remain a functioning team in the league. At first, there had been rumors of banning every Callahan from baseball, or disbanding the team because of how many players had been illegally o
btained from my father’s dealings. But six months after the initial findings, followed by a trial and sentencing, and we were hanging on by the skin of our teeth.

  The sports news program turns to me. I know this because my picture from the Pistons website, the one that was taken by the professional photographer we hired to take photos of the administrative staff last year, flashes on the screen.

  What do I know about baseball?

  That’s the question they’re all asking. No doubt, the anchors on the most watched sports program are debating my qualifications, the nepotism of my promotion, and my ability to do this job.

  So far, there has been no mention, in any article or news show I’ve seen, that I have been training my entire life for this job. Not that it was guaranteed, I had to work for every ounce of my credibility at this organization. If my family name pre-qualified me to work for the Pistons, it also has worked against me at every turn.

  When I was a college freshman, I participated in our team internship program for the summer. Not only was the instructor of the program completely biased against me, making me jump through hoops the other kids never had to, but all the other interns ostracized me. They thought if they messed up, I’d go running back to my daddy or something.

  Aside from the internship program, I have attended most of the Pistons home games since I was seven years old. I’ve studied the teams, the players, the strategy. I’ve been in the offices for every draft since I could understand the written language and have spent hours with the statistics guys later in my high school and college years.

  After college, I came home to work for the family business. I started as an assistant in the marketing department and worked my way around the Pistons’ organization for the last six years. I’ve tried to learn something from every branch of the ball club.

  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 s
cheme, 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.