Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One

by Aarons, Carrie

  Colleen bites on her full lower lip, which is the color of cherries, and it does something sinister to my balls. It doesn’t help my attitude that this woman is so damn gorgeous.

  “Can we please lay our weapons down? I think we really got off on the wrong foot. Listen, I’ve been an admirer of yours for a long time. I love how you play the game, and I think you’re a great ally taking the world of baseball to the community and those in need. Truly, Hayes, I apologize for the way you got here. Maybe no one has said that to you yet, but I’m saying it now. It was shady, it was wrong, and I don’t condone any of it. If I could overrule the league’s decision and let you and these other players choose to leave, I would. I’m a baseball purist, so it hurts my heart, too. But I am not the enemy. I am not my father. And if you’ll stop hurling insults at me, I may be able to help, or make things marginally better during your time here in Packton.”

  Internally, I cringe. Because Colleen Callahan isn’t her father. From the interviews I’ve seen and very few times I’ve personally interacted with Jimmy Callahan, he was a cold, manipulative bastard that cared more about his pockets and his trophy cases than his players. Clearly, she fell very far from the apple tree. And I’m being an ass. My mind floats back to a week ago, when I didn’t stick up for her to the guys objectifying her. It was time to, as she said, lay my weapon down. We didn’t have to be best friends, but I didn’t need to be a piece of shit.

  “I apologize. It’s unprofessional and honestly, just a dick move on my part. I’m not happy about being here, and I’m not happy with your family. And although I have my doubts that there weren’t more people in the Pistons offices involved in what your father was doing, I can say that I don’t think you’re one of them.”

  A look of pained relief passes over Colleen’s delicate features. “You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”

  By the way she looks, as if someone just took off the cross she was bearing, I think I actually might know just how much she does.

  “So, you were grabbing a coffee? Out for a stroll on your day off?” she asks politely, eyeing the paper cup in my hand.

  I shrug. “Figure I couldn’t sit in the house any longer.”

  “I could show you around a bit, I do know most everything there is to know about this town.” Her smile is genuine and holds no agenda.

  There is this spark between us, I recognize the primal feeling in my chest. I knew it the first time I saw her, that niggling in your chest that tells you a certain person is someone you might be interested in, even if you haven’t said one word to them. I’ve had it on a few different accounts, but none as strong or persistent as Colleen Callahan. Even before I knew what her father had done, I’d tried to extinguish that spark inside me.

  She’s the general manager, and before that she was a top-level executive in the organization I now play for. That already made things messy. To complicate matters, though, anyone who dated me was under public scrutiny. I’ve had a couple relationships during my career, and the one-off dates I brought to parties. Those women were ripped apart in the tabloids, on social media, and speculation lingered long after the romance had fizzled out.

  With two people who were already in the spotlight, much less in the positions we were? Nothing good could come of us being seen in anything but a professional capacity.

  And if I am being honest, I don’t trust myself to go on a walk with this woman. I didn’t want her charming my ear off and making me think any certain way about her or her family. I didn’t want to like her, because that recognition in my chest, if let loose, could imagine a whole lot of things with this woman.

  No, it’s safest to keep my distance.

  “I don’t think it would be wise for either of us to be seen hanging out with one another. This is a small town, professional baseball is a small world. I don’t think I need to explain that to you.” I raise an eyebrow.

  My subtle rejection probably comes off as cold, but if that’s what I need to do to keep her at arm’s length, then I’ll do so.

  Colleen nods, understanding passing over her face. “No, you’re right. Have a nice day, Mr. Swindell.”

  She takes off quickly in the opposite direction, and even though I just passed her up on the offer to walk together, I can’t help it when my eyes flit down to her perky, sculpted ass in those yoga pants.

  It irks me, the way she used my formal title, the way I’d sneakily asked her to. But this is for the best, and so I turn around the way I came to avoid any further run-ins.

  7

  Colleen

  “Parmesan fries, table eight!”

  I hear Ashley yell as she slides a steaming hot pile of shoestring potatoes out the kitchen window. A waitress picks them up in a seamless move as she passes the window, not even bothering to slow her walk.

  “God, those smell good. I think we should splurge.” My cousin, Whitney, hungrily rubs her hands together.

  We’re sitting on brown leather stools, nursing vodka martinis, at Hudson’s Bar & Grill. This place is a Packton staple, serving everything from local Pennsylvania Dutch recipes to mouth-watering burgers. And you can always count on Ollie, the owner, to pour you a well-mixed, stiff drink. It’s not often that I give myself a night out, and Whitney is married with kids, so we indulge when we do get a couple of hours out together.

  As far as friends go, mine are typically blood-related. That’s what happens when you grow up in the same town as your entire extended family. You’re bound to end up going through every school together, and when the playground gets rough, you stick with the people who have to love you from the start.

  It helps that Whit and I are close in age, both love trashy reality TV shows to unwind, and she’s just a genuinely good person. She’s one of my only family members not to be tied to the ball club, and I enjoy that even more; being able to dish with someone who doesn’t want to talk shop even on night’s off is good for me.

  “I concur, let’s do it. And another martini, while we’re at it.” I sip on mine, relishing the feeling of the cool burn sliding down my throat.

  An old Billy Joel tune wraps itself around the patrons of the restaurant, the melodic, merry-go-round tune making me tap my foot against one of the wooden feet of the stool. The place is packed, even for a Wednesday night, and the low lighting and Packton-pride decor makes it feel like a home away from home. On one of these walls hangs a picture of me from the high school accounting club, and I’m pretty sure I should steal it and burn it one of these times because it’s pre-braces coming off.

  “Amen to that. It’s been a week. Alex is still not getting the hang of potty training, which means pee. Everywhere.” My cousin rolls her eyes.

  “I think I’d take pee over having sports networks hounding my office about our two-game losing streak. Two games, at the beginning of the season! I want to scream at the idiocy.” I roll my eyes.

  Whit pats my hand. “One, we said no work talk. But putting a pause on that rule, you’re doing a fantastic job, Col. Everyone sees that.”

  She holds up one finger to tell me to hold on, because her phone just dinged in her bag.

  Whitney checks her phone, smiling at the text that Ian, her husband, undoubtedly sent her. Sometimes, when I spend a night with her, I wonder what that’s like. I even long for it when I go home to my empty house.

  My cousin met her husband in college, where she studied hard but had a big social life, too. Unlike me, who stayed in my dorm when classes weren’t happening, Whitney rushed a sorority, went on spring break trips with Ian after they met sophomore year, and eventually said yes when he proposed a week after their college graduation.

  Now they’re happily married with two sons, a four-year-old and two-year-old.

  I wonder, sometimes, what it’s like to have that kind of family unit. To come home to that love every day. To look down at your phone when you’re out without them and know that all of that is waiting for you at home.

  Most of the time, I’m okay with my decis
ion to put my career first. I know I’m nowhere near past the point of being able to get married or having a family, but with the way I work all hours of the day and am unable to connect on a personal level with a lot of people … I just don’t see it happening. It’s not something I can realistically envision.

  And that’s okay most of the time, like I said. I love my job; I love dedicating my life to my family dynasty. Especially now, I love that I can dedicate myself fully to turning our image around, even in the darkest of times. My commitment has been and always will be to this organization, it’s my first true love.

  But when I see Whitney, I can glimpse it for a moment what it might be like. To have a husband, to have a man love me so deeply that he’d commit his life to mine. I can see the children, a bouncing baby on my hip that curls into my chest. My heart flutters at the thought, at letting that much love into my heart. Coming from the kind of family that I did, I don’t even know what that’s like.

  Some women just aren’t cut out for family life, and maybe I’m just one of those. But why does my heart sink a little at the thought of that?

  “Now, let’s talk about something more important; when was the last time you got laid?” Her eyes dance with wickedness.

  A swallow of vodka gets stuck halfway down my throat and I choke on it. “Jee—Jesus, Whit, warn a gal!”

  She leans forward conspiratorially. “Because I’ll tell you, it’s been about six hours for me. Ian came home on his lunch break, and we role-played. He was my boss, and I wore this sexy little skirt—”

  “Okay, I don’t need that much detail.” I hold my hands up. “Though, I have to admit that I’m a little jealous. Not of your sex life, but of other people. Having sex. In general. It’s been …”

  I tap my finger to my chin, because I honestly can’t remember the last time.

  “That’s sad. You can’t even remember!” Whitney fills in the blank of my silence.

  I shrug. “It’s just not something I’ve been focusing on.”

  In truth, I’ve never focused on it. Dating, men, relationships … they all got in the way of the job. I’ve had exactly three lovers in my twenty-eight years, and they’ve all been predictable and fine. Fine is definitely not the word you want to use when talking about sex, but I don’t know how else to describe it.

  “Orgasms should always be a central focus of life. At least tell me you have a good vibrator at home, and then let’s devise a plan to get you a real flesh and blood man,” she whines.

  “I do have … a friend in my nightstand.” I stick my tongue out at her.

  I’m not a prude, by any means, I’ve never been afraid of sex talk or the raunchy things Whitney or my other female cousins would tell me they did before kids. I simply just had no time for it, and if a guy wasn’t serious in pursuing me, I couldn’t be bothered. I’ve never met anyone who really got my heart, or my libido for that matter, pumping.

  Well, except …

  “Can’t you just hit it and quit it with one of your hot players? I mean, take one down to a training room, or better yet, call them into your office. Show them who’s boss. There are some sexy single guys on the squad these days, if I do remember correctly.”

  She wasn’t wrong, and it was a damn shame that there was only one standing out in my brain right now.

  Hayes Swindell is too gorgeous for his own good, and that brooding scowl he’s always giving me only adds to the forbidden appeal of it. I’ve had a few daydreams about exactly what a man like that could do with his hands, though I’ve tried to shut the thoughts out. After all, he was right when I bumped into him outside the Buzz the other day; not only would it be unprofessional for us to even maintain a friendship, but fantasizing about sex with one of my players is off-limits. Seriously, even the thought of having thoughts is wrong.

  Plus, even though we’ve semi-cleared the air about him loathing my family, he still doesn’t want to be here. I can feel it every time I watch him step up to the plate. He’s playing on autopilot, and that might be good enough for someone with Hayes’ talent. But the reason I loved watching him throughout the years is because of the passion behind his game, and now I find none of that.

  I considered letting him go, trading him back to Los Angeles, where he clearly wants to be. But that would look terrible for the Pistons, and even on his worst day, Hayes plays better than seventy-five percent of our team.

  “Yeah, because that would end really well for the daughter of the former disgraced general manager if it ever got out.” I roll my eyes, blowing off her ludicrous suggestion.

  That didn’t stop the tingle that went down my spine when I thought about those wavy, dirty blond locks hanging to a set of very brawny shoulders.

  “Well, fine. Guess you’ll have to find pleasure in Parmesan fries for now.”

  “Who ever said fries weren’t just as good as sex?” I chuckle.

  Whit cocks her head to the side. “Hm, you might have a point.”

  “Now, did you see the latest episode of Below Deck?” I ask.

  My cousin launches into a tirade about her least favorite crew member, and I’m off the hook.

  At least for now, I can enjoy my night out with good food, company, and a couple too many dirty martinis. Seeing as they would be the only dirty things in my life for right now.

  8

  Hayes

  The fast pitch machine fires off ball after ball, the hard leather coming at my body and brain somewhere around ninety miles an hour.

  My arms are sore, tingling with overuse, but I want a couple more good swings before I call it a day. We’re scheduled for a night game at home, and it’s only noon, so I’ll have a few hours’ rest before I truly have to perform. But with my batting average under three hundred, my drive for perfection and statistics has ratcheted up to the next level.

  I’ve been in this cage for a week now, every single day, working on stance and adjusting my hips. Putting my left toe over the plate instead of on the corner. Shifting my fingers slightly higher. Anything to increase the odds of hitting to get on base, or hitting one out of the park.

  The stadium is somewhat empty, with most of the guys already in ice baths, down on the massage table, or carb-loading in the player’s only dining room. Grounds crew mill about, checking the diamond and grass. Some of the announcers are testing the PA system, and I saw a reporter mosey by before with a rookie they were doing a feature on.

  But I’m just focused here, smacking the ball over and over until each one rattles the chain-link fence wall of the cage violently.

  “I heard your swing was getting slow, but now I see there really is something to report about.”

  A crinkly, familiar voice chuckles with sarcasm as I grunt into the next pitch, this one with a little extra oomph behind it as it slams into the cage.

  “I’d like to see you put a helmet on, old man,” I challenge, not even bothering to look at him.

  Another ball, another timed swing. It’s off, the bat just clipping the edge of the ball, and it burns out on the ground before reaching the back wall.

  “Don’t be too sure of beating me, kid. If I were a betting man, I’d say fifty bucks I could hit one harder than you.”

  I snort. “You are a betting man, that’s why Ronnie won’t let you go to Vegas anymore.”

  The machine clicks off, as all the balls have run out, and I drop my bat back into the bucket. Turning, there is Bryant Templeman, legendary sportscaster and, as luck would have it, my fairy godfather.

  He hates when I call him that, says it sounds too ridiculous, but I do it just to tease him. Leaning against the fence, he’s in his usual T-shirt and jeans, when most of these reporters show up in sharp suits. But Bryant is of the old realm of journalists, with a notebook stuck in his back pocket and a pen behind his ear. He rarely carries a cell phone, doesn’t dress to impress anyone, and would rather spend time sitting near the bat boys during games than in the press box.

  “Eh, Ronnie doesn’t know what’s good for h
er. That bag she cried over at Christmas was only bought using the money from my blackjack winnings.” He waves off the comment about his gambling and his wife.

  Two wrinkly arms lean against the chain-link, the black skin of them sagging with age and littered with spots. Taking a good look at him, I notice he looks thinner than the last time I saw him a month or two ago. His face, still freckled with a cinnamon-colored trail across the bridge of his nose, is more wrinkled. But he still has the freshest haircut a good barber could buy, and for that I’ve always admired Bryant. The man cares about the important things; a good shave, a firm handshake, a decent, fairly-priced beer. He taught me to care about those things as well.

  Growing up, I had no one. My father, as the story goes, split before I had even made my entrance into the world. My mother had hung on a while longer, but as far as I could trace my birth back, she was young and decided to give me up at a fire station near San Diego. Other than that, I have no concrete facts on the people who gave me life.

  So foster care it was, and once my baseball talent was discovered, I was “sponsored” by travel teams so that I could basically help them win. Then the families on those teams became my sort of guardians, looking after me and helping to take care of me. But only so long as I didn’t surpass their own sons.

  Oh sure, they’d take in the charity case when they felt like doing something good. A teammate’s family would take pity on me if I was good friends with their son, and they’d want to provide for me. I’d be as quiet and courteous as I could, causing no trouble in the way their biological kids would. I’d travel with the team, and they could claim they were “giving love” and “providing comfort” to the orphan of the bunch.

  Except it always ended. Usually badly. One time, it was because one of my friends, the son of a family who had taken me in for close to six months, got cut from our travel team. This was around the time I was in middle school, and things were getting more competitive. I’d grown four inches that year, and my voice dropped. I started being able to make plays that some of the other kids couldn’t, including their son. So he’d been dropped from the team, not by any fault of mine. And suddenly, it was like they were too burdened to take care of me anymore. They sat me down with pitiful looks in their eyes and told me I’d be going back to a foster home.