Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One

by Aarons, Carrie

  Tears begin to leak down my cheeks of their own accord, and I swipe them away angrily as shame burns my face.

  “You’re crying, I didn’t mean to …” Hayes has a momentary flash of remorse, of sympathy, but it only makes me more defensive.

  “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll …”

  Hayes’s expression is furious stone. “You’ll what? Trade me away? Go right ahead, sweetheart. That’s what you wanted to say, right? God forbid anyone see a Callahan fall to their knees. It’s all the same with your family.”

  Ripping his bag off the table, the man who just days ago was flirting with me looks as though he could dismantle me with the verbal attack of the century if he wasn’t holding his temper back on a barely restrained leash. Before he can let anymore insults fly, he storms out, slamming the door and rattling the walls with it.

  I slump to the floor again, letting out more sobs, though this time for a completely different reason.

  12

  Hayes

  Summer has arrived, and although the sunny skies and perfect weather of California are no longer in my backyard, there is something enticing about the greenery of Pennsylvania.

  This place is growing on me, which is something I never thought I’d say. I’ve been in California, especially metro areas, for a long time up until moving here. I thought I’d hate the quiet, the small-town energy, the slower pace of life. It’s strange to find that, in fact, I’m actually taking to Packton.

  The humidity that comes in the early morning dew on my grass, the hum of fireflies lighting up the tall grass near the pond I see out my bedroom window. I’ve developed a routine of running through Central Street on my mornings off, taking my route through the town park with its wishing well and amphitheater. On my way home, I stop in and grab a coffee from Joe. My mailman, Steve, greets me as I walk back down the street to my rental house. Recently, I started having dinner once a week at the local bar and grill, Hudson’s.

  Becoming a regular was not in my plans. But something about the charm of this town weaves its way into your soul, twisting you around its quaint little finger until you can’t detangle yourself.

  That’s also what Colleen Callahan was doing, before she threatened to … well, I’m not sure how she would have finished her sentence. But I’d done it for her and essentially ripped the roots she was planting straight out of where they were just initially planting themselves in my heart.

  I was developing something for her, a tiny crush or something. The flirtation at the auction had been surprising; I haven’t pursued a woman in some time, especially one who is as off-limits as Colleen. But also on her part, because I’d seen the interest flash in her whiskey brown eyes.

  Whatever friendship or fraternizing that was forming between us, however, was gone now.

  Fine. She wanted to act like no one else had ever been wronged in this lifetime? Let her. Colleen Callahan came from a life of privilege, grew up in far better conditions than I did, and this was the first ever adversity she was facing. I admit, her father is a prick and I would have never said any of the vile things he said about his own blood if I had any of my own. But that didn’t give her the right to threaten me, to shove ultimatums in my face. Because let’s be clear, that’s what she was gearing up to do.

  I’d barely hung onto my fury in that training room, and perhaps what I said had gone too far. I had not been sympathetic to her obvious upset, but how could I be when the general manager who now sat behind bars had just given an interview detailing how royally he’d screwed over players and teams involved in the game I loved?

  That interview affected me, too. To hear him brag about how he had pretty much blackmailed and manipulated my agent, one who had testified against him during the trial, to getting him to trade me … I wanted to go scorched earth on the entire stadium.

  I couldn’t forget that she was a part of that whole mess. Bryant and I spoke on the phone two days ago, and he could tell something was wrong. I hadn’t spoken to him much about the scandal in recent months, mostly because I was tired of talking about it. We’d had conversations about my dating life before, where he advised me not to waste time on any woman who wasn’t Ronnie-level worth it. I failed to mention anything about Colleen, mostly because if I told him about it, it made it real.

  I just needed to get my fucking head right, focus on the game, and then the future of my career.

  Clark asked if I wanted to hang out today, and since we just finished up a road trip with three back-to-back series with three separate teams, I don’t have anything better to do. We have a two-day break, and I was going to hang around my house not doing much of anything today, so I might as well be social for an hour.

  “A little league field?” I question as I walk up to where Clark is unpacking a gym bag.

  He tosses me a baseball, which I catch in my gloveless hand. “I like to come out here every once in a while. Brings me back to my roots.”

  The logic is rational, though I don’t know how much this little practice will help. “If you say so. I didn’t bring a glove.”

  “I have an extra.” He reaches into the bag.

  “Wearing another man’s glove? That’s against baseball law in some circles.” My eyebrow quirks up.

  Clark rolls his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone on ya, big man. Let’s have a round of catch, just like the old days.”

  The nostalgia his request sparks in me can’t be ignored. It’s been a long time since I came out on a little league field, choosing instead to stick to the state-of-the-art facilities that were offered to me now. There is something about the red clay under your sneakers, the uneven mow of the grass surrounding the diamond, the chain-link fence and one metal bench meant to be used as a dugout.

  “You’re a private guy, aren’t you?” Clark muses as we leisurely throw back and forth.

  I shrug. “Not much to tell, really.”

  “There is always something to tell. I’ve just never heard much on you. You’ve been in the league, what, ten years?” The ball smacks into his glove, and he palms it, tossing it high back toward me.

  My arms stretch over my head, eyes glinting against the sun, as I track the ball where it falls into my hands. “Yep. This is my eleventh season.”

  “And in all that time, there really haven’t been too many exposés on you. Shit, I’ve had more than my fair share of paparazzi photos, girls recounting their nights with me on Reddit, and then there was that dick pic I accidentally sent to a reporter …”

  A snort makes its way up my throat. “I forgot about that. You’re a dumbass, you know that?”

  “Yeah, but my dick looked pretty good in that picture. At least I had that going for me.”

  “Bet that fine from the league was a punch in the balls, though, huh?” I joke.

  Clark’s indecent snap was all the talk a year or two ago, and I heard he had to pay upward of fifty grand to the league for his mistake.

  “But you, man, you’re like a ghost. A fucking baseball legend, but a ghost. You need to give seminars or some shit.” He ignores my taunt and instead refocuses the conversation on me.

  We’re tossing back and forth, and the hot summer breeze has sweat dripping down my back, but it feels good. Easy. There is a relaxed monotony about hanging out on this public patch of dirt that I haven’t gleaned from baseball in a long time. When you play a game professionally, a part of that love you have for a sport is translated into the need to be the best. The need to make money. The need to excel in every play, every at bat. Some of the pure passion is diminished simply because you’re being paid to win.

  “I decided a long time ago, with the help of a very wise person in my life, that if I was going to come into this league, it was to play the game of baseball. They could have me as a player, but they would not have access to me as a person. There is a lot that this world and the public expect to be invited to in our lives, but I signed up to entertain them when I’m on that field. Not when I’m with friends, or family … if
I had any. I don’t have a lot of close people in my life, but those who are there deserve their privacy.”

  Clark nods, as if he respects this. “And the whole … wife thing. Is it true?”

  I sigh, because this rumor is so played out that I wish it was tangible so I could put it in a chokehold. I’m not sure when or how it even started, but some opinion piece once stated that I was one of these guys who wouldn’t marry or have children until after my career was over so I could dedicate myself to the game. It was a load of bullshit, because I’ve never really had that philosophy. But as time went on, and I didn’t seriously date or knock someone up, the rumor grew stronger.

  “It’s not true, but it’s not not true. Between you and me, the way I grew up was fucked up. I’m sure you know I was in and out of the foster system. I have no real basis of what a family is or should be. Why would I choose to focus on that, to have my own kids, when I could only give them, at best, fifty percent of my focus right now? There are guys in this league who are the shittiest fathers of all time.”

  “Some on our own bench,” Clark mutters.

  Shane Giraldi’s face jumps into my mind. “Exactly. I don’t want to be that to my wife, or my kids. If those things are in the cards for me, then I’ll try to do the best I can. After my playing is all said and done.”

  So, I guess, the rumor is not such a rumor after all. I just never knew how to articulate it, not in the way I just did to Clark.

  “Not a bad plan, man. Like I said, maybe you should write me a manual.” He tosses the ball behind his back, toward me.

  I reach out, catching it and bringing it into my body. Is there one day that I could see doing this with my son or daughter? On a regular field, in a small-town park? Maybe. I’m not sure. I have no experience to pull from, no memories of anyone doing this with me as a kid.

  “Just don’t be an asshole. That’s my number one piece of advice.”

  “Noted.” Clark chuckles.

  After another half hour of tossing around and acting like we’re teenagers on the little league field, catching grounders and trying to make trick plays, Clark rubs his stomach.

  “I’m hungry. Call Walker, let’s go grab a burger and a beer.”

  13

  Colleen

  Hudson’s is packed, with it being a Friday night, and my cousins and I can barely get our usual table.

  Whitney has a rare weekend night away from home, and our younger cousin Anna who just turned twenty-two is home from college for the summer. So, we all decided to go out to dinner, and maybe have one too many drinks.

  “Ugh, my uterus is killing me,” Whitney complains, holding her hand to her lower stomach. “It’s not fair. Why can’t periods just stop after you decide you’re done having kids?”

  Anna snorts. “Right? Like you could just press a button to turn off the blood flow. You’d think that pushing a watermelon through your hooha would give us some say over Aunt Flo?”

  I’ve had a glass of Chardonnay, and I’m feeling loose, so I end up cackling a bit at that. “Ouch, all of it just hurts. I think men should have to do some of the work.”

  “Amen to that. I’d love to see a man try to insert a tampon.” Whitney tips her glass back, the red wine sloshing as she sips some of it.

  “Or pee after a UTI. I had to do that the other day, I thought my vagina was going to burn up.” Anna winces.

  I nearly choke on the piece of buffalo cauliflower I just put in my mouth. “Oh my God, I did not need to know that about my baby cousin.”

  “Did no one teach you to pee after sex? Is your sister telling you nothing?” Whitney admonishes our other cousin Talia who is Anna’s twenty-four-year-old sister and not present at this table.

  Anna shrugs. “I was drunk and tired, too lazy to get out of bed. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  There is a weird noise that comes over the bar in that instant. Maybe it’s a gasp, or a collection of whispers, but when I turn my head, three men are walking in.

  Clark, one of the relieving pitchers on the Pistons’ bench, Walker, and Hayes come into Hudson’s. My stomach immediately drops, because I’ve avoided him since the confrontation in the massage room.

  In fact, I’ve told absolutely no one about seeing Hayes that night, or the ugly words we’d slung at each other.

  Whitney and Walker came over about two hours after the interview aired, knocking down my door at nearly ten p.m. until I opened up. They supplied the bottle of tequila that had me dry-heaving the next morning, but their company was crucial. I cried on their shoulders, lamented about the vile creature that my father is, and they completely supported me. Both of them had checked in during the week since, and the sting of the wounds my father had opened back up were slowly dulling into a sore ache.

  Of course, that didn’t mean news outlets weren’t still covering it left and right. There was an even bigger bounty on my head to fail, and if having the pressure of the world breathing down my neck wasn’t enough, Uncle Daniel was on my case more than ever. I just have to keep my head down, do the work that needs to be done, and stop letting outside distractions and negativity affect me so much. Easier said than done.

  Walker spots us, and they all walk over to our table in a group. Hayes is avoiding eye contact, and I squirm uncomfortably in my chair.

  “Well, look who’s home from school!” he greets Anna, giving her a big bear hug.

  She laughs. “That’s right. I think you should buy me a drink.”

  “I think your dad would strangle me if I did that.” Walker pretends to choke.

  Our baby cousin shrugs. “What the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Just like when I didn’t tell him about that time you brought me to that Vegas casino and let me play craps when I was fourteen.”

  Whitney starts laughing, and Clark cracks a smile next to her, raising his eyebrow in Walker’s direction.

  “Jesus, you’re going to get me arrested or some shit, Anna. Keep that noise down.” Walker turns to me. “You doing all right today?”

  My cheeks flame with embarrassment that he’s asking that in such a personal tone in front of Hayes. “Much better now.”

  “Whit, Anna, I think you remember Clark. But this is Hayes, one of our newest teammates.” Walker makes the introduction.

  “Hi, hope you ladies are having a nice night.” Hayes nods politely, but his small smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “All right, should we get to it? I need a burger, stat.” Clark nudges his friends, and they all wave goodbye before walking off to the bar.

  We order another round of drinks and decide to split nachos.

  “This was the best decision I’ve made all week.” I sigh as I stick a cheese covered chip into my mouth.

  “And apparently, coming to Hudson’s was Walker’s best decision.” Whit nods her head toward the three men sitting in a booth along the far wall.

  There are at least six women leaning into the table, thrusting their chests out and batting their eyelashes. I have to try hard to stop the snort from accompanying my eye roll, but it’s just to mask the mean green monster bearing down on my shoulders. Clark is extremely interested in every single one of them, which doesn’t surprise me. He’s like the league’s leading playboy and has even made advances at me even though it’s completely inappropriate. Walker isn’t turning them away either, and I could see my cousin walking out of here with someone tonight.

  It’s not like Hayes has a girl sitting in his lap, boobs in his face, but he’s talking to the bat bunnies, all right. I hate the prickle of jealousy that runs along my spine, and I turn all the way back around so that I can ignore it.

  “That man is fine. And you need to get laid.” Whitney nudges her wineglass in my direction.

  “Who?” I pretend to play dumb.

  “Hayes Swindell, the new guy. Although we all grew up around baseball, we know exactly who he is.”

  “Hey, is he the one who they say won’t get married or date until after he’s done with
baseball?” Anna muses, tilting her head to the side.

  That rumor has followed Hayes for years. If you’re in the industry, you’ve heard it numerous times. I have no idea if it’s true.

  “That man is a player on the team I manage, and what would give you the impression that he’s remotely interested in me? If you haven’t noticed, I think women are practically hanging their panties from the coat hook on his booth at this point.”

  “Because he has barely taken his eyes off you since you walked into this bar.” Anna chuckles.

  That has my head whipping back around, and my baby cousin’s statement is confirmed. My eyes meet a pair of emerald eyes, searing right into mine.

  Woah. The intensity of Hayes’ stare nearly knocks me backward, and it’s a good thing I’m sitting down. The spark that runs between us, a line of energy connecting us across the restaurant, is charged and electric. My mouth goes dry, there is wetness in my panties, and suddenly I feel way drunker than I should for only having had two drinks.

  It takes me a minute to blink and turn back around, ripping my eyes away from him. “That? It’s nothing.”

  “Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Whitney singsongs.

  The rest of my night is dampened by the cloud of envy Hayes has draped over him. That look between us? It has to mean nothing.

  Absolutely nothing but trouble can come of anything more than just a look shared with him.

  14

  Colleen