Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One

by Aarons, Carrie

  What I mean is, she’s smaller than my right arm. Slim in the most feminine kind of way, Colleen Callahan has that all-American look to her. She should be someone coming right off a farm in Connecticut, or the beach in Nantucket. Her honey-brown hair is always slicked back, poised looking. Those eyes, the same color as some of the sweetest whiskey I’ve ever downed, are rimmed with thick, black lashes. Her cheekbones are impossibly high, almost fox-like, and the pink blush of her cheeks as she holds me in her gaze has my brain humming.

  The curve of her suit, something out of my wildest sexy librarian fantasies, gives only the subtlest hint of the small swell of her breast and cinch of her hips. It pisses me off that her modesty has my imagination running wild, far more than it would if I took in a bikini-clad woman on a Malibu beach.

  If she were a different woman and I was a different man, I would love ruffling those perfectly-laid feathers. Unfortunately, that would never be the reality. Her family is enemy number one, and I only have to survive them for one season before free agency.

  “Isn’t that Mr. Swindell to you? Now that you’re the head honcho, I’d expect that formality. Or, since I’m not technically here under legal means, does that mean you don’t have to pay me that respect?”

  It’s a low blow, mentioning her father’s scandal right out of the gate, but I’m fucking pissed. We all are. Most of the players here don’t even want to go out and represent the team this year, but that would mean giving up the thing we love even more than we hate the Callahans; the game of baseball. And for me, someone who only has a few good seasons left, I’m not willing to sacrifice one.

  Colleen’s eyes narrow, and that button nose scrunches slightly, but aside from that, she gives no other reaction.

  “Of course not, all the players and staff here garner every ounce of my respect. If you’d prefer I address you by a formal title, I will be more than obliged to do so. Just let me know. I’m actually glad I caught you, because I’ve been meaning to contact you or your assistant. I’d love to have a sit down with you. As a veteran player in the league, I’d love to talk over some strategies for rallying the locker room. I know this season won’t be easy—”

  There is so much rage in the hand I hold up, inches from her face, to stop her from speaking, that I’m shaking.

  “I’ll play my damn heart out, because this is my team now, and I’m never the guy to abandon my men on the field. But don’t for one second think that I want to be here. Don’t even dare speak my name in your press conferences, or attempt to make me this club’s poster child for rebuilding its image. The minute my contract is up, I’m done with the lot of you crooks. Your family is a stain on the name of major league baseball, and I don’t want mine associated with it in any way.”

  I see it when it happens. That one millisecond of pain, of shock, that flits across her expression. But in the next breath, she’s locking it down, squaring her shoulders.

  This woman is unflappable. I’m kind of glad about that, because she’s going to need it. This season is going to be a shit-storm for her, both personally and professionally.

  “Understood. I wish you the best of luck in your season here, Mr. Swindell. From what I’ve seen, you’re a grade A player with both talent and hard work behind you.”

  On the other hand, it makes me livid that she can be so cool in her response, that I didn’t make her want to swing back at me. Makes me wonder who did a number on this woman to make her so robotic.

  As she nods her goodbye and walks away with careful and measured steps, my ire burns even brighter, deep in my gut. How that woman can occupy her father’s office, how the Callahan family can expect anyone to respect their involvement in the sport moving forward, is beyond me.

  Luckily, I only have to make it one season with these crooks. One calendar year of baseball, and I’m a free agent.

  And then I’m out of Packton, Pennsylvania for good.

  3

  Colleen

  “Smells like Opening Day.”

  Walker leans back in his chair, the Pistons Under Armour long sleeve he’s sporting rustling a bit.

  “It does. That fresh popcorn, clean seats, mowed grass kind of scent. I wish they’d bottle it. I’d use it as perfume.” My aunt Gina sniffs at the air, as if she can smell any of those things from inside the luxury restaurant.

  “Where the hell is Sinclair?” My uncle Daniel, otherwise known as the owner of the Packton Pistons, impatiently looks down at his multi-thousand-dollar Rolex.

  He’s annoyed that his son hasn’t shown up for the family meal yet, but then again, when has Quinn ever done anything close to meeting his expectations? My uncle bears a striking resemblance to his brother, my disgraced father, with that same graying light brown hair and the whiskey-brown eyes that both Walker and I have, too.

  “Probably sleeping off his latest one-night stand, or hangover.” Walker, Daniel’s firstborn, chuckles into his coffee.

  My cousin, the one who is present at the table and not off snoring in his mansion on the outskirts of town that his daddy bought him, looks out onto the field. He’s playing today, as he’s played for our family’s team since he became a professional baseball player. Walker Callahan is the family golden boy, the one that this dynasty rides on. His story is one that is told on ESPN at the start of every season, the little boy who grew up to play for his own father.

  He’s also like a brother to me, my best friend, and I can tell just by reading his energy that he’s nervous. Which worries me, in turn.

  “You okay?” I ask quietly, so the rest of the family at the table can’t hear me.

  “It’s going to get ugly out there today.” He shrugs, still looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the sky lounge. “Never had baseball be about anything other than baseball, even with the petty shit that’s been thrown at me or the club in the past. But this? It’s going to be gruesome, Col. For a while, it’s going to be utter hell.”

  Walker runs a hand through his short brown buzz cut.

  My heart sinks, because I know he’s right. I chew on my thumbnail, a bad habit, but one I can’t seem to break, even in my newfound executive position. I barely slept last night, knowing how difficult today will be. On one hand, I’m glad to be getting back to the core of things, to the game I and my family love so much. The last six months have been, like Walker said, utter hell. Media statements and trials and speculation and investigations … it’s all left a permanent churning feeling of nausea in my stomach.

  But on the other hand, I know that playing some innings won’t make this go away. This stain will stay with us, possibly forever.

  The word stain makes me think of Hayes Swindell in that hallway near the weight room two nights ago. He’d been so furious, dismantled so thoroughly me and all I wanted to accomplish. God, the man is intimidating as hell. I’ve grown up around baseball players, been friendly with them my entire life. Yet the three-time World Series champ seems impossibly large to me. It could be his dominating, muscular, six-five frame, but that isn’t quite it. It’s the way Hayes carries himself, as if he’s been standing on a moral high ground his entire life.

  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.”

  Walker’s voice is even, but anyone would be a dumbass not to hear the promised aggression underneath.

  The guys shrug it off, a few of them nervously laughing, but no one challenges him.

  I wasn’t around long enough last year to really get to know the guy, the Callahan golden child who grew up and made good on his family’s real baseball dreams. He was one of the only players in the league who had ever come from a family connected to professional baseball, and the only one who went on to play for his father, who was the owner.

  While a lot of people would discount him for that, think he was some spoiled rich kid given all the best in life in order to easily succeed, I don’t get that vibe when I watch Walker. He’s a leader in this clubhouse, even now, after the whole scandal went down. It’s clear that the guys respect him, and from the short month we played together before the Pistons missed the playoffs, he seemed like a hard worker and all-around great teammate.

  It didn’t mean I trusted him, though.

  “You let men go around speaking about women like that?” He sits down next to me; our lockers butt up against each other.

  This fucker is calling me out, and dammit if he didn’t hit the nail on the head. That’s the thing, I don’t let other guys go around talking about women like that. Not in the clubhouse, not outside the stadium. I’ve been known to lecture about this when guys start intimidating female reporters, and I even restrained a rowdy, drunk asshole at an LA bar a couple years back for getting handsy with a woman who was clearly trying to shrug off his advances.

  But there is something about the Callahans
that makes me skittish. “I don’t know your cousin.”

  “You mean, your general manager. The woman advocating for this team and trying to win us a championship. Someone who works extremely hard and has for years. Don’t pretend to sit there and agree with the way they were talking about her. On a basic human level, putting aside your obvious opinion about my family, it’s not right to allow men to speak about women like they just were.”

  Damn, I didn’t think he was going to hand me my ass. His cousin simply towed the party line when I threw accusations in her face, but clearly Walker isn’t going to do that. My own behavior makes me cringe, and I turn to him.

  “You’re right. I should have backed you up. You’re going to make it hard to dislike you until I can hightail it out of here at the end of the season, aren’t you?”

  He gives me a shit-eating grin. “I’ll grow on you. Don’t count this team out yet, Swindell. We’re going to build something here, something pure. Back to baseball basics. Colleen is going to spearhead it. You’ll see.”

  “That’s some poetic shit. All I want to do is bat over five hundred and make some good plays at first.” I roll my eyes.

  “Let me take you out for the best steak dinner in Packton after this. Man date.” Walker beats in his glove, then slides it on his hand, flexing it.

  I snort. “That’s like saying you’re taking me for pizza at Chuck E. Cheese.”

  “If we win, I’ll buy you dinner. My treat.” He raises an eyebrow.

  This guy is annoying, but seems genuine. “Fine. Just get out of my space. I need to focus.”

  He chuckles as he pushes up, knowing he won, and walks off.

  * * *

  Two hours later, we’re in the bottom of the sixth, tied two to two, and I’m up at the plate.