Check Swing (Callahan Family Book 3) Read online

  For the next three months, I’m pretty much the sole occupant. Sure, my dad will be down as the owner to see some spring training games. I’m sure my brother, Walker, who plays for the team, will stay here at some point. Though now he rents his own house since marrying his wife, Hannah, and taking on her daughters, my nieces, Noelle and Breanna. And Colleen, my cousin who now runs the team as general manager, will be down here with her retired baseball player husband, Hayes.

  But aside from those brief visits, it’ll likely be just me haunting the expanse of the grounds. So much for downsizing and fighting off some of this loneliness.

  At least I’ll be busy. My alone time in the house doesn’t last for long since I’m up this morning at the crack of dawn to get ready for my first day of work.

  Assistant Video Production Manager.

  It sounds boring, to be honest, but then again, no job has ever sounded exciting to me. Dad didn’t make me a lowly intern, which he almost should have considering my résumé. But no, I get to be a manager when I haven’t even worked for it, nor do I have any experience. It’s a blessing and a curse, bearing my family name.

  So here I am, sweaty, unenthusiastic, and yearning for something as I step out of the Benz that is left in one of the garages at the Florida residence. The sun flashes against my dark glasses as I take in the Packton Pistons southern facilities in Fort Myers. It’s a place I’ve come to nearly all my life, but I’ve been a guest. I’ve been a kid, running around the executive suites. I’ve been a teen, trying to hit on girls in the stands while binging free popcorn and cotton candy. I’ve been an adult, taking full advantage of the free top-shelf liquor that seems to flow like candy in the Callahan box seats.

  And now, I’m an employee. I ditched my expensive designer jeans and plain gray or black T-shirts that cost two hundred dollars for a pair of khaki slacks and a Pistons polo. Jesus, not only am I sober, but I’m even dressing like a square.

  “Mr. Callahan.” An older-looking Hispanic man at the gate nods in greeting, hopping to it to scan me in.

  I don’t even have to introduce myself. The employees here are probably given a packet to memorize about the Callahans. They probably get docked if they don’t know us, even if we are pretty much employees just like them.

  “Good morning. Please, call me Sin. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.” I shoot him my signature easy smile.

  “Of course, Sin.” The man smiles as well, but almost like he has a secret.

  “Thanks,” I glimpse his name tag, “Jorge.”

  He tips his head again, and I walk inside the big glass dome. I’m supposed to be reporting straight to the field this morning and head toward that direction. The massive glass building, the smell of the baseball season starting, the bustle of dozens of Pistons employees scurrying about … it does absolutely nothing for me. My family may deal in baseball, it may be our life blood, but I’ve just never been the biggest fan. Yes, I played up until my high school graduation, simply because it was what was done as a Callahan.

  But I’ve just never been in love with the sport like the rest of my relatives. As if I haven’t always felt like the black sheep, that’s just one more mark against me. Not only is Sin lazy, but he’s a freak who doesn’t appreciate the sport that funds his entire existence.

  That age-old guilt and sense of not belonging burns in my gut. It turns out that not even getting sober can make those feelings go away, much to my dismay.

  When I round the corner for the tunnels, familiar with the layout of the facilities, I’m caught by surprise when someone runs straight into me.

  “Oof.” The person reacts, their head only hitting somewhere below my collarbone.

  My arms shoot out, steadying my attacker, as I absorb the blow to my abdomen.

  “Jeez, I didn’t see you …”

  My words evaporate the second my eyes latch onto the culprit’s face.

  Dewey freckled skin.

  Foxlike eyes the color of brilliant amethysts rimmed with thick black curled lashes.

  High cheekbones the color of dusty cherries.

  Fiery hair that reminds me of the last kiss of sunset on the horizon, curling out from under the brim of a Pistons ball cap.

  A tiny beauty mark winking at me from the left side of her mouth, just above the place it would lift up in a smirk if she made one.

  Her hair and eyes. It’s such an odd pairing of colors that on anyone else would just not work. But for some reason, it was like she was born to clash. She’s so visually stunning that I almost forget to breathe, and I’m positive I’ve been staring at her for way too long without saying anything.

  “Um, sorry.” She nervously steps out of my grasp, and the moment my hands drop, they’re tingling from the contact on her skin.

  When she moves back a pace, my eyes can’t help but fall to her body. And holy hell, is it a body. She’s in workout gear, skintight workout pants, and a gauzy Pistons T-shirt that clings to all the right places. Sinews of muscle in her arms, thighs that are sculpted and lean, a trim waist, and tight torso.

  An ass I swear I’ve had wet dreams about since I was ten. I only get a side glimpse of it, but I can already tell that’s a butt that should be worshipped. If I can somehow sneak a full view, I think I’ll name a religion after it.

  This woman has more muscles than me, and yet it’s insanely attractive on her. She’s not built like one of those female body builders, something that really doesn’t turn me on. But she’s lean and curved in all the right areas. You can tell she puts in work at the gym, but that she also knows what she wants her body to look like.

  And I can appreciate that. I can appreciate that a lot.

  “Sin.” I stick out my hand, giving her a cocky grin.

  “I bet you are.” She hands my confidence right back, and it makes me chuckle.

  All of the nervousness she coughed out in her apology just a second before has vanished. This woman has authority now written all over her.

  “And your name?”

  She taps her badge. “Frankie. Well, Francesca, but no one calls me that.”

  “And what do you do here, Francesca?” I ignore her, because I like the way her full name rolls off my tongue.

  Those violet eyes narrow, and I can tell she’s annoyed that I didn’t call her by her common nickname. “I’m the head strength and conditioning coach.”

  I let out a low wolf-whistle. “A female strength coach? How progressive.”

  Her gaze gets even more scrutinous. “Yes, well. Do you work here? Are you lost?”

  She doesn’t recognize me. Holy shit, she has no idea who I am. The realization dawns on me and blooms out, an unfamiliar feeling. I am used to everyone within the Pistons organization knowing who I am. After all, I’m a Callahan. I’m the owner’s son, but I’ve also grown up in the limelight. The Callahans are the new Kennedys to this country; they documented all of our family vacations to Sanibel, family weddings have been covered by People Magazine, and don’t forget the entire scandal with my uncle that was splashed everywhere for years after it happened. I’m used to being recognized no matter where I go, especially by women, since the media has deemed me the bad boy, black sheep Callahan.

  But this woman, with her striking features and unique nickname, has no idea who I am.

  And I kind of love it.

  “I’m new on the video crew, I’m supposed to report to the field to shoot some packages today.” I flash her a winning smile.

  “I guess you better get to the field then. Nick doesn’t like when his employees are late.”

  My eyes flit down to the Apple Watch on my wrist. I still have five minutes to spare, and I’d like to spend it talking to her.

  “I’ve got five. When did you start working here, Francesca?”

  Those amethyst eyes flash in annoyance yet again at me calling her by her full name. “If you’re not ten minutes early, you’re already late. That’s how I run my department, anyway. I’m pretty sure Nick is the same.”<
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  And with that, she marches past me toward the weight rooms and training wing of the building. I turn, a shocked but genuine smirk on my face, as I get a full view of that spectacular ass. I was right; it is sacrosanct.

  “Guess I’ll see you around then, Francesca,” I call after her.

  Just like that, I feel like I have my mojo back.

  Maybe Florida won’t be so bad after all.

  3

  Sinclair

  Frankie, the hot strength coach, is right; my boss, Nick, does not appreciate anyone being anything other than ten minutes early.

  In fact, make that fifteen, which is why I’ve been waking before the sun is even up most mornings to get to work on time.

  That first day with my new boss was brutal at best. Nick is the Video Production Manager for spring training; his team shoots all of the marketing and promo packages of the team to get our season ticket holders and regular fans pumped for the upcoming season. They shoot player interviews about where each guy came from, his favorite legendary player, the thing that makes him passionate about baseball. They put together packages of each player’s batting stance or document the science of a reliever’s best pitches. This spring training, there will be a series of short documentaries released on the entire bullpen and how they work together to create a cohesive defensive unit.

  From top to bottom, Nick’s team is shooting video and clips all day to sew together some really great looking and sounding material for the fans. The better the videos, the more it attracts people. The more the marketing attracts people, the more tickets and merchandise they buy.

  And now, his team includes me. Or should I say I’m now his number two?

  My first day, I nearly dropped a ten-thousand-dollar camera, got dirty looks from my three underlings who have way more experience than I do, fucked up an interview with a minor league shortstop that was so off-center we had to reshoot it, and did about twenty other things that royally pissed my boss off.

  In the last four days, I’ve managed to learn a little bit more, fuck up a little bit less, and show up early. But I’m still not living up to Nick’s very high expectations.

  “Sinclair!” Nick barks in frustration. “I needed that mic pack yesterday!”

  He’s testing the white balance on a shot of the newest Pistons superstar. Garrett Chester was just called up from the minors, where he was a high school phenom recruited at the age of eighteen. He’s only twenty-two now, having done his rounds and growing up in triple A, he’s finally getting his shot at the big show this season, and that starts with spring training. The kid has an arm like a rocket, and he’s cocky as fuck.

  Honestly, he reminds me of me at that age. Or maybe he reminds me of me just a year ago, before I got sober.

  I finally retrieve the mic pack from the audio duffel bag, and jog it over to my boss.

  “About time,” he grumbles.

  The guy hates me, mostly because he was forced to bring me on as his number two. Jeffrey, Trevor, or Patrick, the three guys who have worked for him for nearly two years, are a hell of a lot more qualified. We all know it. They also all know my last name and can’t say a thing against me for fear of me running to my daddy.

  They don’t realize I’d never do that, but there is that underlying fear and pressure just the same.

  “Hey, can I shadow you today? I really want to know how to do that better.” I nod at the boom microphone Trevor is holding above Garrett’s head.

  “Sure.” Trevor’s expression is unreadable, not happy to help but also contains no malice.

  The conversations they’ve had with me are short and always instructive, but it’s clear they have no intentions of making me their friend. When we break for lunch, the three of them head for the dugout with their homemade brown bags. I’ve never been invited. Yesterday, Thursday, I heard them talking about their plans for that night. Hit up a local seafood joint that had two for one drinks. I wasn’t invited.

  That’s okay. I’m used to being the odd one out. I’m used to not having close friends. I’m used to being tolerated.

  A part of me thought this might be different, being here as an employee and really being on the ground, doing the work. I’m trying to show interest; I’m trying to learn. But it feels like the more I try, the less anyone actually wants to get to know me.

  “And I’d love to help put together some interview sets, if possible.” I direct this one to Patrick, the resident journalist on our squad.

  Not only do we tape all the promo and marketing campaigns, but these guys are the ones interviewing the subjects.

  I find myself being drawn to that, the interview side of this. Yes, the technical video work is more interesting than I thought it would be, but the documentary-style work that we do is what I’m taking to. I’ve always been good at talking to people. My brother Walker likes to say I could talk to a wall for hours and both of us would find it stimulating.

  Watching Patrick field questions to the players, trying to suss out information, it … I find myself actually watching as if the program was on my TV and not inches in front of my face.

  “The question lineup is typically done by me.” I sense Patrick’s territorial tone.

  “No, I know that, man. You’re so good at it. I just thought maybe I could take a crack. It seems …”

  I don’t want to say fun but I can’t think of another word. I don’t need to give these guys any more reminders that I’m just here as a spring training project my father assigned me to. I can already see it is in their eyes, the hostility and jealousy. We are all aware that I don’t even remotely need this job to survive.

  “If you want.” He dismisses me with a couple of words, all hinting at distaste.

  I watch as Nick and the three guys work as a well-oiled unit, moving around Garrett as the rookie turns his undeniable shine and charm on. They check the cameras, hold steady shots, get angles that will work well during cuts of the interview, and operate the equipment like the professionals they are.

  It leaves me on the outskirts, feeling useless—as usual.

  They shoot everything they need to get and then duck their heads together, talking about how they’ll edit it all. I’m left to pack up the equipment.

  “You’re a Callahan, right? Walker Callahan’s brother?”

  I look up to see Garrett watching me. The way Garrett says it, I can tell he idolizes my brother just like the rest of the world. It’s not a leap that he picked me out as the spare heir, Walker and I look pretty much alike.

  I nod. “The lowly, serf-like younger brother, at your service.”

  Garrett snorts. “There ain’t nothing lowly about your kind. I’ve seen that compound y’all live on down here.”

  His southern accent is so out of place in my world. I’m from WASP territory, raised in the upper crust of the East Coast, even if my family does hail from a small Pennsylvania town. With his Texas drawl, the cowboy boots I saw him rocking before, and that cocky down-home attitude, Garrett Chester is in for a big culture shock in Packton.

  But it kind of makes me like him more.

  “There is no denying that.” I chuckle.

  “Hey, how about a drink later? I’m new in town, so are you. And I’d love to pick your brain about this organization.”

  Ugh, I hate talking baseball. I also really shouldn’t step foot in a bar.

  But had I ever shied away from doing things I shouldn’t? No. I typically jump headfirst into things just to say I had the experience.

  So. instead of tucking myself away in the compound like a good boy for the weekend, I do the exact opposite. I agree to a bar outing with a young hotshot whose newfound fame and fortune could only spell trouble for a night like this.

  “Where did you have in mind?”

  4

  Frankie

  This week was one for the books, in the best way possible.

  It’s like right before my eyes, all of my dreams are coming true. Bench players reported to spring training this
week, which means I got to start working with actual major league players.

  Of course, my typical days working the minor league and farm team guys are rewarding, and those players are still so dedicated. But the guys I’m working with now? They’re a whole other brand of impressive. They know where they need to get their bodies to, how far they can push their muscles, and take direction without complaint.

  The manager, pitching coaches, hitting coaches, and other major league personnel arrived today, and I even got a compliment on how I was working with one of their promising young pitchers. It was exhilarating, and the fact that I was running the show felt really damn good.

  So I’d taken myself out for a drink.

  I mean, it wasn’t like coming to Eddie’s was different from most weekend nights for me, but I had splurged on top-shelf tequila, so there was that.

  The old beach bar was right on the Fort Myers downtown strip and catered to tourists and locals alike. It was open air, and the barstools were all mismatching pastel wood while the tables sported umbrellas with pineapples on them. The one TV hanging above the tiki bar was always playing some sort of soccer game, even if I begged Eddie to change it to baseball during the season.

  The rickety planks of the deck lead right out onto the beach where Eddie has claimed the sand as his own. A dozen colorful Adirondack chairs dot the sand, facing the sunset as the hot ball of gas kisses down onto the ocean’s surface.

  And best of all, I only have to walk four doors down to get back up to my apartment. The number of times I’ve drunkenly stumbled home and up the stairs to face plant in my bed? Too many times to count.

  I came alone, not wanting the company of the couple girlfriends I have here. While I grew up in this town, an only child of a single mother who worked three jobs to keep a roof over our heads, I don’t have many ties. Mom still lives in Bonita Springs, and we see each other often enough, though we’re not close. She has no family, so in turn, I don’t have any. My dad is … well, who knows. I’d have to know his name to know that. For some reason, I’ve never been too curious to find out.