Henry’s gaze shot back to the bleachers, then he whistled as if in pain. “Sure, whatever you say.”
Like something out of a cartoon, a lightbulb flickered to life above Camp’s head. He stifled a laugh.No. No way. Is that whyshe?—
Acting on the foolish impulse to impress a woman he didn’t evenlike, he stepped forward, arm extended, palm to the sky. “Give it to me.”
“Naw. Forget it,” Henry said, almost pleading.
Campbell smiled, but his voice dropped, honed to a hard edge—like John Nelson’s blade against wood, sharp enough to hold. “You wanted a show, Bowman? We’ll put on a show. Sorry it’s not the one you planned.”
He rolled his fingers into a fist, then relaxed them. “Now give me the goddamned bat.”
Henry’s frown settled in, carving deep grooves into his cheeks, but he handed it over.
At least the idiot didn’t glance at Fontana again.
Campbell bit back his disgust and stepped behind the plate. He hoped the sharp twist in his gut wasn’t jealousy. Hoped to God he wasn’t blindly chasing some impossibly absurd impulse.
The buzz of excitement—entirely at his expense—droned in his ears, a steady hammering. He shut it out. He’d always been able to shut it out.
The pressure. The weight of expectation. The feel of wood grain beneath his fingertips. The swirl of dust as he stamped his feet, squared his shoulders, and found his place in a place he’d never wanted.
He gripped the bat, and a painful flood of memories surged through him, racing down his arms and into his mind.God, for a camera.For the familiar press of a viewfinder against his brow, a barrier to hide behind—his face, his feelings, all of it.
“Hold it like this, son. Just one more hour of practice.”
“Can’t you see the talent you’re wasting on those damn pictures, Campbell Loman?”
With a swift, caustic twist, Campbell jabbed the bat at Henry. “This is the last time I swing one of these for anyonebut myself. And if you ever drag my family into some ridiculous display of machismo again, I won’t be held accountable for beating the shit out of you.Understand?”
Ignoring the color staining Henry’s cheeks, the echo of his father’s voice in his ear, the all-too-familiar weight of the bat in his hands, Campbell closed his eyes, drew a breath, and let the world fold in on him.
FONTANA
“I can’t watch.” Fontana slumped onto the bleacher as a sharp gust of wind sent a shiver through her. She tugged her sleeves past her wrists, hunching into her shirt as if she could disappear into thrift-store flannel. “He holds the bat like it’s a hot coal. I’m surprised he even knows which end is up.”
As Campbell stood there, motionless, a pang of remorse zipped through her—ridiculous. Then came sympathy, which she somewhat understood.
Her jaw tightened. “I’m going to kill Henry. This is the last time he makes a scene and gets away with it.”
“Plenty of time to flay the Cro-Magnon later.” Jaime grasped her elbow, pulling her to her feet. “You’ll want to see this. Trust me.” His voice turned knowing. “Repulsion isn’t ignorance, darling. Believe me, I know. You can understand something and still find it utterly repellent. And your precious Atlanta? He knows exactly which end is up.”
Fontana didn’t understand Jaime’s cryptic remark, and she didn’t ask. Small-town secrets were the hardest to unearth—and the longest to endure. Innuendo, trivial gossip in its kindest form, had shadowed her in every town her father had dragged her and Hannah through.
She’d learned to respectnotknowing everything.
After being on the wrong side of too many whispers to count, she no longer had the heart to indulge. Instead, she watched, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as Campbell gave a jerky nod of agreement to Russell Blaine, Promise High’s baseball coach.
The pitch came in fast and looked a little high to her, but hittable for someone who knew which end of the bat was up.
Knees bent, elbows angled down and in, wrists spiraling with deliberate control as he brought his arms forward. The play of muscle in his shoulders, forearms, back…lower.
Beauty of form and motion.
Absolute, unwavering.
Somewhere in the middle of Campbell True’s superbly balanced, effortless swing, Fontana realized she’d been had. Tipping her head back to watch the ball leave the park, she clenched her teeth hard enough to crack a molar. “Thanks, Jame.”
Jaime bowed at the waist, his speech strangled by laughter.
