Page 7 of SALT

Teague coughs into his hand. "That just earned ten laps, Michaelson."

I hold up my hand. "No, that's fine. I want you guys to speak your mind. You don't think the workouts are up to snuff, and that's because they're not, but that's also why I'm the coach and not you. We technically couldn't start our season until the SEC Tournaments were officially concluded, which means that practices starting Monday will look a lot different. As for the washed-up, peaked in high school part…" I run my thumb over my lips and drop my eyes, thankful I traded in my suits for athleisure today of all days. "Since the three of you arrived early today, you can join me for my daily workout. We'll see if that gets you warmed up and if you're still vertical by the end of practice. I'll run your laps."

"You're on, Callahan," Parker says, quickly taking the bait.

I understand Teague's knee-jerk reaction. Not only am I Parker's elder, but I'm the interim head coach. There's a level of respect that comes with both of those positions, no questions asked. While I'm years beyond looking to people for validation, I'm not beyond earning respect. I won't just step in here and demand it. If I need to prove myself to these boys for them to play hard, so be it. Game on.

We've just finished practicing base drills, and I can tell Parker is running on fumes. I'm in good shape, but I'll admit I'm starting to get fatigued. We're going on our third hour of practice, and the heat is beginning to set in. I may have underestimated the depth of his dissension.

"Alright, balls in," I call out, and half the team sighs in relief before I say, "We're going to work on leads and steals. After going over footage from last year's season, I noticed that the number one area in which the team consistently fell short was bases stolen. Half of you were part of the team last year. Moretti and Warson are the exceptions. They can sit this one out."

As the team walks back to the dugout to grab a quick drink, I hear one of the guys, say quietly, "Tap out already. This is your fight, not the team's."

I don't get a chance to hear what Parker says in return because as I grab my bat to hit balls, Denver asks, "So what's your plan if he doesn't drop from exhaustion?" I don't immediately answer because, honestly, I hadn't thought that far when I challenged him. "I mean, don't get me wrong, he looks tired. If I had to bet money, he's probably got another thirty minutes, an hour max, before he gives up, knowing he's still going to have to run laps but?—"

"He wasn't the only one who questioned my dedication and ability to do what they do. If this is what it takes to prove I'm not fucking around, that I care just as much as Connor, then I will. I'll do this every day until they believe it, and if they don't, so be it, but you better believe they'll be winners."

After drinking half of my bottle of Gatorade, I grab my glove and a ball and step onto the field, ready to start throwing some pitches and picking guys off when Parker jogs out of the dugout, his eyes connecting with mine for the briefest of seconds before he takes off down the foul line and starts running laps. It's not the pomposity I expected. Even in defeat, I would have guessed he'd give me lip service. Perhaps something about how I didn't truly win because he's only conceding for the team. In the end, it doesn't matter. Defeat is defeat, but I have a feeling this is just the first of many.

By the time I pull into my driveway for the evening, I'm exhausted; not just from training with men half my age but from all of it. The training, the personalities, and the sheer amount of work. If you had asked me a week ago if I'd grown complacent in my own career, I would have said no and meant it. Lawyers are constantly having to evolve. No two cases are identical, but it's more than just knowing the law. It's knowing people, reading them, predicting their next move, and knowing what makes them tick. As a lawyer, your interpersonal skills are continually adapting. Your attention to detail, organization, and time management are all constantly on. I come home for one week to run a stadium and suddenly feel like running a law firm is easier. It could be the familiarity. I have done it my whole life. Or maybe it's that I want to impress my son so I'm going extra hard. I don't want to let him down. I want to be the man he used to see. The one he looked up to, relied on, and respected.

It's the thought of being that man that has me feeling like a complete ass when I open the garage and see Cameron's car. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt anyone, let alone her, but that's precisely what I did. This time of the year is already hard enough for her, and then I had to pile onto it by blowing up on her the first night I got back into town. But in my defense, it couldn't be helped. I had so much weighing on my mind after the day I spent with Connor. That same day, I realized helping him meant stepping back from my own business in a big way.

Then there's her. I left because of her, and when I came back, it was as though I hadn't left at all. Everything I thought would disappear didn't. I needed space. I needed to get away from the thoughts that started to cloud my better judgment, the ones encouraging me to step over the line.

My best friend died and more or less left his daughter in my care. While Cameron believes her staying in Waterloo was a choice, it was anything but. However, that detail isn't known to anyone but me. Damon was one of the most brilliant men I knew. It's why we became Callahan & Associates. My brothers saw it too. Damon was a rare breed. He had a true gift. Sure, any of us can talk in circles and say things without actually saying anything at all. It's what we are trained to do, but Damon could make someone telling the truth feel like honesty was a lie. I never met a person who knew Damon and didn't love him. He was a great man, but even great men do stupid shit, like when the fucker entrusted the care of his daughter to me. It's one of the many mistakes I've learned my longtime best friend and business partner made. Outside of my brothers, he was the only person I trusted with my deepest secrets. I believed we told each other everything, but if that were true, I wouldn't have Cameron.

As I walk through the front door, the malty scents of caramel and chocolate make my mouth water. I'm not typically a fan of sweets, but I haven't eaten since breakfast, and the smell of homemade food only reminds me of my hunger. I'm glad she's home. When I pulled into the garage, I saw her car, but that didn't guarantee she would be inside. The smell of dessert tells me she's not only home but relaxed. The woman isn't a chef by any means. She only started cooking within the past year, but baking is something I've seen her do a few times over the years since she's lived in this house.

Around the time she first came to live with us, I heard noises coming from downstairs in the middle of the night. Naturally, I went down to investigate and found her baking cookies while Connor sat at the island seemingly eating them at one a.m. It was then that I overheard her tell him that baking helped let go of the bad because it required her to focus. She explained how baking is a precise thing. The slightest miscalculation can ruin a recipe. From where I stood in the shadows, I could see him shoving cookies into the towel drawer on his side of the island. Her mother, Amelia, wasn't the homemaker type. Instead, she spent her time at spas, shopping, and attending lunches with her socialite friends. To this day, I'm not sure what Damon saw in that woman, especially after the things I learned following their deaths.

"Ouch…" I hear Cameron hiss out as a pan simultaneously clangs against the marble countertop, pulling me from my thoughts.

My feet carry me to the kitchen faster than I can blink. "What happened?" I demand before assessing the scene for myself.

Her eyes quickly find mine, but they don't linger the way they usually do, which bothers me more than it should.

"Don't worry about it. I'm fine. Give me five minutes, and I'll be out of your kitchen," she grumbles.

Damn it. We're still at this. I haven't seen her in days. After I told her I thought it was time she moved out, she did a hell of a good job of staying out of my sight. The only way I knew she'd been coming and going was by checking the security cameras. She's done an excellent job of ensuring she's not around when I am, which tells me two things. Cameron Salt doesn't just know me a little, she knows me a lot; she knows my subtleties and nuances. Living under the same roof, we were bound to cross paths, but not to the extent we had been prior to me leaving town. Cameron wasn't conveniently in my space. She was intentionally in it. Another revelation that I shouldn't like.

Her back is to me when I step up from behind and gently grab her arm to assess the burn myself. Her skin instantly pebbles, and her breath audibly catches. A long second that feels like a short eternity stretches between us before she says, "I said I was fine."

She attempts to pull away, but I don't let her. "We need to talk," I say, keeping my voice unaffected even though I'm anything but inside. I pin her between myself and the sink, flip on the water, and dampen a hand towel. "I shouldn't have acted the way I did. I came home and assumed the party was yours."

"Since when do you care if I have parties?" she asks, her tone quieter and less contentious.

Good fucking question. Do I like the kids throwing parties here? Not exactly, but I allowed it for many years. It's better here than where I couldn't watch them. One bonfire out in the fields when I was seventeen changed the entire trajectory of my life. I didn't want to see history repeat itself with Connor or anyone's kids, for that matter. But that's not what this is now. I wasn't mad about the party per se. Rather, I was upset about what parties entail and how she was dressed. Even though I know the root of my discontent, it doesn't mean I care to own it or accept what it says about me. Monsters can live inside of us, but it doesn't mean we must let them out to play. I've done well enough taming my beast. I've made it this far. What's another couple of months?

I place the cool, damp towel on her arm. "If you want to stay until the end of your senior year, that's fine…"

"Everett—"

"Let me finish," I cut her off before she can distract me from finishing the thought that just came to mind. I know what's triggering my deplorable thoughts. Which means I know how to end this madness. I take a step back and immediately miss her warmth. "If you stay, there are going to be some rules."

"Rules," she repeats as she slowly turns to face me.

"Yes, rules. The first one being no more parties."

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