Family Camp (Daddy Dearest, #1)(53)

Travis swiped away from the call and opened his email. He clicked on the link, all the while frozen with dread inside. Was this about the Padres? Had they dumped him publicly? Or—

The link went to a gossip site, TMZ. As he brought it up, he could see the headline and the first picture.

TRAVIS MAYHEW’S GAY CAMP GETAWAY.

The first photo was of him and Geo at family baseball. Geo was shoving him back and they were basically chest to chest, Geo’s hand blocking his arm, Travis grinning.

Travis closed his eyes briefly. Oh no.

Stomach roiling, heart pounding in his chest, Travis swiped down the article. He didn’t read the text. He didn’t have to. The pictures were bad enough.

He and Jayden and Lucy and Geo in the canoe.

He and Geo when Lucy got hurt, Geo holding Lucy in his arms and Travis close, face worried, hand on Geo’s arm.

He and Geo talking on the steps of the lodge.

He and Geo sitting on the beach by the swim area, sitting too close, Geo’s expression unmistakably infatuated.

He and Geo doing the three-legged race during the relay, arms around each other, laughing.

And the last one—a blurry, dark image of the two of them kissing in the woods, clutched tight in an embrace.

Someone had followed them and taken these. Someone had stalked them. Motherfucking assholes.

His legs were weak. Travis sat down on his bed and tried to keep the panic at bay while he swiped back to his phone call.

“I’m sorry,” Travis said, his voice barely there.

Sorry. What was he sorry for? For being a fuck-up. For being a fake all this time. For pretending that Travis Mayhew was ever someone worth idolizing when he was nothing and nobody. He was just a guy who loved baseball who had gotten incredibly lucky. And now it was all burning down around him.

“Travis.” From the tone of Marcia’s voice, she’d been trying to get his attention for a while.

Travis released his death grip on his hair. “Yeah?”

“I asked why you never told me you were gay. It would have been nice to have had some warning this could happen.”

Travis had no idea what she was talking about. Why would he talk to Marcia about his sex life? “It’s private,” was all he could think of to say. Then, “How bad is this? It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

She sighed. “All right, look. Come to my office. You should be able to get to L.A. in a few hours. The East Coast is already awake and chewing into this pile of shit, but if you hurry, we can put together something before most Westies see the news this morning. We need to figure out how we’re going to handle this. We should put out a statement ASAP.”

Travis didn’t even think about protesting that he wasn’t supposed to leave camp until tomorrow. His profession, his career, his reputation, his life was on the line.

“I’ll leave now.”

“I’ll have coffee and bagels waiting. Get here.” Marcia hung up.

Travis couldn’t make himself move. It felt like the universe had had a severe back draft and sucked out his soul. He collapsed onto the bed, curling into his side, phone still in his hand, eyes on the wall.

This room. This room with its creaky single bed and old chenille cover, the wood paneling, the view of tall trees through the window, an old aqua dresser, and the scent of wood and smoke and musty corners…. This was camp, his refuge, the place rooted inside him, reaching down to the best of his childhood memories. It was dirt and trees and softball with his brothers and sisters and campfires and marshmallows and standing in line with a plastic tray in the cafeteria. It was the sunrise over the lake from the lodge windows as he ate breakfast. It was home.

Only now there was a sense of dread and fear that, somehow, camp had been a disaster for him. That the world out there, the San Diego Padres’ Travis Mayhew, had collided hard with some alternate version of himself he’d gotten sucked into here, someone more carefree and less guarded. And it had kicked his fucking ass. Now it was all shattered, maybe. There and here. And how could he ever make it right again?

Stop it. It’s a fucking story in a fucking gossip rag. It’s not the end of the world.

It shouldn’t be. Except he could visualize the way it would be, going back to the clubhouse now. The guys would stare at him, thinking about those pictures. Would his friends, teammates desert him? And the Padres’ owners? Would they want him out? He was already supposed to be retiring after next season. Would he be forced out early? Traded to some hell hole? Would anyone even take him? He knew his career would end one day, but he didn’t want it to end in flames.

And the press. Christ, it would go on for days. Weeks. The paparazzi would be insane.

If he did take the field again, pitched a game, would the crowd boo him? Throw shit?

And, oh God, his family. His father. Whatever backlash Travis faced, his family would have to deal with it too. That hurt so bad, Travis couldn’t think about it.

Then there was Geo. This wasn’t Geo’s fault. He probably didn’t really get how people loved to gossip about pro athletes, or how serious it would be if they were found out. It was Travis who’d been reckless and stupid. Like with the three-legged race. Geo had tried to back off, but Travis had insisted. He’d been so drawn to Geo, and to the kids too, and he hadn’t wanted to push them away. He’d felt… almost defiant about it. He was so damn sick of hiding.