Draft Pick (The Atlanta Boys #4)

Prologue

CREW

There’s a special place in hell for psychologists like Dr. Mayweather.

I’m talking, there’s a piece of broken-down patio furniture—sans cushion—shoved in the corner of an abandoned house taken over by rats with his name on it.

That could be me just being an unapologetic extremist.

Or maybe we can call it a corrupted school district. Not that I truly believe the Atlanta district is tainted, but if I’m labeling it based on my current feelings, I’m not a fan.

Mrs. Sheffield, however? I can handle her. Her soft and kind demeanor shows me she means well and was likely forced here by the principal. My eyes follow the way her fingertips tap against the surface of the conference room table nervously.

As for the guy with a doctorate degree, he reeks of confidence. And not the good kind. He thinks saying too much will reassure you as a parent, not make you want to storm out of here and slam the door in his face. That’s where I’m at.

You’d think for a man with the same last name as Ford fucking Mayweather, he’d have an ounce of sauce in him.

Maybe my negative mindset stems from travel exhaustion.

Or maybe it’s because I’m tired in other ways.

Tired of trying like hell to be my daughter’s biggest advocate and constantly being told she isn’t performing well enough.

Watching her struggle feels like stabbing myself in the leg.

“Mr. Briggs, we’re at a bit of a crossroads here.

We know kindergarten is more of a foundational year, but Adeline continues to show regression that has us concerned about her ability to perform in first grade.

Although this doesn’t warrant retention quite yet, it also doesn’t completely weigh out that option next year if we can’t get her to grade level. ”

Okay. I understand that, but she’s five. Do they really expect a five-year-old to not struggle their first year in grade school? It’s hard enough to explain the concept of time. Dr. Mayweather must see the conflict on my face because he continues to attempt solace.

He’s wasting his breath.

“Mrs. Sheffield and I are working together to make sure Adeline is set up for success. It’s evident she loves learning, and our hope is that the tools we put into place for her moving forward will only improve her focus and mastery.”

I’m listening and understanding, but my conversation with Addie this morning pops into my head as if she subconsciously knew I needed the reminder.

“You’re the bestest daddy in the whole wide world,” her sweet little voice whispered in my ear as we snuggled on the couch watching The Little Mermaid for the ten thousandth time.

I can recite King Triton’s lines in my sleep at this point.

“And you’re my favorite girl in the whole wide world.

Nothing will ever change that,” I told her.

It was hardly 6 a.m. before I heard her quick feet trotting down the staircase and finding me in the kitchen, half her collection of stuffed animals tucked safely under her arms. I set my alarm for five when I’m not traveling for work—my attempt at an hour or so to myself before starting the day.

Not that I don’t adore my daughter and enjoy her company, but traveling during baseball season, while also being a father, doesn’t exactly free up much time for me to think in my own space.

No time to clear my head and reset my thoughts for whatever the day holds.

I had just made my second cup of coffee before Addie woke up, immediately insisting we snuggle and watch TV before it was time to get ready for school. No father could ever say no to that.

After requesting I give her three different kinds of cereal all mixed together in one bowl, I folded her under my arm and watched Ariel fall in love with Prince Eric.

“Do you think you’ll ever find your Ariel, Daddy?

” Addie whispered, eyes tuned into the way the magical characters gaze at each other across the canoe.

My heart stopped in my chest. She’s never once asked me something so intentional before.

Like she couldn’t help but imagine Prince Eric was me—deliriously in love, without a care in the world.

Addie’s heart has so much room for love. It’s a beautiful thing to witness as she gets older. I hope she stays this way forever.

“I’m not sure,” I whispered closely. “But I hope so. Is that something you’d like?”

She nodded quickly, her head falling to my shoulder while chomps of Fruit Loops resounded between us. “You’re my prince,” she said, tattooing my lonely soul. “But sometimes you look sad, and I don’t like it when you’re sad, Daddy.”

I make it my daily mission to raise Addie in a positive and uplifting home. But I’m only human, and sometimes hiding how alone I truly feel becomes more difficult than I realized. But fuck, I hate that she’s noticed.

I kissed her forehead. “Don’t you worry about me, Doodle. How could I ever be sad when I’ve got you?”

“That’s cause I’m so smart! Mrs. Sheffield said my brain is so big and has knowledge. I don’t even know what that means. Do I have a big brain, Daddy?”

“Only because you’re a genius. The smartest girl I know.” I tapped her little noggin. “I bet you’ve got so much smart knowledge up there that someday you’ll be a doctor. Or maybe even a scientist.”

“Or a dentist!” she shouted.

“You, my sweet girl, can be anything you want to be. And I promise to help make it happen.”

I needed those words from her today. Her unwavering love is crucial for my ability to fight for her right to learn the way she needs to. To advocate for her space in this world, where kids who learn like my daughter aren’t accepted.

Addie is hands-on. She thrives off demonstration and being taught in a way that shows her how to do something, rather than telling her. That was something I realized about her at a very young age.

“Will she have accommodations?” It’s the first question that comes to mind. I don’t want her to be singled out and feel like an oddball. I’d quit my fucking job and teach her myself if I ever found out she was made to feel like something was wrong with her.

Learning differences should be celebrated and understood.

I’m giving this school the benefit of the doubt before taking matters into my own hands.

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Sheffield interjects, finally entering the conversation on her own.

“That little girl shines so brightly. Never in a million years would I want her to feel separated from the rest of her classmates. We will offer multiple accommodations that will be available at her discretion or yours, Mr. Briggs. Meaning, since all of her required evaluations have been completed, when Adeline wants or needs specific accommodations, they will be available to her. No questions asked.”

“And what are they?” I’m not trying to be so sharp and to the point, but I feel worthless knowing there’s nothing I can do to help my kid.

Mrs. Sheffield shares a look with Dr. Mayweather before continuing, “Well, although Adeline is still very young, she is showing signs of inability to focus. According to her diagnostic assessment, that is. Redirection is something I’ve had to use more often than our time in class typically allows.

Although I’m happy to do it, I have nineteen other students who require my attention as well.

The goal is to start small. Velcro tabs will be placed underneath her desk for physical stimulation.

Think of it as a fidget. Anytime she feels distracted or scattered, knowing that texture is there will help re-stimulate the brain to focus.

I’ve seen great success with this minute tactic. ”

I’m on board with that.

I sigh, relief beginning to sink in. “That makes sense. We keep squishies and Rubik’s cubes in the car for entertainment. It helps.”

They both nod. “That’s great to hear, Mr. Briggs.

Tactile engagement is wonderful for young minds,” Mrs. Sheffield reassures me before continuing, “we will also provide her with headphones. Once again, offered to be used at Adeline’s discretion.

We don’t play music during learning hours, but for some students, something as simple as another child coughing or a chair screeching across the floor can be a distraction that inhibits their focus.

These headphones are noise-canceling and will hopefully assist in keeping her mind on track. ”

I can tell Mrs. Sheffield genuinely cares about Addie and not just the statistics of the school.

I find that comforting, because although I may not have the education the two adults before me do, I’m not an idiot.

Below-grade-level test scores equal less funding.

“What about when she gets overstimulated and none of those things help? At home, we go on walks. A change of scenery helps. Is it possible for that to be an option?”

Dr. Mayweather hums. “Certainly. Walks are one hundred percent doable. Do you think Adeline will be able to voice that need if necessary?”

Can she tell them when she needs something? My little ball of energy is more intelligent than anyone gives her credit for. She talks like a teenager most days.

“That won’t be a problem, Dr. Mayweather. As long as she knows the option is there, I’m confident she’ll utilize it. Maybe more than necessary at times.” Addie may be smart, but she also knows how to pull a fast one on you.

I know from experience, being the victim of her cute little schemes.

“Noted,” he states. “This will take a team effort, Mr. Briggs. Our goal here at Brownstone Elementary is to set every child up for success. I will offer my support, however deemed necessary, whenever Mrs. Sheffield needs me. I also want to make sure you are aware of the tools and resources available to you at home. Now, from my understanding, you travel for work?”

I nod. “I play professional baseball.”

“Home of the Atlanta Strikers,” Mrs. Sheffield adds, nudging Mayweather’s arm.

“Ah,” he quips. “A homegrown tomato. Not very often we find an athlete who is actively involved in their child’s academic progress. Most players typically send their nanny. I respect that, Mr. Briggs.”

If I had a dollar for every time I heard that. As if loving my child is a sacrifice. No. I’d lay down my glove right this second if playing meant missing a meeting as significant as this.

“Nothing is more important to me than Addie, Dr. Mayweather.” I turn toward Addie’s teacher.

“Mrs. Sheffield. I will do my part. Addie may be young, but she is her father’s daughter and, believe it or not, reminds me a lot of myself.

I struggled in school at a very young age.

My attention span was…tested…and I never got the help I deserved and needed, making learning incredibly difficult.

I refuse to let that happen to my daughter. ”

Dr. Mayweather sets his pen and stack of papers down. I suddenly feel how small this ten-by-ten meeting room actually is. “Then I expect nothing but the best to come for your Adeline. I’m assuming you will be sure to relay this information to her mother?”

I rest back in the chair slightly, my chest calming, knowing progress has been made. “I will. She travels for work as well and couldn’t make it today. Would you mind emailing me a list of Addie’s accommodations, please? I’d like to try some of them at home.”

“Absolutely. I also want to make sure you’re aware of resources you can seek out for extra assistance if needed.

Since we don’t ask for any type of written diagnosis before first grade, our options are limited.

The goal is to stay away from medication in the future if possible.

Some parents have found hiring a private tutor, after-school programs, or even seeking out their local pediatrician have been helpful. ”

Written Diagnosis…what he means is—ADHD. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

Talking in codewords means nothing to someone who has done their research and put in the work to best understand my daughter.

There’s zero shame in being different. No sense in pussyfooting around it.

But what’s up with this dark cloud that hangs over the idea of medication in today’s society?

As if taking medication is a weakness and frowned upon.

Obviously, I want to try everything I can before resorting to that option, but come hell or high water, if meds are the only option, I’ll make sure Addie knows she’s a fucking star.

Ready for this meeting to be over, I mask those thoughts and stand of my own accord.

“I’ll be sure to look into those. Any way to support Addie, I’ll do it.

Thank you again for meeting with me, Dr. Mayweather.

And Mrs. Sheffield.” I hold out my hand.

“Thank you for seeing the best in my daughter. She thinks the world of you.”

Mrs. Sheffield returns the gesture, and her caring smile comforts me, knowing who Addie spends her school days with.

An older woman, likely in her sixties, with time on her side.

Time—from what I can tell—is spent pouring into children and helping build their confidence.

I’m grateful for that, considering the struggle we’re facing.

“Always, Mr. Briggs. We will be in touch. Please feel free to contact me with any concerns or questions you may have.”

“Will do,” I tell her, turning to exit the room. I stop short the moment Mrs. Sheffield’s voice calls out for me again. “Oh, and Mr. Briggs?”

I look over my shoulder, finding her standing closer with a white paper in her hand. It’s covered in every shade of the rainbow, and I instantly know the creator. “Yes, ma’am?”

She hands me Addie’s drawing, and I almost crumble to my knees. “Have a great season. You’ve got a proud little girl rooting for you.”

Looking down, I don’t find just an ordinary picture. I find the role model I am to my daughter. The safe place I am to her. Because there I am with my glove in the air, jumping for a fly ball at Makers Park. Out secured—if I might add or selfishly request.

But that’s not what makes my heart burst. It’s the little girl beside me, wearing a poofy princess dress and crown, Trolli—her tarantula stuffed animal—on her hip, and stars in her eyes. Smile wide and beaming at her daddy.

That’s the pride I feel for her every day.

My little girl. My whole world.

It’s always been just the two of us on the right side of the moon.

Although things haven’t exactly been easy, they’ve been perfectly imperfect. And now we’ve got a bit of an obstacle on our hands, but it’s nothing we can’t handle together.

Not with the bond we share. Daddy and his little Doodle.

We hammer away and never give up.