Charlotte
“Hi, sad girl. How are you?” Addie wraps me in a hug as soon as I walk into the condo.
I hug her back tightly, wishing it were Callan’s arms around me. Fuck, I couldn’t stop staring at him in the hallway yesterday. I almost blurted out how much I like him. It felt so good to be in his embrace again.
Finally, I shrug out of my coat and hang it up. “I think your greeting mostly covered it: Sad.”
“I’ve got snacks on the table in front of the TV. Oh, and wine.”
There’s a knock at the door, and I drop onto the couch as Addie lets in Finley and Sage.
As Addie welcomes them and takes their jackets, I look around the place—my place—and try to imagine moving back in. I can’t. It’s like, somehow, after living with Callan, I don’t fit in this space anymore. And the thought of moving back makes my chest feel like it’s crumbling.
Too bad I’ve promised myself not to be a total bummer tonight. Addie got enough of it on Sunday. That girl is done. And I’m moving on. Well, maybe not on, but I’m moving forward.
“Sorry about the game.” Sage sits next to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders.
“I was really hoping we’d make it farther. It would’ve made all this shit with Hugo easier.”
“What shit with Hugo?” Finley asks around a mouthful of prosciutto.
“He’s trying to fucking trade Callan.” It’s all I can do to keep the snarl from my voice.
“Moron.” I know Finley’s ice-queen stare isn’t directed at me, but I still feel a shiver run through me.
“Wait, what?” Sage prods. “I need more information.”
I explain how Hugo is certain we need to get rid of Callan and that, between his play this season and how much space he takes up in the salary cap, we need to trade him.
“It doesn’t make sense, though,” Sage says when I’m done. “I mean, sure, trading Callan is one option, but the fans love him and so does the team, from everything you’ve told us.”
Finley nods. “I mean, I’m biased because Hugo seems like a huge dick, but you might want to dig into it deeper. It does seem strange that he’s so focused on Callan.”
I sigh. “I know. I’ve been so fixated on getting a sponsor signed to replace the one we lost that I haven’t had time to dig into it as much as I should. I tried to corner Hugo in his office, but his assistant said he was out all day.”
“How is the sponsor search going?” Addie asks.
I drop back into the couch. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to find someone willing to be our second-largest brand sponsor! It’s not the five million in naming rights. We’re talking a million a year,” I complain.
Addie nearly chokes on her wine. “Oh, honey, your princess is showing.”
My heart sinks at her words, but I force a smile anyway.
She’s said that to me many a time over the last fifteen years, but for some reason, it hurts today.
No, not for some reason: because it reminded me of Callan.
And anytime I think about him, and how badly I fucked things up, I get this acid pit in my stomach.
“The Stallions are a good use of marketing dollars,” I argue. “I’m not asking random people on the street to donate. I need one company to sign on for a million, and we’ll be set.”
“Easy-peasy,” Addie deadpans.
The conversation moves from me to Finley’s season and Beckett’s new job. The two of them make this relationship thing sound so easy. Even when they’re apart. Even when I was there when it started and know it was anything but easy.
I can tell from the way they’re all studiously avoiding asking me about Callan and me that Addie must’ve told them about our call on Sunday. I appreciate that they’re willing to let me talk about it when I’m ready.
Because what else is there to say? That the first song on the playlist I made for him came on the radio this morning, and all I wanted to do was go back home and crawl into bed next to him.
Instead, I cried in my office, yet again, over my loss.
Or that I would do anything to take back the hurt I caused him.
That I’d take it back even if he never wanted to speak to me again.
That I want to watch film with him like Finley and Beckett do together.
That I would rather be eating Nerds Clusters in the front seat of his car than be anywhere else in the entire world?
That even if he gets traded, I would rather fly back and forth and video call him during every spare minute than be with someone else?
“What about you, Addie?” Finley asks. “Are you dating anyone?”
She snorts. “The only men I ever see are minor league basketball players and their coaches. And I would never date a basketball player… even if it wasn’t forbidden.”
“Never say never.” I nudge Finley, forcing a smile to my face. “We’re big fans of forbidden love around here.”
We drink more than we probably should, and when it’s time to go home, I let out a heavy sigh, pulling up the app for a rideshare.
“Want to stay here, Charlotte?” Addie asks, her eyes filled with concern.
I shake my head. “I know I shouldn’t, but I think I’m going to go into the office.
You’re right. Something feels off about the way Hugo is pushing this.
I assumed I should go along with what he said, since he’s been doing this forever, but now I’m worried I’m letting him drive the ship instead of me. ”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Sage asks. “I can help look over salary cap numbers. Baseball has a luxury tax rather than a hard cap, but I still spend a lot of time looking at spreadsheets.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m going to get Nelson, the VP of Football Administration, to send me the numbers I need while I’m in the car.”
Addie glances at her watch. “It’s already eight fifteen.”
“He’s sent me work texts after ten before. He’ll be fine. Hell, he might even be in the office.”
I hug my friends, grateful for the time I was able to spend with them.
When I leave, the grief that has sunk deep into my veins is still there, but now, I’m almost energized with this new purpose.
I might not be able to find a sponsor, or make things go back to the way they were with Callan, but I can figure out whether Hugo is up to something or not.
***
I freeze my computer screen on Callan standing in a collapsing pocket. Two defenders are already through the line, as a third breaks free. I rewind it. Play it again. Forcing myself to focus on the players, not my player.
Tapping my pen against my desk, I watch the same clip three more times, very aware that Nelson is quietly watching over my shoulder. When I called him in the car, he agreed to meet me here to help, rather than sending over the information. Luckily, he lives near the office.
“He shouldn’t be getting hit that fast, should he?” I ask. “Even if he is slowing down or getting old. The pocket is collapsing too soon.”
“It’s not really my place to say,” Nelson replies.
I glance at him, my mind trying to understand the tone he used. “But…”
“Coach and I suggested we replace the right guard,” Nelson says finally. “And Henricks is playing through something.” He points to the left tackle this time. “We felt we needed to bulk up the offensive line. Hugo made the call to strengthen the defense.”
I glance at the spreadsheet on my second screen, scanning the defensive portion of the roster. “The edge rusher.”
He pauses. “Yes.”
Looking up from the screens, I say, “Twenty-three mil against the cap this year. Am I reading that correctly?”
Nelson clears his throat. “Yes.”
“And what was his pressure rate?” I ask, thankful I sat in on a few of the defensive team meetings last month.
I might know more about football than I let on, but I certainly didn’t know the name of the stat for how often a defender is able to get into the backfield and have a path to the quarterback.
He taps his tablet a few times. “Seven percent.”
I do a quick internet search of what it should be. Ten percent. I say nothing, allowing Nelson to draw his own conclusions.
I pull the cap sheet back up, scanning line by line. The names, numbers, and guarantees threatening to blur in front of me, but I keep them in focus. This is important.
“This one,” I say, highlighting a row on the spreadsheet. “Abrams. Why is this structured like this?”
He leans over to take a closer look. “It’s a backloaded deal. So it spikes in years three and four.”
I tap my pen again. “Why?” I ask finally.
“To keep the cap hit low when we signed him.”
I look over my shoulder at Nelson. “But we’re paying for it now.”
Silence stretches between us as I continue to scroll. “Paulson. The linebacker. We extended him early?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I swivel in my chair to face him fully.
Nelson runs his hand down the back of his neck. “He had a strong year.”
I turn back to my screen, popping my knuckles and wishing I had a stash of Nerds Clusters to dig into. Unfortunately, I threw them away after I opened my top drawer and almost started crying.
When I reach the bottom row of the spreadsheet, I turn to face Nelson again. “All I’ve heard about is Callan. That’s not what I’m seeing here.”
Nelson shrugs. “He is expensive.”
“Make it make sense. Because I hear you, but that’s not the story I’m seeing in front of me.”
He doesn’t dodge the question, meeting my eyes instead. “We can’t build a roster with Callan and $60 million misallocated on the defense.”
Misallocated.
Fucking. Hugo.
“And skills-wise”—I turn and press play on the video I was watching again—“is Callan too slow? Or is he not getting enough time in the pocket?” Because as much as I don’t want to trade Callan, as much as it would break my heart for him to leave this city and this team, I will accept the hard call if it’s the right one.
I just don’t think it is.
On the screen, Callan scrambles, escaping two separate rush attempts before he throws it to Pitt downfield. First down.
Nelson doesn’t respond.
Slowly, I face him again. “Is he the problem?”
“That’s what Hugo thinks. It’s his call.” Nelson sounds tired as he says it. As if this isn’t the first time someone has had this conversation with him.
“We’ll see about that.” I click my pen twice before smacking it down next to my keyboard. “Thanks for your help, Nelson. Expect a meeting to hit your calendar for tomorrow morning, first thing. I want everyone there.”
As Nelson leaves, I shoot off a text, asking my assistant to get the meeting on everyone’s calendars.
Then I pick up my phone and call Chris.
“Oh, brother dearest,” I chirp when he answers. “You’re being tapped back in to the Stallions.”
There’s a long pause. “Are you drunk, Char? Because you know if you do that, Dad’s going to give me this company, right?”
“Maybe,” I confess. “But this needs to be done. And because of my relationship with Callan, it can’t be me. So, I need you.”
And then I outline my plan.