chapter 6
“This is bullshit.” Chase leaned back in his seat and tossed a plastic pen, watching it flip through the air before catching it.
“Can you get your shoe off my desk?” Floyd Hardin, his agent, moved around his heavy desk and swatted at Chase’s tennis shoe. “I need you to focus.”
“I’m focused. Dodgers don’t want me anymore. So what? I’m sick of you Californians and your damn sunshine. You told me this was temporary, anyway. You know what I really want.” He sat up, rolling the pen through his fingers before sticking it in the edge of his mouth.
“Yeah, the Yankees. And you haven’t let me forget it. But they didn’t need you then, and now…” Floyd raised his hands, the action showcasing the three World Series rings he’d probably picked up at Sotheby’s. “You’re not giving me a lot to work with, Chase.”
“I’ve got the best stats in the league. What the hell else do you need?”
“You know their club as well as anyone, Chase. They like players who are clean. No drugs, no skeletons, no drama.” He leaned over and tapped the front page of the paper, Chase’s photo front and center. “Not this.”
“They need me,” he said stubbornly. “And I’m not signing with anyone else.”
“It’s not your decision. You’re getting traded. It’s up to the Dodgers where you go next. I’ve tried to talk to the Yankees, but they aren’t biting. According to their camp, you’re out.”
“They said that?” Chase scowled, stopping his chew on the end of the pen and pulling it from his mouth.
“Yes. But my guy at CAA says Milwaukee might be making a big play. Have a blockbuster deal they’re fronting.”
“I won’t do it. Milwaukee? Fuck that.”
“Once again…” the man said slowly. “You. Don’t. Have. A. Choice.”
“I’ll refuse to play. Error my ass off.”
“And you’ll get black-balled and never play for a major league team again. Including the Yankees.” He crossed his arms over his chest and watched Chase.
Chase tilted his head back and groaned, his eyes searching the ceiling. “All this over a shitty lay,” he said quietly.
“Learned your lesson?”
“With women?” he laughed, a hard and bitter sound. “Sure.”
“You had a million Los Angeles women to choose from. I don’t expect you to be celibate. Just think next time you feel like unzipping your pants.”
He stood, lifting a baseball cap and pulling it on. “You think, too, Floyd. Get me in pinstripes, or I’ll find an agent who can.”