35. Jamie #2
She laughs, the sound instantly easing some of the tension knotting my shoulders.
"That's probably fair."
"I figured I'd save the dramatic opening."
"I'm grateful."
Her smile fades into something softer. "So... tell me."
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
"You know my family owns the Walker Foundation."
She nods.
"And you know my parents have spent most of their lives building hospitals, rehabilitation centers, scholarships...all of that."
"I do."
"What most people don't know is where all of that comes from."
She waits quietly.
"My great-grandfather bought a single apartment building after the war. Nothing fancy. Just one building that he maintained himself."
I glance toward the city outside the windows. "He lived upstairs and fixed broken pipes himself. Collected rent himself. Swept the sidewalks himself."
Annette smiles. "I think I'd have liked him."
"I think we both would have."
"My grandfather inherited that building. Then he bought another. And another."
I shrug.
"He wasn't interested in being rich. He just believed if you took care of people, they'd take care of your business."
"Sounds familiar."
I smile. "It runs in the family."
"My dad expanded everything after that. Office buildings. Housing developments. Medical facilities. Hotels. Investments."
I pause, choosing my next words carefully.
"By the time I was born...the company had become much bigger than any of us ever expected."
Annette studies my face.
"How much bigger?"
I let out a slow breath. "Enough that it now owns property in seventeen states."
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she doesn't interrupt.
"My parents still run the charitable side of things. They always will."
"And you?"
"I own most of it now."
The words hang between us. "I became majority owner after my grandfather passed away."
Silence settles over the room. Annette blinks once. Then twice.
"I'm sorry..."
She tilts her head.
"When you say 'most of it'..."
"I mean controlling interest."
"And when you say 'company'..."
"I mean all of it."
Another long pause.
"So..." She folds one leg beneath her.
"Exactly how wealthy are we talking?"
I can't help smiling.
"I've never liked answering that question."
"I know."
"But unfortunately, tonight you have to."
I rub the back of my neck.
"The last valuation was somewhere around three billion."
She stares at me.
I wait. Five seconds pass. Maybe ten.
Finally, she nods thoughtfully.
"Huh."
I blink. "Huh?"
"That's my official response."
I laugh. "I was expecting something a little bigger."
"Oh, there will be questions."
She points toward me. "Lots of questions."
She taps one finger thoughtfully against her chin.
"Well..."
I wait.
"I suppose this means I can finally replace my favorite bra."
I blink. "...what?"
She nods with complete seriousness. "I've been waiting for it to wear out because replacing it costs eighty-seven dollars."
For a moment I simply stare at her. "Eighty-seven?"
"The good ones are."
Another beat passes.
"Annette..."
"What?"
"I just told you I'm worth three billion dollars."
"I know."
"And your first financial priority is..."
"My bra."
I can't help laughing.
She smiles innocently. "It's an excellent bra."
She reaches for my hand again.
"I'm thinking that now I won't have to wince every time mine goes through the washing machine."
I laugh so hard I have to lean back against the sofa.
"I have to admit..."
"...that wasn't the reaction I expected."
She grins.
"You should also know..."
"What?"
"I was also thinking I might finally buy the name-brand peanut butter."
I laugh.
"Now you're just showing off."
"But seriously,” she continues and reaches over to squeeze my hand. "I'm trying very hard not to look like someone whose brain just temporarily stopped working."
"It kind of did."
"It absolutely did."
She exhales slowly before looking around the room again. "You know what the funny part is?"
"What?"
"I genuinely thought you were about to tell me something awful."
My forehead wrinkles. "Awful?"
"I don't know."
She starts counting on her fingers.
"You have a secret wife."
"No."
"A child nobody knew about."
"No."
"You'd accidentally joined a cult."
Now, I laugh so hard I have to look away. "A cult?"
"You were being so serious."
"I wasn't joining a cult."
"Good." She nods with obvious relief. "That would have complicated family dinners."
I shake my head.
"I love you."
"I know."
"And you're ridiculous."
"I've accepted that."
She grows quiet again, her thumb tracing circles across my hand.
"You know what doesn't make sense?"
"What?"
"You've had dozens of chances to tell people."
"I know."
"You could have been on magazine covers."
"I didn't want to be."
"You could have bought sports teams."
"I already have one demanding team."
She smiles.
"You could have driven one of those ridiculous cars that costs more than my student loans."
"I like my truck."
"I know you do."
She looks around the room once more. "And yet this..." She gestures toward the apartment. "This feels like you."
I follow her gaze across the bookshelves, the old leather chair, the photographs covering the mantel.
"I bought this place after my second season."
"Why here?"
I smile toward the arena glowing in the distance. "Because after road trips, after interviews, everyone wanted something from Captain Jamie Walker..."
I look back at her. "I wanted one place here in the city where I could just be Jamie."
Her eyes soften. "And that's what this became."
I nod.
"My sanctuary."
***
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then I quietly admit the truth I've carried for years.
"I've spent most of my life wondering whether people were talking to Jamie Walker..."
My eyes meet hers. "...or the man who would someday inherit the Walker fortune."
The room falls silent again. Not an uncomfortable silence. A thoughtful one.
Annette doesn't answer immediately. She simply reaches for both of my hands and holds them between hers. Then she smiles the same smile she gave me the day we first stopped arguing and started becoming friends.
"Oh, Jamie."
Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I've never wondered how much money you have."
I swallow. "I know."
"No." She gently shakes her head. "I don't think you do."
She lifts one of my hands and presses a kiss against my knuckles.
"I fell in love with the man who brings coffee to exhausted nurses."
Another kiss.
"The man who worries about everyone else before himself."
Another.
"The man who carries little girls on his shoulders at charity events because they're too small to see."
My throat tightens.
"The money..." she says softly, "that's just a fact about your life."
Her fingers intertwine with mine.
"It isn't your heart and that's the part I fell in love with."
***
Annette’s expression softens into a knowing smile. “So, Toby knows.”
I let out a quiet groan. “He wasn’t supposed to.”
“That sounds like there’s a story.”
“There is always a story when Toby is involved.” I settle back against the sofa, still holding her hand.
The memory has followed me for six years, not because the moment itself was particularly dramatic, but because Toby somehow managed to turn one of the most vulnerable conversations of my life into something that felt almost ordinary.
“He helped me move into this place. I didn’t have much furniture yet, so we spent most of the afternoon putting together shelves and arguing over whether the television should go on the wall. ”
“Let me guess. Toby wanted the biggest possible television.”
“He wanted one large enough to be seen from the arena.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“I told him it was ridiculous. He told me my priorities were flawed.”
***
Annette laughs, and some of the tightness in my chest eases. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to hear that sound after telling her the truth. The money has always made conversations feel heavier than they should. With her, somehow, even this begins to feel like something we can carry together.
“By the end of the day, we were both exhausted and starving,” I continue. “Toby volunteered to stay here while I went downstairs for pizza. I was gone maybe twenty minutes.”
“When I came back upstairs, he was sitting at the kitchen island. He wasn’t watching television. He wasn’t looking through the boxes. He wasn’t even checking his phone.”
Annette lifts her eyebrows. “Toby was sitting quietly?”
“Exactly. That should have been my first warning.”
“What was he doing?”
“Reading.”
She stares at me for a moment. “Toby?”
“I know.”
“What was he reading?”
“The annual trust report that I’d accidentally left on the counter.”
Her eyes widen before amusement takes over. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” Even now, I can picture him sitting there with the report spread open in front of him, his elbows resting on the island and a crease between his eyebrows that I had only ever seen during playoff meetings.
“He had already made it through several pages. I don’t know how much he understood, but he understood enough. ”
“What did he say?”
“At first, nothing. He looked down at the report, then around the penthouse, then back at me. He did that twice, as if he thought the numbers might change if he gave them enough time.”
Annette presses her lips together, already trying not to laugh.
“Finally, he leaned back in the chair and said, ‘Dude…are you secretly Batman?’”
Her laughter bursts out before I finish the sentence.
She drops her head against my shoulder, and the warm sound fills the room.
For several seconds, I can’t help laughing with her.
The memory has become funnier over the years, although at the time I’d been convinced my entire life was about to change.
“What did you say?” she asks when she finally catches her breath.
“I told him no.”
“And he believed you?”
“Not even a little.” He thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “That is exactly what Batman would say.”
Annette laughs harder, wiping beneath one eye. “That is the most Toby response imaginable.”