Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
LINCOLN
I IMAGINE THIS IS WHAT Graham feels like. Tucked in a shirt that buttons up the front and threatens to choke you, uptight as hell as you walk into a meeting. Only difference is that my brother likes this shit. I hate it.
Give me a bat and a ball and I don’t care who watches or who I have to talk to about it.
I can dissect numbers and stats all day.
Need someone to study a batting stance and give you a dissertation?
I’m your man. Hell, I’ll even wear a suit and tie and charm voters or patrons of a charity and I’ll make you a ton of money.
But make me talk about money? I’d rather play basketball.
Coming off the best couple of days of my personal life, I’m swinging open the doors of the Arrows building with a whole lot of nerves. I think it’s worse because I’ve been so relaxed lately.
Just like that, I’m grinning.
Now this, this must be what Barrett feels like. Happy. Content.
Excited about the future.
Greeting the receptionist and ignoring the eyes she makes at me, I hit the button on the elevator. Even this reminds me of Dani. As if on cue, my phone rings and I see her name lit up on the screen.
Dani: If you didn’t mean for me to use the key, too late. I’m sitting on your sofa with a pink mug of coffee and hazelnut creamer. ;) Can’t wait to see you. Go get ’em, tiger.
Me: Tiger, huh?
Dani: I like when you growl.
Me: I like when you scream my name. And when you whisper it. And when you think it.
Dani: I hope to do all three within a few hours this evening. Hurry your ass up, Landry.
Me: Going in. Phone off. Talk soon.
Flipping my device off and shoving it in my pocket, I take a deep breath and push open the door to the General Management office. The secretary sends me through.
The carpet silences my steps as I take forty-six to the back conference room. Billy Marshall and my agent, Frank Zele, face me. They stand as I enter and shake my hand.
“How are you, Lincoln?” Billy asks “Good. How are you?”
“Doing good, thanks.”
Frank and I greet each other and we all take a seat. “How was your holiday?” Billy asks.
I grin. “Excellent. Went home to Savannah.”
Billy doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my response and that concerns me.
Greatly. He’s always so talkative—the guy could talk for two hours about a bright, sunny day.
Now he won’t look at me? My shoulders stiffen as I clasp my hands in front of me and await the verdict.
Frank gives me a look, one that further chills my hopes.
“So,” Billy says finally. “I’m just going to get down to business, if that’s okay with you?
” He looks at me and his features are hardened.
This isn’t the guy that threw a Fourth of July party last year on Tybee Island and let me take out his brand new fishing boat.
This is Billy Marshall, General Manager.
I’m just not sure what I am today and that scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.
Glancing at Frank, he’s poring over a stack of papers in front of him.
Billy clears his throat. “We’ve been going over next year’s forecast and roster. We really believe we have a shot at a title.”
“I agree. We were the best team in the league this year,” I say with enthusiasm. “I really believe we’ll nab it next year if we can just stay healthy.”
“That’s the thing—staying healthy.” He pushes a paper towards me.
My name is at the top, followed by a list of items and numbers and dollar signs and percentages.
“This,” he says, indicating the first column, “is our win percentage with you in play. It’s great.
But this one is the percentage with you out. ”
I look at the numbers and feel a ball tightening in my gut. “I’ll be ready,” I promise him.
“Lincoln,” he says, blowing out a breath. He rests back in his seat and takes his glasses off. “While we don’t have a salary cap, as you know, we do pay a luxury tax. The higher our payroll is, the more we pay. This year, the organization paid the highest tax in the league.”
“Let’s talk numbers,” Frank says, as I swallow a searing breath. “Let’s see if we can get to a place where we are all happy.”
Billy watches me for a long moment before sitting up, his hands folded in front of him.
“You are the highest paid player, by far, on the team. You’re worth it, I’m not saying that,” he says.
“But when we calculate how many games you missed this season along with the report on your shoulder, you just aren’t worth it to this team. ”
“What?” The room could explode into a fiery inferno at this exact moment and I wouldn’t be able to move. I’m frozen in my seat, trying to convince myself I misheard him. “Say that again.”
“I’m sorry, Lincoln. You know I love having you on staff and I think you have a lot of baseball left in you. But that specific injury coupled with the pressure I’m getting from the top to get our payroll down and manageable . . .”
“What’s this mean?” I utter, looking between the two men in front of me. My hand shakes as I place it on my lap and look at the Arrows logo on the paper in front of me. It’s my team. My brand. A part of me. But is it? Now? Oh God . . .
“It means we can offer you less, significantly less. Let’s face it— even if we get you back one hundred percent, the odds of re-injury sometime in the next five years is pretty much a guarantee.
That means I’m looking at this win percentage,” he says, tapping that fucking paper again, “and I can’t swing that. It doesn’t work, Lincoln.”
“How much money we talking?” Frank asks.
“Less than you should or would agree to,” Billy sighs heavily. “We also have negotiated a trade with you to the San Diego Sails. Their payroll is one of the smallest in the league—”
“As is their winning percentage,” I scoff.
Billy shoots me a look. “You can stay here. This is the number you’re looking at.” The page flips and I see a salary I can’t believe is real.
“This? Are you serious?”
“Yes. Or you can agree to San Diego and look at it as rebuilding, restructuring, extending your fan base,” he says, trying to make it sound appetizing, “and take this one.”
“You know that’s unacceptable,” Frank insists.
The number Billy shows me on another sheet is much better. But still. “Billy,” I say, laughing in disbelief, “you’re really letting me go?”
“This is business. You know that. It just happens to be a business where we play baseball for a living. Think about that. You’re still playing a damn ballgame for a paycheck. That’s a good thing whether it’s here or in San Diego.”
My head hangs, my heart skimming the floor. Never did I dream they would trade me. Is this even happening right now?
“Take some time,” Billy says. He stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Go home and think about it. Discuss this with Frank. Figure out what you want to do. You know I’m happy to pay you to stay here. I just know it’s probably not feasible.”
My entire body feels the weight of the world and my brain is a freeway full of racing thoughts and colliding ideas. It makes me want to vomit . . . which I do once I’m out the door and find the nearest bush.
***
The drive home took three times longer than it should’ve. I spent a good hour sitting outside of Arrows Stadium, trying to get my head wrapped around the situation before going home. To Dani.
I grip the steering wheel as I wait for the gate in my subdivision to lift. Every muscle in my body is sore. My jaw hurts from clenching it. My knuckle aches from slamming it into my steering wheel.
I might be coming out of shock. I don’t know.
Things are starting to fill the void that seemed too deep to get across until now.
I can only make sense of some of it if I block out what the media is going to say and the articles that will be put out as soon as this comes to fruition, one way or the other.
Swallowing this is so bitter I can barely manage to deal. How did this happen to me? I was king of the world only a few months ago. How did I fall so far so fast?
Taking the money the Arrows offered would be a joke.
It would make me a joke. I think I make more money than that off of Graham’s investments every year.
A player like me can’t play for that; I wouldn’t be taken seriously.
No one would hire me as a spokesman. My jerseys would stop selling.
It would be one, big disaster. They know that, which makes it even more humiliating that they even bothered to offer it.
San Diego is the only answer. Not one I like and not one I want to make, but I don’t have another choice.
The money is generous and maybe they can build something around me.
I grin, thinking about how awesome that would be—to win a championship with another team. One that didn’t really exist before me.
Pulling into the driveway and jumping out and locking the door, I’m in the foyer before I know it. “You here?” I call out.
She comes around the corner of the kitchen in a pair of yoga pants and a red t-shirt. “How’d it go?” she asks cheerfully. Her smile drops.
“You okay?”
“I’ve been better.” My keys drop into a little dish on the table. I take her hand and pull her into the living room and onto my lap as I sit on the sofa. She returns my embrace and I take a deep breath, letting her settle over me and calm the turmoil within.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I got traded.”
She stiffens in my arms, but doesn’t pull away. I go over the numbers, and still, she doesn’t respond.
“How do you feel about San Diego?” I ask.
She pulls away. Then stands, straightening her shirt. “Why do you ask?”
Her voice is eerily calm with just a hint at the end of something vulnerable. It’s the Danielle I met in the hallway: a tough front with a sweet interior she works hard to protect. But why now?
With a dose of unease, I say, “Because that’s where we’re going.”
Her back turns to me, her head bowed. “I’m not going with you.”
“What?”
“I’m not going.”