Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Penelope
Of course, I find out from Janet.
Not from my dad. Not a phone call, or a simple heads-up, or I don’t know, any of the basic human courtesies that a father might extend to a daughter he just volunteered for a task she doesn’t want to do.
Nope, just Janet emailing me the player contact sheet with the name Decker Davis listed as the Team Liaison.
What the actual fuck, Dad?
I slam my laptop shut, stand, and grab my keys, wishing I had read it last night instead of half an hour before the meeting.
My heroic Uber driver gets me to Webber Field in record time, giving me enough time to corner my dad before we head into the conference room.
He’s in the hallway outside his office when I arrive, talking to one of the pitching coaches whose name I can’t remember since fire is racing through my veins. My dad catches my approach from over the guy’s shoulder and purses his lips as though he’s trying not to laugh.
He says something to the pitching coach, pats him on the shoulder, and walks over to meet me with his hands in his pockets.
“Hey, slugger.”
“Don’t slugger me. Decker Davis?”
“He’s a good player. Four Gold Gloves. Great bat.” He shrugs.
“Dad…” I say with a mix of exasperation and exhaustion.
He tips his head. “Walk with me. We don’t want to be late.”
I have to double my steps to keep up with him. “I’d like you to explain why I had to find out from Janet that—”
“Because I knew if I told you, you’d say no.” He says it simply and without apology. That’s my dad though—he rarely apologizes for much.
I close my mouth.
He’s not wrong. Decker Davis being part of this is the one thing that might have made me say no to my dad.
“He’s the right guy for the job,” my dad continues, keeping his voice low. “The players respect him. He doesn’t make things about himself.” He pauses. “But you know all of that.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what’s the matter, slugger?”
I groan. “Can you please stop calling me slugger?”
He presses the elevator button and stares at me as if I’m seven again. “It’s my name for you.”
“Only when you want something.”
My patience thins with every second that passes, and my dad doesn’t acknowledge that he knows why Decker and I should not be planning these events together.
I have spent a considerable amount of time and energy over the past several weeks trying not to think about Decker Davis. And last night I agreed to go on a date with a doctor I’ve never met, and now I can barely remember his name because it’s being crowded out by he-who-should-remain-nameless.
I don’t say any of that though.
“It’s going to be awkward,” I whisper, even though the hallway is empty.
The elevator arrives. At least I’ll be able to corner Dad in the small space and convince him to assign someone else on the ride up.
My dad waves his arm for me to step in, and he follows, pressing the button for the level the front offices are on. He leans against the metal wall, studying me for a moment. He’s always had the ability to read me like a playbook.
“I thought all that was behind you two.”
The sentence lands so matter-of-factly that I’m thrown for a second. My dad had a front row seat to Decker and I growing up side-by-side and has seen every version of whatever’s been between us. Why would he think everything between us is past tense?
Probably because it should be.
Damn that angel who always sits on my shoulder.
“It is.” I cross my arms and nod.
“Good.” He nods once, as though that’s settled. “Then what’s the problem?”
The elevator doors open, and I step out and realize I never actually made my case. Somehow between floors, I talked myself into accepting this instead of getting out of it. My dad didn’t even have to do anything. Which is the most annoying part.
I stare after my dad already walking toward the conference room. He glances over his shoulder and nods in the direction we need to go.
I know he’s playing a game. But why would he ever want me anywhere near Decker Davis after what happened all those years ago?
Then again, my dad isn’t one for love and emotion.
Maybe he just believes that years spent geographically apart can sever heartstrings.
Right now, I wish I’d inherited that particular gene, even if I spent most of my childhood wishing he didn’t have it.
I fall into step beside him the way I did in hallways like this when I was seven years old.
Muscle memory apparently never goes away.
My dad moves through the building the way he always has—stopping for a word here, a nod there, never in a hurry but always on time.
I stay quiet, smile when he introduces me, and say my polite hellos and nice-to-meet-yous.
Shane Whitaker has been the Colts’ GM for six years. He’s in his mid-fifties, the kind of man who clearly played sports at some point in his life and hasn’t stopped reminding people. He has that particular GM energy—like he’s the most important person in the room even though people loathe him.
Shane stands when we walk in, shakes my dad’s hand, then mine. “Penelope, thanks for coming in.” He gestures to one of the chairs. “Your dad seems convinced you’re the one for the job.”
My gaze lands on my dad across the table. “He’s never been one to highlight my faults.”
Shane laughs, but it doesn’t feel genuine. He lifts his wrist to check his watch. “Davis should be here soon. I just saw him on the field. Still struggling, I see.” His attention shifts to my dad.
Dad’s smile dims, and tension fills the room that wasn’t there until Decker’s name was brought up.
We wait for a few minutes, making small talk that feels more like a method of torture than anything.
Shane sucks on the straw of his Starbucks drink and leans back in his chair. “You like Chicago?”
I’m about to answer when someone knocks on the open door.
Decker.
He’s freshly showered, wearing a pair of shorts that show off how muscular his thighs are and a Colts T-shirt that pulls across his broad shoulders.
Seriously, I wish I had opted for a low-cut blouse and pants that mold to my ass to make him as unnerved as he’s making me right now. So unfair.
“Decker, please take a seat.” Shane waves him into the room.
Decker glances at me—which would be the closest option—but pivots and walks all the way around the table to sit next to my dad. Good. Now I don’t have to spend the next forty minutes pretending I can’t smell his soap or aftershave or whatever it is that makes him smell so damn good.
“Sorry I’m a little late, but none of you wanted to be stuck in here with me if I hadn’t showered.” He slips into the conference room seat with ease, but his shoulders are tense, and his smile isn’t his usual welcoming one.
“No problem. I’d never want to take you away from practice.
” Shane tips his chair back and rests his forearms on the desk.
“I want to be straight with you two about why this matters to the Colts. The WAG program isn’t just a nice thing we do for the families.
It’s a retention tool. Players talk. When a guy is deciding between two offers and his wife or girlfriend has had a good experience with the organization, that matters.
” He pauses. “The Trojans just hired a full-time director of family relations, with three staff members under her. They did a rooftop dinner series last season that got written up in two sports lifestyle magazines.”
My dad says nothing, his arms resting on the armrests of his chair, face blank.
Meanwhile, I want to say who the hell cares? Except I’m already doing the math on how a rooftop dinner series gets written up in a magazine and what that kind of visibility means.
“We’re not the Trojans,” Shane continues, “and we don’t need to be. But we need our program to feel intentional. Like this organization takes care of its players and their families and most of all the community.” He looks at me directly. “Your dad says you’re the one to do that. Do you agree?”
What am I supposed to say to that? “Absolutely.”
He nods, seeming satisfied. “And having Decker on the player side is the right call?” He glances at my dad, then back at me.
Dad smiles at Decker, quickly interjecting. “He’s the perfect fit. The players listen to him, and he’s never let me down.” A small pause. “It’s good for everyone.”
“Thanks, Mark,” Decker says.
My dad’s praise toward Decker isn’t subtle.
I know what a contract year looks like. I grew up watching my dad navigate them—the players who were pushing for new deals, the ones on the edge, the ones the organization was quietly evaluating.
When my dad says someone makes the whole organization look good, he’s telling me that Decker doing this matters.
That he’s being watched. That there’s something in it for him beyond a sparkly Mr. Congeniality ribbon.
I keep my face very neutral.
“So, tell me your vision.” Shane nods at me, and my anxiety kicks up.
“I haven’t had time to go through it with Decker yet, but this is what I have.
” I open my folder of notes. “Since we only have two players who have a wife or girlfriend who is a permanent fixture in their lives, I think we should call ourselves the Dugout Social Club, and the events should be referred to as VIP Nights or Events.”
“I like it. I like it a lot.” Shane points at me and glances at my dad, giving him an approving smile.
We spend the next fifteen minutes going over the event calendar, the budget, and the overall vision, with Shane putting in his two cents on every topic.
Decker stays quiet for most of the meeting except to flag some things that wouldn’t work for the players.
By the time we stand to leave, I have three pages of notes and a clearer picture of what actually needs to be done.
Decker is quick to leave. He’s out the door before Shane has finished his handshake—which means I’m going to have to reach out to Decker directly to plan the first event. I’d hoped for more people around us to buffer our initial contact.
Shane shakes my hand again in the hallway. “I’m glad your dad suggested you. He said you were the best person for it.”
“He’s biased.”
“Probably.” He smiles and glances at Decker walking toward the elevator. “He’s biased toward a lot of people. Glad to see he’s right this time.” My dad’s smile falls flat, but Shane pats him on the shoulder. “Come to my office after you see her out.”
Then he’s gone. Although Shane doesn’t seem like a bad guy, my gut says not to trust him.
Once he’s out of earshot, I cross my arms and spear my dad with a look. “What don’t I know?”
He nods for me to walk, and by the time we hit the elevators, it’s not the manager of the Colts standing beside me, it’s just my dad.
“Penelope.” His voice is quiet. “He needs this.”
His eyes bore into mine, and something in my chest does that thing it always does when Decker Davis comes up—that complicated, involuntary tug I’ve never been able to argue away. I swallow down the sarcasm I’ve been directing at my dad all morning.
I think about what I’ve heard the commentators say during games when I reluctantly turn them on for Hazel so she can see her grandpa.
That this is a big contract year, and Decker isn’t showing the team the best version of himself.
That Chicago’s salaries are too high, and they need to trim some fat, and Decker might be the first to go.
I should’ve realized sooner why my dad would do this. He loves Decker like a son, even though he’s had to maintain some professional distance since he came to the Colts.
I hate baseball. All the contracts and negotiations feel so unfair sometimes.
And I don’t have to say anything to my dad—he knows I’ll help in any way I can when it comes to Decker.
So, I guess I’m officially on a mission to make the Dugout Social Club a success and keep Decker Davis on this team, which is either the most selfless thing I’ve ever done or the stupidest. I genuinely cannot tell which.