Chapter 22
Luke
In the administrative offices at Mortimer College, I sit on a leather bench, staring at a giant picture of our crest, resembling the logo of NBC television, a peacock with its tail plumage at full mast, though exclusively in purple and gold.
Plumage—another pompous word when you speak it, but there isn’t really a substitute. Tail feathers would work, I suppose. That reminds me of that Nelly song. He should get more credit for crossing over into country music. Everyone’s doing it now, but he was the first. At least I think he was.
Maybe I’m more nervous than I want to admit.
The door to the administrative offices opens. Denise steps out, running her fingers through her hair, thick and dark on top, shaved on the sides. As always, she’s wearing a golf shirt with the school logo and warm-up sweats. Her eyes, rimmed dark, moisten as she spots me.
I remember it like yesterday, though it was four years ago. It was just after 4 p.m., my feet up on my desk, reviewing Lit papers, when I heard a knock at the door of my classroom.
I glanced over and saw a woman roughly my age dressed in a tracksuit.
She was tall and fit with an athletic posture.
I was reasonably sure she could kick my ass if it came to it, but I was hoping that a classroom on the second floor of Grace Consolidated High School made for an unlikely locale for an assault.
Coach Rankin? she asked. Denise Schwartz. I’m the AD over at Mortimer College.
Oh. Right. You left me a message. I removed my legs from my desk.
I left you four, she said. But I assume your phone is buzzing like crazy with job offers. A third state title in five years?
I put down my papers. I’m happy where I am.
I’m betting you’re not, she said. I remember you. I remember what happened to you. The fourteen-year-old pitcher with the golden arm? Then the car accident that scuttled your future. Drunk driver, right?
That was blunt. Then again, I preferred blunt over diplomatic any day. Yes, it was a drunk driver, I said. If you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re not doing a very good job.
She smirked. You’re a turnaround artist, she said. You always have been, every place you’ve coached. You take a crap team and build them into a champion, then you move on to the next dumpster fire and build them into a winner, too. And, boy, do I have a dumpster fire for you.
Denise draws me into a hug. “How ya doin’, Skip?” she whispers, using my nickname out of respect. The boys say I’m old-school, thus my nickname, short for skipper, what they used to call baseball managers back when I was in diapers.
“How bad?” I ask her.
“Not…not good.” Emotion clogs her throat. “You need to fight this,” she forces out. “Take these fuckers to court. Get your fancy lawyer sister to shove this up their asses.”
Denise loops her arm in mine as we walk toward the chancellor’s office. “These suits don’t know shit about loyalty,” she says. “After everything you’ve done for this program.”
“Crisham wants me gone anyway,” I say. “We both know that. I’ve just got this last year left on my contract. He was hoping I’d leave so he could bring in his college buddy—”
“Fuck that,” she hisses. “I’ll resign first.”
“You’re not resigning,” I say. “And his buddy won’t take over as coach.”
We enter the chancellor’s office, the largest in the admin building, spacious enough for a meeting area in the corner with its own round table and set of chairs.
Elias Crisham sits at a walnut desk, behind him a picture window overlooking the quad.
He is all business today in a pricey suit and school-appropriate purple tie.
“Luke, come in, please,” says Crisham, his brow furrowed, giving off the sobriety of a funeral director, any second now a phrase like This is not a happy occasion or We’re all sorry to be here today sure to escape his lips.
He introduces the two men flanking him, the school’s general counsel and some man I’ve never met, a jowly guy old enough to be my grandfather, who is apparently their “outside counsel.” I forget his name as soon as I hear it, so I’ll just call him “OC.” No, “Notorious OC.” “Notorious” for short.
“Luke,” says the chancellor, “this is a difficult situation for everyone. The Board has a responsibility to our students and our student-athletes. Until your situation is resolved, the Board feels it’s in everyone’s best interests that you be suspended with pay.”
He slides a piece of paper across the desk. Two short paragraphs. The first explaining the Board’s decision based on my “recent arrest.” The second explaining my administrative remedies should I choose to fight. Followed by nine original signatures of the Board of Regents.
I sit back in my chair, a comfortable leather job. We don’t have chairs like these in the athletic department. I wouldn’t want them. Comfort is the enemy of success.
“Who’s taking my place?” I ask. I knew Crisham was not going to pass up this chance. But I’m not in here fighting for me. I’m fighting for my team.
“That’s not your concern,” says Notorious, wagging a bony finger.
“It’s my only concern,” I say. “Our season starts in a week. Alan McIntyre, my assistant coach, is the only one who could possibly step in. He knows more baseball than I do. And the players love him. You promote Alan and I’ll walk away quietly.”
Crisham eyeballs me. “And if we don’t?”
“Then I’ll sue,” I say. “My lawyer doesn’t think you have cause to suspend me. It might have something to do with that pesky presumption of innocence.”
“You’ve retained counsel.” Notorious crosses a leg, lifting it with the speed of a crane.
“I have.” I fish Allison’s business card out of my pocket and hand it to him.
He looks at the card. Something changes in his expression. “You’ve hired Allison Brice?”
“Yep. Heard of her?”
“Well…obviously.”
“She’s my sister,” I say. “And she’s pissed.
” I clap my hands together. “Chancellor, you want to screw me over, fine. But you’re not gonna screw over my players.
They need Alan. They’ll want Alan. It’s best for the team.
Do the right thing. Or I’ll sic my lawyer on you.
” I get up from my chair. “And she never loses.”