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Chapter Seven

I ’ve always been better with coaches than the muckety-mucks.

Thank God Jerry and Coach Elgin are coming to this dinner thing tonight.

I’m not sure Michael “Mickey” Payne is a fan.

To be fair, the Cyclones’ owner is a bit hard to read.

He’s always been an enigma; at least, that’s what little background I was able to dig up on him between our brief meeting in his office during the tour and this dinner lends to.

He owns a chemical company, and he’s been sued a few times.

Whiskey’s position is that most chemical companies have, and I’m sure he’s right.

But it’s the way those lawsuits were dashed away with speed and tidiness that strikes me as, I don’t know, a yellow flag maybe?

I’m not sure whether he loves football or the investment and name recognition this expansion team buys him. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

I wish Whiskey and Tasha were joining us for dinner, and the irony that I’m wishing for Tasha’s presence in a professional setting isn’t lost on me.

She’s not known for being guarded with her language or her volume, but right about now, I’d take her welcome distraction.

But Bryce made it clear that tonight is about my future with the team, not Whiskey’s.

I just feel bad that Whisk feels left out.

“Peyton, let me get your seat,” Jerry says, swooping in to scoot back my wife’s chair in the oddly empty dining room of this posh steakhouse. Everything in this joint is leather and wood, and the lighting is dim enough to make it appear that everyone is scowling, not just Michael Payne.

“Always the gentleman, Jerry,” Peyton says, batting her lashes.

If Jerry weren’t her father’s age, I’d be hot with jealousy.

Of course, as Peyton likes to point out from time to time when she walks me through one of the books she’s reading, age-gap is a very sexy thing.

My wife is very good at turning double-standards around to bite me in the ass.

“So, how does a guy go from running seam routes in Detroit to the front office of a new expansion team?” I’ve been curious about Jerry’s role here. I get that he’s an investor, but his hands-on presence feels as if he’s more than that.

“To be fair, Wyatt, I bounced around a lot of things between Detroit and this dinner we’re having.

It’s been a decade.” He chuckles as he pulls a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket.

He drops them down his nose as he peruses a wine list, but his gaze pops above the rims to meet my stare.

“I gave Mickey a few million. In exchange, I get to be involved in recruiting.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but the message behind his words is pretty clear.

He’s the one who had his eyes on me. He’s the reason I’m here.

I just hope those few million buy some decent sway when it comes to making final decisions.

“Sounds like a pretty cool way to retire,” I say, taking the wine list from him and immediately passing it to Peyt. I don’t have a clue about fine foods and wine and shit, so at this place, I plan on ordering whatever she tells me.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll be calling the shots on the field someday,” Jerry says, winking across the table at Coach Elgin.

“Fucker, I’m not dead yet,” Coach laughs out, his gravelly voice an indicator of just how many cigars the man smokes.

The rapport between Jerry and Coach is refreshing. There’s a genuine respect between the two, which I’m sure comes from Jerry’s first few seasons in Tennessee under Coach Elgin.

“So, who came to Portland first, Coach? You or Jerry? Who brought whom on board?” Peyton asks, and I’m glad because I’ve been dying to know. Everything sounds more casual when she asks. I feel like every question I put out there is immediately dissected and woven into my character for evaluation.

“Actually, Phillips was my first hire,” Mickey interjects from the head of the table.

His sharp tone seems to jar everyone, even Clark Phillips, the offensive coordinator sitting to his right.

There’s a brief bout of silence while we all wait for Mickey to expound, but he doesn’t, instead leaning to his side and holding up a hand to usher one of the servers in our direction.

“Ah, yeah. He was, but he only beat me out here by a week. Ain’t that right, Clarky?

” Coach Elgin has the benefit of being a winning coach with thirty years of experience under his belt.

Plus, the man is seventy, and as I’ve heard many times from Peyton’s Grampa Buck, once you hit seventy, you don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about anything, especially you.

Clark Phillips is in his forties, and I have a feeling he very much gives a shit what people think, especially his boss.

I got that sense from our very first handshake in Mickey’s office, something about the way he held my stare and squeezed my hand.

He’s the one I need to prove myself to. And he seems to have the owner’s ear more than anyone else at this table.

The fact he doesn’t bother to respond to Coach Elgin’s friendly jab speaks volumes.

“Okay, so you were first. Then Coach and Jerry. Nice . . . nice.” Peyton swallows down her own frail echo, blinking her gaze downward as a server sets menus in front of each of us.

While everyone else seems oblivious to the heavy silence suddenly choking the spirit out of the room, their heads buried in menus, my wife seems fully aware.

Our eyes meet in a sideways glance, and all I can do is lift my brows in panic.

This doesn’t feel as if it’s going well, and I’m not sure how to fix it.

Mickey is the first to order, taking care of most of the table, deciding what everyone “needs to try” before insisting on a glass of some cognac he had them prepare for the night.

I don’t like brandy, but when he orders a glass for me, I resolve to choking the shit down and gushing about it afterwards. With a smile.

“I’m excited to see what you can do out on the field tomorrow,” Coach says once our orders are in place and the server leaves.

“I can’t wait to get out there,” I say, rubbing my sweaty palms on my thighs. If I had to throw a ball right now, I’m not sure my jittery fingers could grip it.

“How long’s it been? Six years? Seven?” Phillips says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. His stern eyes study me, and I can read his skepticism.

“Only six, sir. Though I’ve played plenty of independent ball since college, and I’ve done the summer league with Whiskey Olsen a few times, which is where I guess y’all saw me.”

“I didn’t see you,” Phillips adds quickly. He’s dismissive, but I don’t wince. The perk of living around Peyton’s little sister is that I’ve been primed to handle even the sharpest barbs. Nobody cuts to the core as harshly as a freshly minted teenager.

“Got it,” I utter. My lips part again, but I’m not sure what else to say.

My short response just now seems to have only built another layer of bricks between me and Coach Phillips.

My eyes dart to Peyton for help, but her shocked face indicates she’s as stumped as I am.

I wish like hell Bryce were here, but he said Mickey insisted he get me one-on-one, though it’s much more of a four on two.

“I saw you,” Jerry finally says, leaning forward, his forearms on the table.

His towering presence looms large over the round mahogany surface, and I’d swear I felt the heavy table tilt just a hair with his weight.

He’s the largest man in the room, and I’m glad he’s on my side—both literally and figuratively.

I’m picking up more clues every minute, and I’m pretty sure the biggest divide at this table exists between Jerry and Coach Phillips. I’d feel a whole lot better if they were both in my corner, but I guess I should be happy to have one of them.

“Yeah, that’s right. You called me from the beach after spending the day watching a game, told me we needed this guy in our locker room.

” Coach Elgin pauses when his drink arrives, taking a sip before continuing as he gestures toward me with the amber-colored liquid swirling in his snifter.

“Jerry here said he hadn’t seen anyone throw like you since that Reed Johnson.

Small world he’s your father-in-law. Ha! Ain’t that some shit?”

“Yeah, it sure is,” I utter, glancing around the table as my connection to Reed is fully let out of the bag. It gets the reaction I expect from Phillips—a smug expression and slow nod, probably paired with the assumption that I’m getting special treatment.

“Never saw him play,” Mickey bursts out.

His eyes are focused on his drink as he holds it up to the light before taking a long, slow sip.

His gaze settles on me, and it’s as blank as it was a moment ago.

How the hell this shark of a businessman found his way into owning a football team beats me, but I can see how he’d be tough to beat in a negotiating room. Too bad I’m the one in it now.

“Oh, you missed out. I would have given anything to have him on any of my teams over the years. Probably would have won a few more Super Bowls with that guy,” Coach Elgin muses.

“You only won two,” Phillips mutters over the rim of his glass before drowning his dig in a sip. It doesn’t seem to faze Coach Elgin. Perhaps age has a similar effect to living with a teenager—well-practiced armor.

“Two more than you,” Jerry coughs out, clearly offended on his former coach’s behalf.

“Kids, kids. Cut the fighting,” Mickey says. I think he’s making a joke, but the even tone in his voice makes it hard to tell. His face is still devoid of any evidence of a smile.