Page 11

FRANCESCA

Interim General Manager.

This is what I’ve always wanted.

Almost.

One day that interim qualifier won’t be there. But for now it’s time to get to work.

Russell Field is nearly empty when I arrive, just a few security guards and Gregory, Stew’s assistant, who is faithfully at his desk every day by seven.

It seems that won’t change even with Stew in the hospital.

“I’m going to swap desks to sit over here while you’re filling in.

He left his notes from his call with Dan Wilson for you,” Gregory says from my office doorway, a stack of paperwork in his arms. “And his notes on the pitch presentation you sent him about Nakamura. I’m going to head over to the hospital in a few if you have anything for him. ”

“I don’t right now,” I say, taking the files from him. “Go and make sure he’s resting as much as possible and then I’m going to need you back here. I won’t be able to do this without you.”

“Really?” Gregory asks, clear surprise playing across his face.

Did he think I was just going to take over?

Do everything myself?

Probably.

But I won’t.

I can’t do this entirely by myself.

He’s a kid just out of city college, not the usual Ivy League graduate that gets an opportunity at baseball operations for a major league club.

He grew up just a few blocks from where we stand right now.

This is his dream as much as its mine. Plus, he’s phenomenal at his job.

He loves the game and he knows his stuff.

“Really,” I reassure him, and he lets out a heavy sigh, but doesn’t make a move to leave. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

“There are some rumblings,” he starts, but I don’t need to hear more.

“Out of Richard and Harry’s office?”

Gregory’s silence is enough of an answer.

Richard Dobbins and Harry Turner, assistant general managers just like me: one for major league scouting, the other for player development. Both have been with the Eagles longer than I have, both kept on from the previous administration before Stew moved from the dugout to the front office.

Both probably think they should have gotten the nod in Stew’s absence.

“If it means anything, I think you’re the right person for the job.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And Stew wouldn’t just give it to you because . . .”

“Because I’m a woman?”

He blinks at me and then says, “I was gonna say because he likes you better, but, yeah, that might be why they’re extra pissed now that I think about it.”

“Yeah,” I say, grinning at the young man who is so kind he’d never assume someone was being sexist. “Do me a favor before you go, and get me Dan Wilson on the phone and hang out for a minute. I have an offer for him he’s going to want to hear.”

I loathe agents like Dan Wilson. I can respect an agent who goes hard for his clients, who does everything they can to get the highest bid for the most number of years.

What I don’t respect is the shady strategies he uses, sending “anonymous” tips to reporters, inventing phantom interest in his clients to stir up enthusiasm around the league and overvaluing his players to such an extent that many of them end up missing out on weeks or even months of a season while they wait for offers that aren’t coming.

He built his reputation more than a decade ago on deals that taught teams to be wary of his clients.

Dan makes it about him , not about his players or about the game.

My desk phone rings. It’s Gregory.

“I have Dan Wilson on the line.”

I sit up at my desk, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin, as if the man will be right across from me. Okay. I’ve got this.

“Thanks, Greg,” I say and he disconnects and then transfers the call.

“Dan Wilson here. What can I do for you, Miss Sullivan?”

“Just calling to introduce myself. It hasn’t hit the papers yet, but with Stew out on medical leave, I’ll be serving as interim and I have full organizational authority to handle negotiations.”

“I was sorry to hear about Stew. How’s the prognosis?”

“I’ll leave it to Stew to decide how much he wants out there, but when I saw him, he looked good.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“I thought you would be. Well, just wanted to touch base. You have a good one, Dan. Hope to talk to you soon. I’ll have my assistant get you my cell number in case you want to talk anything through.”

I disconnect the call and wait a second and then another until I’m sure he’s not on the other end.

“Greg,” I call out, and he wheels his chair over to my open office door. “Send Dan’s assistant my cell number.”

He’ll call back. I know he will.

The Eagles are a major part of the leverage he wants to use for Ethan Quicke’s negotiations.

If we’re not involved, other teams will wonder what we know about him that they don’t.

A nagging injury? Toxic personality? Problems off the field?

Women? Alcohol? Drugs? Could be anything.

Could be nothing. But if we’re out of touch with him after he opted out, everyone will assume it was something .

My phone buzzes on my desk.

Dan Wilson.

And then another text.

—We’ll be setting up meetings for Ethan Quicke tomorrow. In person. Have your assistant reach out for details.

In person? Wait . . . doesn’t Ethan Quicke live in . . .

—Enjoy Montana, Miss Sullivan.

Damn it.

I played him.

He played me right back.

Okay, then.

I guess I’m going to Montana.

The boarding area near my gate is completely packed, which feels odd for a flight to Bozeman from New York. Well, New Jersey, actually. The only non-stop today is out of Newark and since it’s literally my first day on the job, I wasn’t going to ask ownership to use the private jet.

I’m gonna save that one for another trip to Japan if I need to. Once Nakamura gets posted and I need to emphasize, once again, just how committed we are to signing him.

But I’m not looking forward to sitting in a coach seat surrounded by what looks like a gathering of every Montana transplant in the tri-state area, almost all of them wearing something that declares them a loyalist of either the Montana State Bobcats or the Montana Grizzlies.

Ah.

College football.

How did I forget about college football?

A quick search on my phone confirms it. Montana State at home against Montana.

That’s gotta be a big rivalry.

It does not bode well for Gregory finding me a hotel room, but if anyone can do it, it’s him.

A woman from the airline arrives at the boarding gate and starts her announcements, so I head straight for the line. I might be in coach, but I have priority boarding with every major airline in the US . Sometimes working for a baseball team feels more like being a professional airline passenger.

“Phew, thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, not even turning to look at Charlie Avery.

I can feel him there just fine, the clean scent of his cologne, with just a hint of spice and citrus to it, lingering ever so slightly in the air after her slid in line behind me.

He always smells like he just stepped out of the best shower of his life.

It’s a vast improvement from the usual heavy colognes and body sprays ballplayers tend to soak themselves in.

“I was at the hospital when Gregory was booking your flight. Told him to book two seats.”

“That part I figured out. I mean why are you here?”

“You’re going to Montana to talk to Ethan Quicke, right?”

“And if I am?”

“Stew said I should go too.”

“Stew’s on leave. He doesn’t get a say.”

“You want me to call him up in the CCU and tell him you said that?”

I ignore him. “Don’t you have better things to do than fly to Bozeman? Like putting together a coaching staff?”

“I’ve got Javy for the pitchers. I want to take my time with the others.”

The two passengers ahead of us start moving and I follow, trying not to look left toward first class when they turn that way as we board the airplane. I make a right and check my ticket.

“Keep on going,” Charlie says behind me. “Gregory said we’re in the last row.”

“Together?”

“They were the only seats left. It was this or flying to Houston with a seven-hour layover before connecting.”

“Last row it is.”

The rows are three across and our seats are pressed up against the back of the plane, unable to recline, with a toilet just to our right.

Lovely.

“Been a minute since I’ve flown like this,” Charlie mutters as he settles into the aisle seat after I move into mine beside the window. My knees are nearly pressed into the seatback in front of me. Charlie’s even worse off: his frame both too long and too wide for the narrow space.

And so we wait with growing trepidation as the rest of the flight boards. If we got the last two seats, that means the one between us is taken, but maybe whoever it is didn’t make it to the airport? A missed connection or, I don’t know, something that’ll make this trip fractionally more pleasant.

But then it happens. A tall young man, probably the same height as Charlie, lists side to side as he walks down the aisle, stumbling just slightly as he comes to a stop at the row ahead of us and then squints up at the numbers listed.

Great.

“I’m here, fucking middle seat,” he slurs lightly at Charlie, and points to the open seat, but then his vision focuses on me and his eyes widen, a slow smirk lifting. “And lucky me.”

I’m annoyed at the gate agent for letting him on the plane when he’s clearly drunk, but mostly I’m pissed at myself for getting outmaneuvered by Dan Wilson. This is my punishment. Four hours and change trapped next to this overgrown cowboy playing city slicker as he flies home for a football game.

“Nah, man,” Charlie says, standing up, blocking me from the guy’s view. “I’m middle. You get the aisle. More leg room.”

He claps the guy on the shoulder and then folds himself, somehow, into the middle seat beside me.

“You didn’t have to . . .” I whisper, but he cuts me off.