Page 27

FRANCESCA

I’ve only ever been to Hannah Vinch’s office by myself once.

It was on my first day, when she summoned me upstairs to the office suite that overlooks the ballpark from just below the upper deck.

It’s right behind home plate, prime real estate for ticket sales, and would fit a few luxury suites that would bring in thousands every game, but the ownership group decided to keep it intact so they’d be able to observe the team from on high whenever it struck their fancy.

The views, even from the waiting area, just beyond the large double doors, are stunning. It’s up high enough to see Prospect Park laid out in front of me with lower Manhattan in the distance, a sea of muted greens and browns, oranges and yellows and an outline of shadowy skyscrapers beyond.

Nancy, the assistant who runs the office even in Hannah’s almost continual absence, greets me with a smile and gestures to a chair set up against the dark wood-paneled walls, but I prefer the view.

It already feels enough like I’m being called to the principal’s office, about to be reprimanded for something that, while it isn’t exactly my fault, was still my responsibility. Sitting down will just make it worse.

I was supposed to bring Ethan Quicke back into the fold or let him go on our terms. I wanted the latter, but thought I had done the former, even if Charlie was the one to get the deal done.

The last time I was here alone she called me in to congratulate me, talked about how there aren’t enough women at the top in baseball and that she was thrilled to give me this opportunity. But she made it clear that’s what it was, a chance. No guarantees.

I wonder if this means my chance is up.

“She’ll see you now,” Nancy says, standing up to open the office door for me, though I have no idea how she knows Hannah is ready to see me. “Ms Vinch, as requested, Francesca Sullivan is here to see you.”

There’s my full name again, though it obviously doesn’t sound nearly as good as when Charlie says it, and now it really feels like I’m in trouble.

“Frankie,” Hannah says, standing up and coming around her desk.

Older than me by ten years or maybe a few more, but at least a foot shorter even in the towering heels she’s wearing, Louboutins if my instincts are right (and they usually are about shoes).

“Come in, come in. I had Nancy bring us some tea for our meeting.”

“Tea?” I ask, as she leads me to the couch in the corner of her office, overlooking the field, somehow an even better view than in the waiting area since it’s centered right above home plate.

“Yes,” she says. “Tea. Why, do you prefer coffee?”

I do, but it doesn’t matter. “No, I just . . .”

Hannah smiles widely, teeth bright white and perfectly straight, which makes sense for a billionaire with controlling interest in a Major League Baseball organization. “Did you think I brought you here to scold you?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

“Pssh. No, not at all. Let’s sit. You make me nervous standing there, all six foot whatever of you. We have some things to discuss.”

I make her nervous? Sounds fake, but okay.

“Five ten,” I say, as I smooth my skirt beneath me and prop myself at the end of the rounded couch while she sits opposite me and pours out two cups of tea. “Without the heels.”

She makes a disgruntled noise from the back of her throat and then says “Sugar? Milk?”

“Sugar,” I say, and she adds two actual lumps from a bowl, no sweetener packets to be found.

“Okay,” she says, once she’s prepared her own cup. “Tell me what happened with Charlie Avery.”

The tea is hot. And I nearly spit it out all over her cream velvet couch at her very casual request, images of that last night in Arizona flickering through my mind like a slide show: his mouth, his hands, me splayed out nearly naked on his kitchen counter.

She can’t possibly mean that.

One neatly manicured eyebrow rises at my lack of response while I swallow my sip of tea and cough a bit, to try and buy time.

“With Ethan Quicke,” I say, finally, and she nods. “It was a miscalculation,” I admit. “Charlie Avery is the kind of guy whose word is as good as his bond. Quicke isn’t. I’d much rather have the former on my side than the latter.”

Hannah hums and then nods again. “Agreed.”

Okay, so . . . I’m definitely not in trouble and I’m not exactly one to just let things go. “So, why exactly did you want to see me?”

She takes a small sip of her tea and replaces the cup on its saucer. “Stew mentioned you’ve been wanting to pitch me on Kai Nakamura.”

“I do.”

“Okay, so let’s hear it.”

“Oh, I have an entire presentation prepared with documentation and I assumed we’d be meeting with the guys from player development and scouting.”

Hannah waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve heard from them.” She has? “Most of them believe he’s not worth the price. It’s the posting fee, plus his contract, in excess of three hundred and fifty million dollars, but what I want to know is why you want him.”

“He’s a generational talent. There is no pitcher in the major leagues or coming up from the minors that will be able to compete with his stuff: velocity, control, wicked spin rate and .

. .” I trail off, not sure if this part matters, though it feels like it might matter more than anything.

“. . . all he wants to do is win and that’s what we want to do here, right? ”

It’s something that the ownership group insists upon over and over again whenever they release a statement, that our mission is to win, but fans, rightly, have pointed out over the years that their actions don’t match their words, their commitment to trading for or signing the best players never seems to come to fruition in favor of budget cuts and building for a fictional next year that doesn’t materialize.

“In theory, yes.”

“What if it wasn’t just a theory? What if I tell you that we can cut payroll next year and still sign Nakamura and have a real chance to win?”

“I’d say you’re insane.”

“Well, that’s part of why you hired me, isn’t it?”

Hannah snorts and then picks up her teacup again. “Okay, Frankie. Explain.”

“I’ve used my algorithm to predict performance while also investing wisely in a handful of star players whose contributions can’t be duplicated through multiple players. We utilize the resources we already have from within the organization to make up the difference.”

“Is that why you and our new manager went to Arizona?”

“It was,” I say, trying not to betray my surprise that she knew where we were. “There are three kids playing out there that both Charlie and I have assessed. We think they’re ready to contribute at the major league level.”

“Three players, all barely twenty-one, with little if any experience above Double A starting at three premiere positions next season and we can win with that?”

“We can, with Nakamura to lead the rotation and Esposito slotting into that fifth start position, our second, third and fourth guys were three of the best in the league last year, keeping us in games, not taxing the bullpen too much.”

“And both Stew and Avery are on board with this?”

“They are.”

She takes one final long sip from her teacup and finishes it off, holding my eyes with hers firmly. “I’ll go back to the board with it, no guarantees, but for now I can authorize you at least putting us forward when he’s posted. We’ll see how negotiations go from there.”

“Seriously? That’s . . . you’re agreeing?”

“I am,” Hannah says, smiling at me. “But a word of caution.”

“Of course.”

“This is on your head. I know you believe in this plan and you have Stew and Avery’s backing, but this is ultimately your recommendation and its success or its failure will be pinned to you.

No one is going to fire Stew or Avery over an off season move like this, not with Stew’s health or with Avery’s reputation.

A first-time female interim general manager who got in over her head trying to play with the big boys? It’ll be you.”

“I know.”

“I thought you would. Good luck, Frankie. You’re going to need it.”

Then I’m shuffled out of the office by Nancy, who appears out of nowhere again, holding the door open for me with a smile and then shutting it firmly behind us.

Shaking my head, having no idea whether to be thrilled or petrified by what just went down, I start to head downstairs, back to my office ,when Nancy gently clears her throat.

“She wants you to succeed,” the gray-haired secretary says. “Desperately wants it. She loves baseball, has since she was a little girl. She wants to win the World Series and she wants you to build the team that does it.”

“She made that clear.”

“Then why are you still standing here?” Nancy asks, clearly exasperated with me. “Go do it.”

I’m halfway to the elevator, staring out at that view of the park and Manhattan, millions of people going about their day and none of them have any idea.

The Brooklyn Eagles want a championship and I’m the one that’s going to bring it home.

But first I need to go home, unpack, and get myself together before it all begins again. We don’t just need Nakamura; we need to make sure he’s surrounded by the best possible team. Cole, Archie and Xander are the start of that, but not the end.

When I landed back in NY I dropped my stuff and went straight into the office, but now I need to unpack, and get cleaned up before heading back in to work.

My car can’t quite pull up to the front of my place because there’s a massive moving truck double parked and blocking most of the street.

“I’ll get out here,” I say, and send him on his way, but as I approach the house, I catch sight of a familiar form. One I can’t quite believe I’m seeing and, when he sees me, his surprise is just as extreme.

Shane gapes at me, mouth open, staring unblinking before he finally says, “What are you doing here?”

“What . . . I live here,” I respond, trying desperately to come up with another reason for why he might be standing here with a moving truck.

“You live here?”