Page 31

FRANCESCA

My Japanese is rudimentary, despite that Duolingo streak, but I don’t need it to talk to Nakamura’s agent.

Daniel Wilson, the same guy who got Ethan Quicke to use our offer as leverage to squeeze some extra money out of the Dodgers, is on the other end of the phone when I call to schedule an appointment for an initial conversation.

Pacing back and forth, the plush carpet of our suite at the Four Seasons is soft under my toes.

It’s not their most expensive room, but has a decent-sized sitting area and a dining table with an okay view of the city, but not too good.

Don’t want him to look out the windows and think, yeah, fuck Brooklyn, it’s LA for me because we’re too close to the beach or the mountains or something.

Just some streets below us, hustle and bustle.

That’s all.

I sit down on one of the dining room chairs and pick at the frayed edge of my shorts, studying the purple Lakers shirt that I still haven’t changed out of.

Working in clothes that don’t match the job I’m supposed to be doing feels wrong.

Like the uniforms I used to wear on the field, my skirt suits and silk tops are armor for the job I need to get done.

But the clean scent from the t-shirt must be the laundry detergent his housekeeper uses, I realize now.

I want to be annoyed at myself for it, for liking it and being so freaking aware that I like it.

And that he’s aware of it too.

Would it be so bad?

He was right, that one time: we’re equals. Him on the field. Me off the field.

And yet I made that promise to myself a long time ago. I wouldn’t be that girl.

But . . . would I still be that girl?

The girl everyone whispers about, the girl who slept her way to the top. The girl who, ultimately, was just another girl who doesn’t belong.

I made it.

I’m where I want to be.

Being with Charlie and, yeah, I can admit that’s what I want, would it undo the decade plus of hard work I’ve put in? We’re both adults. Fully consenting adults. Enthusiastic consent. Barely even a conflict of interest.

But it would look like . . . something.

Something that could derail everything.

And like I told him, if things went sideways, I’d be the one who faces the consequences.

Not him.

Just like what will happen if I don’t land Nakamura.

“I’m honestly surprised that you guys are in on this,” Dan says, as I refocus on the real problem, not whatever romantic fantasy I’m inventing in my head.

“Well, you’d know better than anyone that we’re in the market for a starting pitcher, Dan,” I shoot back, and the asshole chuckles, but then he gets down to business.

“We want to thank you for submitting your initial interest bid. I’m happy and, frankly, surprised that the it’s within the range we’ve determined as a good start for negotiations.

He’s narrowed his focus now to teams that will have the opportunity to pitch him in person here in Los Angeles and make their case and offers.

Obviously, we reserve the right at any point to withdraw his interest from any particular organization. ”

“Obviously,” I agree, and roll my eyes while I try to keep my tone as even and professional as possible.

“Excellent. You’re up first. We have you scheduled for tomorrow, nine sharp.”

First. The sacrificial lamb. Or . . . an opportunity to set the bar so high that no one else can clear it?

It’ll have to do, though.

“Sounds good, Dan. See you tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” he says, just as I’m ending the call.

I turn to the team we have assembled.

“We have approximately eighteen hours to prep for this meeting. Let’s do it.”

Gregory and a couple of guys from the media relations department are on the presentation, assembling footage of Brooklyn then and now, the neighborhood, the people, the food, the energy, giving Nakamura a sense of exactly where he’d be signing up to play, since we don’t have the advantage the Dodgers do of hosting the negotiations in their own city.

Javy and Charlie are going through video of Nakamura’s highlight reel, pulling out the baseball information they’ll need to talk to him about, what he’d bring to the organization’s pitching staff and where we see him as he develops in the majors.

And me? All I can do at this point is wait.

The wait might kill me.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I smile at the screen.

Stew.

“Hey, boss,” I say. “Isn’t it nearly bedtime?”

The doctor was clear: he needs a lot of rest, time to let his body really recuperate.

“You watch your tone, young lady,” Stew scolds, with laughter in his voice.

“Yes, sir. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, fine, progress is good. Doctors are thrilled, but that’s not why I called.”

All business then. Okay, that must mean he’s feeling better.

“What can I do for you?”

“Checking in. I spoke to Hannah Vinch.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, it sounds like she gave you just enough rope to hang yourself.”

“That was my read on it too.”

“Shit. I’m sorry about this. I meant for you to take my job, but in a couple of years when you had some more experience under your belt, when they wouldn’t axe you for one false move.

I told Hannah that you aren’t going to be doing anything that I haven’t expressly sanctioned, but the thing with Ethan Quicke really got the board’s shorts in a twist.”

“I appreciate that, but we both know it won’t matter.”

“We’ll get you another gig.”

“Yeah,” I agree, though I’m not sure it’ll be as easy as that.

And it definitely won’t be easy if I’m hooking up with our manager.

“Okay, well, when’s the meeting?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“First?”

“First.”

“Fucking Dan Wilson.”

“I agree.”

Stew laughs again. “And how’s our boy?”

“Your boy?” I correct, and Charlie’s head perks up from his conversation with Javy. “He’s here.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Avery,” I call out, the last name now a little unfamiliar on my tongue. “You’ve got someone who’d like to talk to you.”

He pushes up from his chair, swatting at whatever Javy said to him as he does, and I hold out the phone.

“Hey, Skip,” he says and I grin, remembering those boys in Arizona who already call him that. “What’s up? How’re you feeling?”

Standing beside me, he’s listening to Stew intently and I fold my legs beneath me, turning back toward my laptop where my meeting notes are still sitting, waiting to be reviewed for the billionth time.

“Yeah, she’s doing great,” Charlie says, and I diligently ignore that they’re talking about me, all while my eyes fail to take in any of the words on the screen. “I’ll remind her. Tell Rita I’ll be over for dinner when we get back and I’ll drag Frankie along too. Okay, go get some rest, old man.”

A warm hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“He sounds good, right?” I say, when he offers the phone back to me.

“He does, really good. He’ll be back before we know it.”

“But not soon enough to do this.”

“No, definitely not. Would you really even want him to?”

“Is it bad if I say no?”

“No,” Charlie replies, shaking his head, his thumb stroking at the nape of my neck, catching on the collar of my shirt . . . his shirt. “Because you got this. I know you do. What else do you need from me . . . from us?”

“Nothing. We’re ready. We’ve been ready. It’s just a matter of waiting now.”

“And waiting’s the worst.”

“It really is.”

“Okay, then let’s get out of here. Go do something.”

“Do what?”

“Anything, you grew up here, I lived here for nearly twenty years. There’s gotta be a place you want to go eat or just hang out?”

It hadn’t even occurred to me to leave this hotel suite. There’s so much riding on this it felt like the only thing to do was sit here and let the seconds tick by, but he’s right. We have nearly an entire day to wait. Might as well go out and do something.

“Okay, let’s do that. What were you thinking?”

“You’ve been gone longer than I have. You pick.”

And suddenly I know exactly where I want to go.

“A taco stand?”

“The best taco stand in the city. Manuel’s tacos are perfection and he always has Mexican Coke too. You know, in the glass bottle? You lived here for how long and you’ve never been to Manuel’s?”

“I couldn’t really go to taco stands,” he admits.

“Too famous?” I tease him, as I park my rental car down the street from Manuel’s, just like I did back in high school after every game. “Couldn’t make your way down to Los Feliz with the regular people?”

“This neighborhood is not regular,” he insists.

Fair enough. Gentrified isn’t a strong enough word, but the neighborhood has kept some of its charm over the years.

“It was when I was growing up. My parents’ house is just a few blocks away.”

“Do they still live here?”

“Oh, no, they’re . . . they passed away. My mom when I was in middle school, my dad a few years ago.”

“Shit, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“My parents are gone too.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Of course you know,” he says, and then hesitates. “Is that part of your analysis too?”

I cringe, but nod. “Yeah, it’s part of it. Not the dead parents thing, but more a . . . support system thing.”

“Right, and what does that say about Kai Nakamori’s?”

I’m really grateful for the change of subject. “It says that he’s likely to struggle a little bit without a support system.”

“Is that part of why you want those kids up in the big leagues next system? You figure they could be a part of his support system.”

“He’s learning.”

“He pays attention when you speak, Frankie. Always have.”

I blink at him, at a loss for words, just like I always am whenever he drops something like that on me, something that makes me pretty sure that we would work together, that we’d be great together, that all my hang ups about relationships, no matter who the guy is, would crumble to dust as soon as I decided to give him a chance to prove me wrong.

There’s no one I recognize working at the counter at Manuel’s, which isn’t surprising. Manuel retired years ago and I’m pretty sure none of his kids wanted the business, but at least the place looks the same and smells the same too.