Page 7 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

T he meeting Dylan had been dreading for weeks finally arrived. He tugged at the collar of his dark grey button-down as he watched the numbers rise above the elevator’s mirrored doors, closing in on the top floor. He thanked whatever cosmic force had spared him from it being a morning meeting.

He would’ve struggled to make it after staying up all night thinking about Lennon’s surprise phone call.

About her.

Thoughts of Lennon followed him to the hotel. How did she feel talking to him again? Was her mind on their phone call as much as his, or did she want to forget about it?

No. Get a grip—obviously she wasn’t thinking about him. She just lost her record deal. She had more important things on her mind. He should be focusing on his career, too, given the ventilator it was on.

Dylan met his reflection in the doors. He ran a hand over his short beard, which he’d trimmed that morning.

Should I have shaved? He adjusted the sleeves of his blazer for the millionth time, sucking in a deep breath through his nose and exhaling through his mouth in an attempt to calm his racing heart.

The two cups of coffee he had that morning were doing their job a little too well, and now, he was distracted on top of it.

This was his first meeting with Eddie since his accident.

Besides the brief phone calls and check-ins, nothing formal had been arranged.

When they’d last spoken, Dylan promised him he’d fully recover and do everything in his power to get his suspension lifted, then make it up to the team with the best season of his life.

Eddie agreed to put his neck on the line and back him. Dylan owed it to him not to fuck up.

The old Dylan probably would have looked for a way out of the meeting.

He had, on more than one occasion, taken advantage of the decades-long relationship between his family and the Carmichaels, but Eddie Carmichael was a notoriously hard man to pin down.

When he requested a meeting with you, you made yourself available if you knew what was good for you.

And Dylan knew meeting with the Arden Beach Tidebreakers’ owner wasn’t just good for him right now. It was a damn necessity. He’d run out of “get out of jail free” cards. In fact, he was pretty sure, at this point, he was operating on borrowed time.

A soft ding announced his arrival. The doors slid open to a large, framed black and white photograph of his grandfather on the field celebrating the Tidebreakers’ first National Series victory.

He set his shoulders before striding down the hall past more photographs, memorabilia, and a timeline of his grandfather’s career with the Tidebreakers, starting from the team’s establishment in 1969 to his retirement as manager in the two-thousands.

They led to an upscale restaurant bearing his late grandfather’s name—Merritt’s Steakhouse.

His heart skipped a beat as his attention landed on the female figure with long, dark hair standing behind the desk, her back to him. It put a hitch in his step.

Lennon?

The name teetered on the edge of his tongue as her voice echoed in his head again. “How do you know what I sound like when I’m anything anymore?”

The shame those words spurred sliced through him.

The hostess turned around, her face a stranger’s. Nothing like his ex-wife. His heart settled back in his chest. She smiled, eyes traveling his length, sparkling as they met his again. “Good afternoon, Mr. Strickland. Please, follow me.”

She led Dylan to a curved booth tucked away in a quiet corner, where private business meetings could comfortably take place without the threat of eavesdroppers.

The restaurant was part of Eddie’s business portfolio, though Dylan’s father held a stake in it.

He’d once told Dylan an office was too formal; you learned a lot more about a person when you broke bread with them.

An unassuming, middle-aged man with thick, black-rimmed glasses rose from the booth to greet him. “Dylan,” said Eddie affectionately.

“Hey, Mr. Carmichael.” Dylan smiled as they exchanged an embrace.

“I told you, you can call me Eddie now. You’re not in grade school anymore, and we’re practically family.” Eddie squeezed the back of his neck as they parted.

They settled into the booth opposite each other. Mounted on the dark wood paneling behind Eddie was a photograph of Dylan’s grandfather mid-pitch during a game. “Hard habit to break,” Dylan replied as the hostess handed him a menu. He thanked her before she slunk off.

“Not as hard as some.” Eddie sent him a knowing look, one laced with empathy. “It’s good to see you, kid,” he said, the statement deeper than a pleasantry as he studied Dylan in a fatherly way.

The hostess returned to fill Dylan’s water glass, and Eddie waited until she left before continuing. “How are you doing?”

While Eddie was a close family friend he had known since birth, there would always be a thin, invisible barrier present due to the business side of their relationship.

Eddie inherited the Tidebreakers when his father passed away nine years ago.

Their families had been intertwined ever since Dylan’s grandfather, Merritt “Mitt” Dylan Strickland, had become a star player for the Tidebreakers under the Carmichaels’ ownership, followed by his son, Merritt “Rhett” Dylan Strickland II, a few decades later.

Their shared love for the game and the Tidebreakers’ legacy was special.

It was a deep-rooted bond, but you could only be so close to someone when your success directly affected theirs.

Sitting before him now, after all his mistakes, Dylan’s guilt hit him from two sides: disappointing a family friend and disappointing an employer who counted on him.

“Doing better,” Dylan said, the thick leather menu perched between his fingers despite always ordering the same thing.

He was just glad to have something to do with his restless hands.

“A lot better, actually. The doctor says my shoulder’s healing well.

Working on getting back to my normal pitching speed. ”

“That’s great. But I meant how you’re doing here—” Eddie tapped two fingers to his temple “—and here.” He tapped his heart over his crisp blazer.

What a loaded question. “Bruised but still beating,” Dylan answered.

The waiter arrived and took their orders.

Eddie selected an assortment of appetizers for the table and the grilled salmon for his entree, while Dylan went for his favorite, the braised short ribs.

They drifted into small talk after Dylan asked about Eddie’s family.

His daughter, Savannah, was graduating with an MBA from an Ivy League school the following spring and would be moving back to Arden Beach to work for the family empire.

That’s how it worked in families like theirs.

He wondered how Savannah felt about it and if she was excited or dreading it.

He still remembered when he found out he’d been officially drafted to the Tidebreakers. His father threw a party to celebrate.

Dylan had his first panic attack that night. And it was the night he discovered which liquor best took off the edge.

“Bet you’re excited to have her back in town soon,” Dylan said, forcing a smile as he caught the last piece of yellowtail sashimi between his chopsticks.

“Yeah. I just hope our company is still standing so I have an actual job to offer her.” Eddie said it wryly as he dipped his tuna nigiri in soy sauce, but when he looked up and saw Dylan regarding him with concern, his smile faltered.

“Is it that bad?”

Eddie rested his forearms on the table, the nigiri suspended above his plate.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he leveled with Dylan.

“We had some very ill-timed investments before the pandemic and haven’t fully recovered.

I’m confident we’ll get through this rough patch, but until then, we’re hemorrhaging money.

We can’t keep going like this without something giving.

” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I’m not sure we can hold on to both the company and the team. ”

The weight of that statement settled over Dylan. He’d heard about the closures and layoffs, but he’d never considered that the team could be in jeopardy. In his mind, the Carmichaels owning the Tidebreakers would always be an immutable fact. He’d never considered that someday, that could change.

“Now, that’s my absolute last resort,” Eddie reassured him, his free hand slicing the air.

“I’m going to fight like hell to keep it.

It’s part of my family’s legacy—my daughter’s.

But if things keep going the way they are with the team …

. To put it plainly, I’m getting fucked from all sides.

” He sighed before tossing the fish into his mouth.

Dylan sat back, running a hand through his hair as he processed all the potential implications of the team going to new ownership.

His own father’s job security was the most obvious thing at risk.

Since they’d been playing a less-than- stellar season, the manager was always the first one people looked at to blame.

Pundits questioned Rhett’s efficacy as the team’s manager, and suggestions of retirement were spreading, especially with his contract up for renewal next season.

The only way his father would retire right now would be in a casket. Rhett had vowed he wasn’t going to stop until he got the team a championship win as a manager—with Dylan. Like Dylan’s grandfather, Mitt, had done with Rhett.

And ultimately, see Dylan—Merritt Dylan Strickland III—join them in the Hall of Fame.

Dylan’s chest tightened. He put down the chopsticks. A bead of condensation slid down the glass of water beside his plate, tracing the curve of the glass. Something stronger would take the edge off, but he couldn’t use that as a coping mechanism anymore.

Instead, he cupped the glass, pressing his fingers into the cold, wet surface. Grounding himself.