He gives me an even sweeter smile, like he alone understands the pain I’m experiencing. Except, the only pain I’m actually experiencing is this insufferably condescending video call.
“Kayla,” he repeats. “You look like you’re holed up in a bunker in Chernobyl. You can’t even afford a real office.”
“My net worth would suggest otherwise,” I say with an evenmoredemure smile, because I won’t allow either of these men to pretend I’m somehow hysterical simply because they haven’t reached their mansplaining quota yet for the morning.
“Touché,” he says. “But the team can’t afford it. You’re too good a businesswoman to sink tens of millions of your family’s hard earned money into a failing venture when partnering with another team could help. This isn’t a big ask. A few press appearances and interviews. That’s all! It’ll sell tickets, and it’ll help your team. Your players are finally winning. Don’t they deserve to win in front of an actual crowd?”
The Mullet Ridge Ballpark seats 10,200 people.
Yesterday’s attendance was 1399.
Something tells me the Outlaws’ attendance was substantially higher.
Still …
“I’m not interested,” I say. “I’d rather us get there organically.”
“This isn’t a farm, Ms. Carville, so cut the organic crap,” Gordon says, his mustache quivering. “You signed a promo clause when you bought the ‘Flaps. Minor League teams aren’t just about player development, they’re about building a strong community. And nothing builds community like competition.”
“If I can find another?—“
“No,” he cuts me off. “Mullet Ridge isn’t accepting you. If we don’t see this town come around by August, we’ll force a sale to another buyer. You’re doing the promo, Miss Carville.”
I look at these small men on the screen, at Gordon’s thinly veiled annoyance and Aldridge’s naked concern.
I hate admitting this, but things are exactly as dire as Gordon is saying. No amount of immersing myself in baseball or acquiring the best players in the system can change that. It’s mid-May, and the team has their first winning record in years. We don’t have a winning problem.
We have ameproblem.
The town would rally around a different owner with this team.
I wish I could take a break. Call my dad. Ask him to walk me through what I should do. He’s been my boss since I graduated, and his business savvy is unrivaled.
But he always quietly hated Aldridge. My biggest complaint with my dad ishowquiet he was about it, respecting me too much to tell me how much he disliked him until I finally broke up with him.
My family has always thought I’m more put-together than I am, even when I’ve proven otherwise.
“When do you need an answer?” I ask Gordon.
“We don’t need an answer. We need an agreement. This is your only option.”
If the power of my rage could make men spontaneously combust, this Zoom call would get a lot more exciting.
“In that case, gentlemen, have your assistants reach out to my assistant.” I give them the full smile I’m practically famous for. “Thanks for your time.”
And I end the call.
I allow myself exactly four counts to breathe in, nine counts to breathe out, and then I turn in my chair to look at Scottie.
Her eyes are wide, and her fingers are hovering over her laptop.
“That’s your ex?”
“It is.”
“Is corporate-stalking a thing?”
I laugh, relieved my new assistant has a sense of humor.
