“I think it must be. He invented it.”
Scottie’s lips stretch in a grimace. “Are you okay?”
I like her even more. “Thanks for asking. I’ll take a raincheck on answering, if that’s okay. Let’s wait and see what those two have planned.”
“Fair.” She closes her laptop and stands up, running her free hand over her skirt to smooth out the wrinkles from sitting. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you. But I appreciate it, Scottie.”
She smiles and leaves the office.
A few minutes of head-banging-against-the-desk later, I grab my sunglasses, my camel-colored stainless steel water bottle (which matches today’s outfit), and leave the office.
I pass the framed, sun-faded photos of old Mudflaps teams lining the hallway walls, with hairstyles and jerseys from a half-dozen different eras. The carpet is the same rust brown as my office, fraying at the corners where cleats have ground it down over the years. The narrow stairwell smells faintly of mildew, concession stand popcorn, and a hint of grass from the field.
At least the field is nice now. The player and fan experiences are first rate. The outfield is lush and green, practically beggingto be slid across. It’s the only place in this stadium that looks like it has a future instead of a past.
The sun is painfully bright after being holed up in my abandoned-warehouse-slash-Chernobyl-bunker of an office. I spot Oliver Fletcher, our interim coach. He was the hitting coach last year, and considering I’ve had terrible luck finding a quality head coach who can handle talking to a woman owner, I gave Fletch the spot for the time being. He played a single game in the major leagues and got a career-ending injury in that very same game.
To say he has a chip on his shoulder is putting it mildly.
He’s standing with his arms braced along the chain link fence, watching batting practice when I near him, his back rounded, like the weight of every bad hit rests directly between his shoulder blades. He gives me a nod. He’s handsome and taller than me, which I love, but he’s grumpy in the way that only failed ambition and stubborn pride can make someone—jagged and sharp-edged yet channeling that kind of endearing old-man vibe that makes him almost likable.
He’s already a favorite with the single women in town. But he’s a little too … disheveled for my taste.
Not that I want someone as polished as a gemstone (*cough* Aldridge *cough*). But a nice middle ground would be nice.
“How are things going?” I ask him, leaning my arms over the railing like this is a thing I’ve done hundreds of times instead of twice.
“Good. The team’s coming together,” he says, though he barks at the batter to do something different with his stride that means nothing to me. “Is that all you needed?”
I exhale slowly. This guy is saltier than Morton’s. “I don’t know. I just spoke with someone from the league, and they’ve informed me that I’m going to be teaming up with the new owner of the Outlaws for PR.”
“An owner doing PR with a rival team owner? Why?”
“It’s my ex-fiancé.”
“Oh.”
“I broke things off a week before the wedding, and he isn’t taking it well.”
“Ah.”
“And I don’t really want to do it.”
“Don’t do it. It sounds idiotic.”
“He said if I don’t, the league will force a sale to the new owner.”
“Do it.”
I screw my face up, my lips puffing out in something that’s neither pout nor grimace. “I have to, don’t I?”
“Only if you still want to own the team.”
I snort and push myself to a stand. “Thanks for the talk, Fletch.”
He nods. “Anytime, Carville.”
