Ripley saunters in.
He sees me at the same moment I see him. His eyes move from me to the woman across the table, and something shifts in his expression that I have never seen on Mark Ripley’s face before.
Something that looks a lot like dislike. Which I guess makes sense. The Colts and Trojans are rivals.
Bianca Banks sees him at the same moment.
She picks up her coffee and looks almost bored.
He breaks the distance.
“Mark,” she says first.
“Bianca.” His voice is even. Which for Ripley is its own kind of temperature. His gaze shifts to me. “Decker.”
“Mark.” I pause. “Just coffee.”
“Of course.” He holds my gaze for one second longer than necessary, then looks back at her. “How’s the South Side treating you?”
“Better every year,” she says pleasantly. “You should stop by sometime. See how the other half lives.”
“I’ve seen it. Not as nice as the North Side. Have a good meeting.” He nods once—at her, at me, at the table in general—and moves over to the counter.
I watch him order.
Bianca watches me watch him and doesn’t comment, which tells me she has excellent instincts. A good thing for a GM.
“Old friends?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Something like that.” She sets down her coffee. “He has a problem with how I run my organization. I have a problem with how he handles competition.” She says it without heat, as though they’re just facts. “We’ve disagreed for a long time.”
“About what specifically?”
“Ask him.” She looks back at the tablet. “It won’t affect my offer, and it won’t affect how I manage you if you sign. I don’t bring personal history into the field.”
I glance back at the counter. Ripley has his coffee and is on his phone, his back to us, but he hasn’t left yet.
“He thinks I poached two of his scouts last year,” Bianca admits without looking up. “He’s not entirely wrong.”
I look at her.
The corner of her mouth moves. Not quite a smile, but she’s definitely enjoying this.
Ripley passes our table on his way out. He puts his hand briefly on my shoulder without stopping—the same gesture he uses to say something without words—and walks out the door.
She bundles up all her stuff. “Take your time. But not too much.” She stands and picks up her jacket. “The offer’s real, Decker.”
I sit for a moment with my coffee.
The Trojans.
God help me.
I pick up my phone to text Jagger.
Still processing.
Process faster.
