Derek, Shane’s assistant, tells me I can get fifteen minutes with Shane. I’ll take what I can, so I sit in the waiting area of the Colts’ front office. I look at my rings, and I think about Decker and how he shouldn’t have to sacrifice anything.
Derek waves me in, so I gather my courage.
Shane is on the phone when I walk in, clearly talking to another GM, negotiating players as if they’re sports bets in Vegas. His laugh makes me want to cringe. Talk about not trusting someone. Makes me think that maybe Decker should go play for Bianca Banks.
He gestures to the chair across from his desk and ends his call.
I sit.
“Miss Ripley.” He folds his hands. “What can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Davis,” I correct him.
Something moves across his face. Quickly. Gone before I can name it. “That’s right. Cute post by Decker. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” I set my folder on the desk. Not opening it yet, just placing it on the edge. “I’ll be direct. I’m here about Decker’s contract.”
He leans back slightly. “Not the Dugout Social Club?”
“No.”
“Decker’s contract, or lack thereof, is a matter between the organization and his representation.”
I hate that he talks so matter-of-factly about a player. They’re people.
“I understand that. I’m not here to negotiate.” I keep my voice even and professional. “I’m here because I think there’s information that might be useful to you before you lose your chance to snag him.”
I can tell he’s not particularly interested in anything I have to say.
I open the folder. “Have you heard of the #HandsOffDeck Campaign?”
“Is this the Instagram girl who loves his ad for Noir?”
“So, you haven’t noticed the entire city pulling for Decker? Wanting you to sign him?”
“When something is thrown in your face so much, it’s hard to miss,” he says.
“And you’re not afraid of pissing off the fans?”
He laughs and opens a drawer, grabs a jerky stick, and takes a big bite.
“As of this morning, that account has more than a hundred thousand followers. It’s been covered by three sports blogs, two local news segments, and was mentioned in the Tribune last week.” I turn to the next page. “Thirty-one businesses within a two-mile radius of Webber Field have created Decker-themed products since the campaign launched. The Decker Defender at the café on Clark. Goldie’s Grinder at the Lincoln Park deli. The Save Decker cookie that a bakery one block down from here is selling out of every week.” I turn the page. “Here’s the social media engagement numbers for the Colts’ account on posts featuring Decker versus posts without him. The difference is significant.”
I’ll give Whitaker one thing. He looks at the papers. Not picking them up. Just looking.
“The city is paying attention,” I say. “And when a player leaves—especially one with this kind of community investment—people remember who made that decision.”
He nods slowly. It’s the nod of a man acknowledging that words are being said, but who’s not moved by them.
“There’s one more thing you should know.” I lean back in my chair, linking my fingers together. “Graham Sutter made Decker a significant offer and wanted him badly enough to fly to Chicago to seal the deal.”
That one lands. I see a small recalibration behind his eyes.
“Decker hasn’t made a decision… yet. He wants to stay here. He has built his life here, and he wants to keep building it here. He’s committed to bringing this team home a championship. I don’t think that’s a small thing when you’re deciding what this organization looks like going forward.”
Whitaker relaxes back into his chair. His expression hasn’t really changed since I walked in. He’s made his decision and is not moved by the woman in love with the man.
“Mrs. Davis, I appreciate you coming in. I understand you have a personal stake in this situation, and I respect that. The organization’s decisions about the roster are based on a number of factors that I’m not in a position to discuss with you.” He folds his hands again, giving away nothing. “I’ll take what you’ve shared under consideration.”
