I stare at the ceiling, at a water stain mimicking the shape of Michigan, and let it hold my attention while I figure out what to say. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
My dad is the only one I’d ever admit that to. What I don’t say is the part underneath—that agreeing to this puts me squarely in the middle of a team that includes the one person I’ve been carefully staying away from.
“An outsider will be enamored with the players. Which is why I’m asking you. You know the calendar. And you’re not going to be intimidated by the guys because you grew up in a clubhouse.”
It’s true. I spent enough time in dugouts and training facilities as a kid that the mystique of professional athletes was thoroughly ruined for me by the age of eighteen.
“We can’t be WAGs when there are only two women,” I say. “We’d have to think of a different way to make this work. Maybe shift our organization to be more about doing charitable things for the fans, Chicago, and getting this city behind the Colts rather than the Trojans.”
“I was thinking the same.”
“Chicago has a great fan base. One of the best.”
He nods. “True, but Shane feels like we’re competing against the Trojans. He wants to own this city.”
My shoulders rise, understanding that we share Chicago with the other major league baseball team.
My dad pushes to his feet and reaches behind him for a folder on the edge of his desk. He’s prepared, which means he never doubted I’d say yes.
“I’d have free rein?”
He nods. “Yes, but Shane wants a meeting. I have someone lined up to help you. So the four of us will meet and discuss schedules and timing, ideas.”
“Who will be helping me?”
“I’m still figuring it out.”
My head tilts. “But you said you had them lined up?”
His forehead wrinkles, and he acts as though I’m hearing things. “They haven’t agreed yet, but they’ll make sure the players attend whatever you cook up.”
Which will probably be the hardest part, if you ask me. Thirty-eight single guys will be hard to manage. Not a job I want.
“Fine,” I say, not thrilled but willing, nonetheless.
“Thanks, slugger. And I’m here to help you with whatever you need.”
I stare at him with a bored expression. He smiles, and it’s the same smile he’s had since I was seven years old—the one that means he already knows he’s won.
“Yeah, that’s bullshit,” he says. “You want your dad to be the youngest manager to win the series, don’t you? Hazel would have bragging rights at school.”
I stand and tuck the folder under my arm. “I’ll do some brainstorming and get back to you.”
“Dinner Saturday?”
“So you can swindle me into another thing? No thanks.”
He chuckles. “Saturday’s game is in the afternoon. I’ll take you and Hazel to that play zone place she likes.”
I groan. “Just what every single mom wants to do on a Saturday night—go play Skee-Ball with her dad.”
He steps around me and places his hand on the doorknob. “I’m happy to take her by myself so you can go to a club or something.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Dad.”
“I’m just saying… maybe it’s time to get out there. Test the waters.” He says it lightly, but he’s watching me in that way he has that means he sees more than I’ve ever told him.
“Says the man who’s been single most of his entire adult life.”
