“Dude, you look like shit.”
“Thank you, Brooker. I hadn’t realized.”
Brooker and I exchanged concerned looks. Christenson didn’t do snarky. So as far as red flags go, that was a huge one.
“Are you all right?” I asked, nodding to the empty spot next to me. He sighed, but sat down.
“Keep this quiet, but … the owners want to sell.”
“No shit,” Brooker huffed. He got up and went to his cubby to get dressed.
“Seriously? Who all knows?” he asked, looking between the two of us.
“The whole team, I think.”
“Fuck,” Christenson hissed.
“Everybody thinks it’s just rumors though,” Brooker added.
“That’s bad enough. I don’t want everyone to worry about that and lose focus on the games. That might make the sale … more difficult.”
“Difficult?” I repeated. “Are they having trouble finding people who want to buy the team?”
Christenson’s face twisted and my gut mimicked the look.
“Are they talking with Langston?” Brooker asked, sitting back on the bench with us, now fully dressed.
“Who?”
“Becca Langston, Black woman, was in a gold dress at the gala, maybe around your age, thick braids. Don’t know her background, but she mentioned something about being interested in buying the team when we were chatting and she’s a thousand percent better than some old white dude. Plus she has a connection at TJ’s and they’d be a fun sponsor.”
“Not that I know of. But if you got a good impression of her, I can pass that along. Not sure it’ll be worth much though. They’re currently talking to the Corchis.”
“The ones who own all those 30A restaurants?” I gawked and Christenson cringed before nodding.
“It seems like their interest might lie in the advertising potential.”
“Ugh, fuck that. Or actually, do we get free food? 'Cause the smash burger place is pretty good. It’s not TJ’s, but still,” Brooker said and I nodded along. Most of those restaurants were down closer to Panama City Beach, so I’d have to ask Kodi what kind of rich they were and if this would piss off the locals or not.
“I don’t know about free food at the restaurants, but I imagine they’ll cater most of our events. Problem is … the current owners are pushing Boyd to make plays that might impress buyers. And it’s just … exhausting.” Christenson rested his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and groaned. “And I’ve been spending all my extra time trying to get Boyd to do his job and makegoodplays rather than the bullshit he’s pitched lately. If we have to play the whole season like we’re cattle being presented for sale, I might lose it.”
I patted Christenson on the shoulder, unsure of how to comfort him in this shitty situation.
“You know what?” Brooker clapped his hands on his legs then pushed off the bench. “Imma go. Kean seems to want your sagely captain advice anyways and I wanna look up Langston and see what she’s about.”
“Wait,” Christenson said, voice stern but weary. “Are you looking into her because you think she’d be a good owner or because you think she’s hot?”
“What? A woman can’t be hotanda capable manager? Kinda sexist, man.” Brooker mock saluted and took off before Christenson could ask any follow-up questions.
“I think he’s just being a brat,” I told him with zero confidence.
“One can only hope,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “I’m guessing whatever you want has to do with Kodi? I’m sorry it’s been so long since I followed up with you on that.”
“Don’t mention it. It sounds like you’ve got enough on your plate.” Christenson hummed in response. “And Brooker has actually been helping me out.”
“Seriously?” Christenson gaped.
“Yeah. Well, him and Taylor. Jimenez, too. But mostly Brooker.”
