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“Neither do I,” I mutter. I love my brother, but I would be riding him hard if he came to work for Hendricks Capital Management.
Charlotte snorts and then apologizes. “Sorry, Dad, but I fail to see future Byron in a suit every day and working in an office.” My sister’s eyes meet mine. “You’re a natural-born CEO, but Byron would rather work out in a gym than flex his power in an office.”
The virtual dinner-table tennis match begins.
“In another two years, we’ll be having the same conversation, Charlotte.” Dad raises his brow at her in warning.
“What if we don’t want to work for you, Dad? It’s boring to me.”
“Boredom comes from laziness,” Dad retorts.
I moan. “I dream of being bored,” I tell her. “Hold that thought. I never dream because sleep is overrated when you’re running a company.” I shake my head. My younger siblings are living the party life, whereas my career was etched into rock the moment I was born. As the eldest son, the expectation fell on me to take over the company my grandfather founded. “My college results were perfect as I studied every spare minute to make the dean’s list.” I was never distracted from my goals. “I chose the hard path, so while I sound frustrated, if I had my time again, I’d take the time to enjoy those years more than I did.”
Charlotte smiles at me. “See, Dad. Franklin thinks I’m on the right path.”
It’s not what I said, but laughter sounds around the table, and Mom’s eyes soften. It’s how Mom wants Thanksgiving to be.
Joyful memories.
Lola steps into the room, balancing a pumpkin pie in one hand and a pecan pie in the other.
“Thank you, Lola.” Mom clears a space. “I’ll cut the pie, and hopefully, it will silence the tongues.”
“It does smell good.” I nod at Mom. Her gentle eyes meet mine, and she flashes her smile. The family together and enjoying a special meal gives her more happiness than my siblings realize.
My father takes another swig of his whiskey. “Before the pie is served, enlighten me on how a basketball career will benefit the family. I understand you can earn millions as a player, but how does that benefit the Hendricks’ name? Not forgetting the NBA is not the NCAA, so what is your plan B? We all know dreams can disintegrate quickly.”
“You could always buy the team, Dad.” My sister shrugs. “And you could offer players to invest their salary with your company before blowing their money on drugs, women, and booze. Is it possible without somehow being a conflict of interest?”
Dad grunts. “Easily earned money is wasted and not respected.”
“Easily earned?” My brother raises his voice. “Do you have any idea the extent of training and the physical hardship along with the mental health that is required to be the best?”
“Carson, did you hear what your daughter said?” My mother always ensures the women are heard in this family.
Dad’s gaze flicks to my mother and then to Charlotte while he backtracks rather than firing his next response to Byron. “From our investor’s point of view, buying a sports team is a distraction. I’m not willing to risk our reputation.”
“You’re a genius, Lottie,” I whisper. She deflected the attention away from my brother. I turn to my father. “Could be an investment worth researching.” We’ve taken larger risks.
Dad pauses.Is he considering Charlotte’s idea?
“Now…” Mom interjects, “… pass your plates so we can all enjoy pie.”
2
FRANKLIN
The following morning,I’m up early to swim a few miles in the Olympic-size pool before showering. I jog down the stairs feeling invigorated even after hours of devising a plan to present to my father the certainties in investing in ownership of an NBA basketball team. Last night, I sent emails to my employees and learned the Los Angeles professional basketball team, the LA Sharks, needs a new sponsor and a huge overhaul to stay afloat. When Jobe wakes, I want to discuss sponsorship prospects with his real estate company to have more fingers in the pie, so to speak. Despite not having the time to deal with this, I refuse to allow an opportunity to pass, especially when it’s about timing and because it means helping my brother.
“Morning, Serg,” I say to our family’s chef. Bacon sizzles on the stove while he stirs the scrambled eggs with a spoon. Sergio has been part of our family for the past fifteen years, and I have spent many a day sitting here on the kitchen island watching him cook. It’s therapeutic.
“You’re cheerful this morning, Franklin.”
I laugh. “I slept well,” I lie. My excitement for this new prospect resulted in barely any sleep. “I’m just going to make a quick smoothie.”
After blending fruits and green leaves, I pour the smoothie into a glass and head into the dining room, where my father drinks an Americano in his usual clear glass.
“Morning. You’re just the man I want to talk to.”
