“Now I just need ownership to pony up the cash.”
“How much?”
“Probably in the three hundred million range, maybe more.”
“Just to throw a baseball?”
“To throw a baseball better than anyone else when your teams’ yearly revenue is nearly two hundred million dollars and signing a player from Japan of this stature means an estimated revenue increase upwards of thirty million dollars a year.”
A lot of people have issues with how much professional athletes get paid. Bianca’s an academic librarian, so I’m sure she can imagine a million uses for that kind of money. But I’ve always argued that the money being in the hands of the playersinstead of just sitting in the billionaire owners’ respective bank accounts is a net win.
“And Stew’s on board?”
“Yeah, I think so, but listen, I’ve gotta go. I need to head back into the office.”
“Back in? Did you go there straight from the airport and then work all day yesterday?”
“Maybe.”
“Frankie!” she scolds. “What did we talk about?”
I scoff lightly. “I can do the work-life balance thing when I have a ring.”
“I assume you mean a World Series ring?”
“What other kind of ring could I mean? Wait, is Bianca ‘I waited literal years after I found the love of my life to get married because we had things we wanted to accomplish first’ Dimitriou asking about my love life?”
“I just worry about you. You were never like me. I was always happy being single before Xavier and I finally figured everything out, but there hasn’t really been anyone since Shane for you, right? Not anyone serious anyway.”
I ignore the question because she knows the answer. “B, I appreciate the concern, but I promise you, I’m fine. I’m more than fine, and I’ll be better than fine if I get ownership to sign off on a competitive offer for Nakamura.”
“Okay, but promise me you won’t go in for at least another couple of hours. Give your body time to adjust to the time change or you’re going to be a mess for the rest of the week, and I know you have a couple more work trips coming up soon. Promise me.”
“Fine, I promise. I’ll go for a run, clear my head a bit.”
“I guess it would be too much for me to ask you to rest a little more?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay, fine, have a good run.”
“Tell Xavier I said hi.”
“I will and, listen, if you need to talk about the Charlie Avery thing, you call me, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Love you, bye.”
“Love you, bye!”
Sliding out from under the covers, I press my feet into the carpet beneath my bed, the one that came with the place. Beige and nondescript, but plush enough to make fists in with my toes, grounding me after a long-ass few days.
The taupe nail polish I got at my last pedicure is looking pretty rough as I stretch my legs out and then rotate my ankles, both of them cracking in a satisfying way as I turn them one way and then the other.
Then, with a groan, as my spine echoes those cracks, I stand up, stretching my arms over my head.
And that’s it. I’m up and moving with purpose to the closet to find running tights and a long-sleeved t-shirt to wear for a quick mile around the park.
Running was always my least favorite part of being an athlete. It was something to be avoided at all costs, a punishment for lack of performance on the field, for messing around at practice or, occasionally, for being a little too mouthy with a coach.
