“That’s as good an explanation as any.”
“Right.” She nods to herself. “We just have to make sure that we direct our energy into something productive. Building this team, getting ready for next season, making sure our roster is as strong as it can be. Do you agree?”
She hasn’t left me much choice, even if she’s not completely wrong. “I do.”
“Okay, good.” And then she moves on instantly, like we weren’t just talking about how yesterday I was this close tofucking her against my bedroom wall. “The Winter Meetings are right after Thanksgiving. Rumor has it that Nakamura is going be posted around the same time.”
“I thought ownership was out on Nakamura.”
“I talked them around.”
“You did?”
“I will. I have a meeting with Hannah Vinch tomorrow morning. I’ll get her to agree that if we can get Nakamura to defer a ton of money after the end of his contract. It’ll free us up to sign more players now and give the team a better chance of winning.”
“How much money?”
“Almost all of it.”
“Do you think he’ll take it? Guys have done stuff like that before, but usually because they want to play for a specific team.”
“I’ll . . . think of something. Being in New York helps: a massive and enthusiastic Asian population, major endorsement opportunities. But we’ll be competing with the Yankees, and if they’re feeling up to it, the Mets, with those same attractions.”
“What do you need from me?”
“I think we’ll probably need you in Nashville during the Winter Meetings.”
“Then I’m there.”
“Great.”
“Separate hotel rooms this time, though.”
And, thank fuck, she laughs.
“Separate hotel rooms,” she agrees. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
“But no touching.”
“Charlie . . .” she says again, but this time it’s affectionate exasperation. “Get out of my office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stepping out of the stadium into the evening, I hunch my shoulders against the November chill. The World Series ended a little more than a week ago and with it the last vestiges of summer. I’m still dressed for Arizona, so I hunch my shoulders against the wind as I make the relatively short walk from the ballpark toward Javy’s house.
The neighborhood is bustling.
It was clearly built around the stadium, with restaurants and bars lining the streets in the immediate surrounding blocks. They’re buzzing with activity, though during the season it’s probably jam packed with fans, like it has been since back before the Eagles, when the Dodgers called it home.
It’s easy to imagine the old world underneath and propping up the new. A working- to middle-class neighborhood on real estate that became more and more valuable as the years went along, pushing out the families that were there back in the day for the people that were pushed out of Manhattan when those rents got out of control.
But I’ll give this neighborhood one thing: they kept the charm.
The mostly original architecture once you crossover into a more residential area, the brownstones lining the streets, trees sprouting out of the sidewalks, families out and about taking an after-dinner stroll and runners with earbuds in weaving around them while the weather is still okay and there’s still some sunlight this late.
When I get back to Javy’s they saved me a plate from the absolute feast their chef made for dinner that night.
“When I move into my own place, you need to give me the woman’s name. If I don’t have someone making my meals, I’m going to end up eating out every night and I’ll become one of those guys wholooksretired.”
