There’s my full name again, though it obviously doesn’t sound nearly as good as when Charlie says it, and now it really feels like I’m in trouble.
“Frankie,” Hannah says, standing up and coming around her desk. Older than me by ten years or maybe a few more, but at least a foot shorter even in the towering heels she’s wearing, Louboutins if my instincts are right (and they usually are about shoes). “Come in, come in. I had Nancy bring us some tea for our meeting.”
“Tea?” I ask, as she leads me to the couch in the corner of her office, overlooking the field, somehow an even better view than in the waiting area since it’s centered right above home plate.
“Yes,” she says. “Tea. Why, do you prefer coffee?”
I do, but it doesn’t matter. “No, I just . . .”
Hannah smiles widely, teeth bright white and perfectly straight, which makes sense for a billionaire with controlling interest in a Major League Baseball organization. “Did you think I brought you here to scold you?”
“Honestly? Yes.”
“Pssh. No, not at all. Let’s sit. You make me nervous standing there, all six foot whatever of you. We have some things to discuss.”
I make her nervous? Sounds fake, but okay.
“Five ten,” I say, as I smooth my skirt beneath me and propmyself at the end of the rounded couch while she sits opposite me and pours out two cups of tea. “Without the heels.”
She makes a disgruntled noise from the back of her throat and then says “Sugar? Milk?”
“Sugar,” I say, and she adds two actual lumps from a bowl, no sweetener packets to be found.
“Okay,” she says, once she’s prepared her own cup. “Tell me what happened with Charlie Avery.”
The tea is hot. And I nearly spit it out all over her cream velvet couch at her very casual request, images of that last night in Arizona flickering through my mind like a slide show: his mouth, his hands, me splayed out nearly naked on his kitchen counter.
She can’t possibly mean that.
One neatly manicured eyebrow rises at my lack of response while I swallow my sip of tea and cough a bit, to try and buy time.
“With Ethan Quicke,” I say, finally, and she nods. “It was a miscalculation,” I admit. “Charlie Avery is the kind of guy whose word is as good as his bond. Quicke isn’t. I’d much rather have the former on my side than the latter.”
Hannah hums and then nods again. “Agreed.”
Okay, so . . . I’m definitely not in trouble and I’m not exactly one to just let things go. “So, why exactly did you want to see me?”
She takes a small sip of her tea and replaces the cup on its saucer. “Stew mentioned you’ve been wanting to pitch me on Kai Nakamura.”
“I do.”
“Okay, so let’s hear it.”
“Oh, I have an entire presentation prepared with documentation and I assumed we’d be meeting with the guys from player development and scouting.”
Hannah waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve heard from them.” She has? “Most of them believe he’s not worth the price. It’s theposting fee, plus his contract, in excess of three hundred and fifty million dollars, but what I want to know is why you want him.”
“He’s a generational talent. There is no pitcher in the major leagues or coming up from the minors that will be able to compete with his stuff: velocity, control, wicked spin rate and . . .” I trail off, not sure if this part matters, though it feels like it might matter more than anything. “. . . all he wants to do is win and that’s what we want to do here, right?”
It’s something that the ownership group insists upon over and over again whenever they release a statement, that our mission is to win, but fans, rightly, have pointed out over the years that their actions don’t match their words, their commitment to trading for or signing the best players never seems to come to fruition in favor of budget cuts and building for a fictional next year that doesn’t materialize.
“In theory, yes.”
“What if it wasn’t just a theory? What if I tell you that we can cut payroll next year and still sign Nakamura and have a real chance to win?”
“I’d say you’re insane.”
“Well, that’s part of why you hired me, isn’t it?”
