“I’ll drink to that,” I say, raising my glass, and he clinks his beer bottle against it.
When I put my glass back down, after a much shorter sip than before, my phone lights up on the table. It’s Dan Wilson.
Done holding my client hostage?
I’m half tempted to snap a picture of the four guys at the table, laughing and having a great time after pounding a few tacos and a couple of beers each, but I manage to restrain myself.
“Someone’s getting cranky,” I say, showing my phone to Charlie.
He snorts. “Does Kai turn back into a pumpkin soon?”
“That would definitely put a dampener on contract negotiations. C’mon, let’s get him back to the plane before Wilson leaks this to a reporter that we’ll have to deal with.”
We send off our three kids in an Uber and all very deliberately turned our backs or focused on our phones while Xander and Kai’s handshake and one-armed hug went on a beat or two longer than the ones he exchanged with Cole and Archie.
Javy and Kai pick up that same conversation about developing a knuckle curve during the ride back to the airport.
“Thank you very much for today,” Kai says, slowly, clearly choosing his words carefully despite his obvious fluency. “It has given me much to consider.”
I smile at him and extend my hand for him to shake, which he does firmly. “I really appreciate your willingness to come out here today and see what our plans are, long term. And knowthat, no matter what you decide, you have three fans in us. If you ever need anything, you reach out, okay?”
“You work on that knuckle curve grip before Spring Training. Send me some video if you need feedback,” Javy says.
Then Kai turns to Charlie and pulls something from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Before I go, will you sign it?”
It’s a baseball card, an old one, encased in thick plastic to protect it from even the slightest wrinkle.
“Of course,” Charlie says, and I produce a pen from the recesses of my bag, while Kai unclasps the plastic gently.
With great care, Charlie scribbles his signature at the bottom of his picture, baby faced with thick stripes of eye black at the top of his cheekbones, looking as fierce as an eighteen-year-old rookie possibly can. The card was worth a lot a moment ago and now, as Nakamura takes it back and closes the case, it’s worth even more.
“Thank you, Avery-sama,” Kai says, staring at it, before looking up sheepishly. “Don’t tell Mr Wilson that I asked. He advised me not to.”
“Your secret’s safe with us, kid. And not just this one,” he says.
Kai freezes, looking from Charlie to Javy to me, and then back to Charlie again, before his shoulders relax and he smiles, wider and brighter than he has all day long, and that’s saying something. “I appreciate that, very much.”
“No problem, kid,” Charlie says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now come on, we have a plane to catch.”
Once we board, Wilson shuffles his client to the other end of the plane, probably to grill him on what happened during the hours they were apart, but I won’t even let that bring me down.
Today is exactly why I got into this business, a chance to bring together players and coaches, to see them make connections and find that spark between them, the spark that ignites a teamthrough a grueling hundred and sixty-two games and then into the post-season, keeping the flame alive until that last out.
I can see it, clear as day in front of me, the boys spilling out of the dugout at Russell Field, a dogpile on the pitcher’s mound with Charlie and Javy embracing each and every one of the players that finally got them to the pinnacle of their careers, and I’m there too, probably pacing the tunnel just beyond the dugout during the last three outs, not watching, just listening, knowing the crowd will tell me what happened and then, when that deafening final cheer goes up, I can sprint out to the field and be with them after we’ve brought a World Series home to Brooklyn, the first one since 1955.
That moment will be so sweet, beyond everything I can even imagine.
And it feels like I took one step closer to it today, but now it’s out of my hands and the only thing I can do is wait.
For a moment, one blissful moment when I hear my cell phone ring on the nightstand in Charlie’s guest room, I think that maybe, just maybe, Nakamura’s already made his decision, that he’s forgoing all the other meetings and will sign with us after we sent over our very generous offer the night before.
But then I realize it’s not even two in the morning and I’ve only been asleep for an hour and the number lighting up my phone screen definitely isn’t Dan Wilson’s or even Nakamura’s himself.
It’s Hannah Vinch.
My heart sinks into my stomach.
Stew.
