She chuckles as her shoulders drop a fraction. “Thanks for your honesty. It’s refreshing in a place like this.” She waves around the state-of-the-art entryway leading up to what I can only assume are just as impressive suites.
I type in her very famous last name, then slip my phone into my back pocket. I’m aware of an increasingly antsy Anna at my side. She’s probably trying to hurry up and get into the family suite so she can put a dent in the snack selection. But in true nosy-Isa form, I have to ask.
“So does that mean that your…” I start.
She smiles. “My older brother, Nick. He’s the new owner of the Monarchs, as per our grandfather’s living will.” She smirks at some kind of inside joke I’m not privy to.
Must be a joke rich people make, because who the hell inherits a whole baseball team?
Billionaires, that’s who.
Because even though Nicholas Stonehaven comes from money, word on the street is that he cut all ties with his father, and at thirty-four, he’s turned himself into the youngest self-made billionaire in the world. He’s also the world’s hottest Black billionaire according to every magazine publication. And that’s a title I can easily agree with. Because hot damn.
Yet Nick Stonehaven is a mystery to the world. We know he has a very white and very British father who’s a big player in the business world. But we know nothing of his mother, the woman who clearly gave him all his good looks, given that his father’s face is permanently stuck in a manner that suggests that he’s just sucked on a lemon.
And given he’s grown up in various boarding schools across the world, there’s no pinning exactly where his roots come from.
Listen, I’m not proud of knowing all this background information, but while doom scrolling, searching for my nameon the internet, his name popped up more than a few times, so sue me.
“Well, I’ll be inheriting an overactive kindergartener if I don’t let her loose in that suite any second now.” I laugh as Anna rolls her eyes.
Oh, her father is going tolovethat.
“So… are we still on? For, like, texting and girls’ night?” Daisy asks shyly.
“Listen girl, the only thing your last name changes is me not feeling bad if you offer to pay for my slice of pizza.” I wiggle my eyebrows playfully.
A relieved look comes over her face as she nods. “First slice on me, promise.”
“But please don’t feel like your wallet is what brings value to me and my girlfriends. I promise it doesn’t. As long as you have a sense of humor and don’t mind having friends who love having inappropriate conversations, then you’re golden,” I add quickly. “And spoiler alert,” I whisper. “I’m the one who starts all the inappropriate conversations.” I wink.
She smiles widely. “Sounds like I’ve met my perfect crew.” She goes to wave us in, but stops abruptly. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulls two tickets out of her immaculate pantsuit and hands them to me. “In case you want to get close to the action, these seats are right up front, off to the side of the Monarchs’ dugout. We always set them aside in case Anna wants to go down and say hi to her dad before or after the game.”
Seats out in the open, right by the dugout? Absolutely not.
But I smile politely anyway. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure we’ll stay up here and stick by the free food.” I nod toward the long table lined with food that I’ve already let Anna make a beeline for.
Daisy nods. “Sure thing, but um… maybe keep them close in case you change your mind.” She squeezes my wrist with a secretsmile, then turns on her heels back toward the elevators that must lead to the executive suites.
I shake off the foreboding feeling Daisy left behind and enter the suite to find Anna stacking her plate sky high. Mini stadium dogs, nachos, fries, and other fried foods I can’t make out from the pile she’s created.
“Think you got enough there, kiddo?”
“For now.” She shrugs.
We walk over to a high-top table, and I help her scoot up so she can eat comfortably. I’ve been so focused on Anna and her truly impressive food choices that I’ve neglected to take in my surroundings.
And by the time I do, I fear I’m a bit too late.
Apparently, I’ve entered WAG headquarters, and I didn’t even know it.
Everyone seems to be wearing some version of tight patent-leather pants, racy tops, sky-high boots with matching designer bags, and professionally done hair and makeup.
And all their eyes are on me.
I smile in their general direction and try to play it cool by focusing on Anna. But it’s hard to start up a conversation with a kid who’s currently inhaling food.
Finally, someone I assume must be the queen bee makes her way over.
