There had to be some irony in this situation. After all, his father had always said it would be over his dead body that Armi would inherit the team. And now here they were, almost three months after a small-plane crash had killed Randolph Winters, his girlfriend, Anna, and Peter, his father’s personal assistant, and Armi was owner and president of the Brooklyn Kings.
He’d rather be mulching his rosebushes.
“Good morning, Mr. Winters.” Josh, the front-desk receptionist, smiled brightly at him. “How are you this morning?”
“Please, Josh, call me Armand. And I’m well. How’re you?”
“Oh, uh. I’m fine, thanks.”
His father hadn’t liked the first-name familiarity with the staff Armi insisted upon, but Armi was determined to change the culture.
“Great.”
He noted the sign behind him, with the Brooklyn Kings name and logo—a football sailing between the two spires of the Brooklyn Bridge. And underneath it, in big gold letters: Randolph Winters, Owner and CEO.
It was something he’d meant to change but hadn’t yet gotten around to. After the shock of his father’s death, Armi had allowed Russell Anders, the Kings’ general manager and his father’s best friend, along with the rest of the “inner circle,” to run the team, but at his mother’s urging, he’d decided only a week earlier to take the reins and step into the role.
Jacob Whitmore rushed over to him. He was the Kings’ chief legal counsel and chief thorn in Armi’s side. “I hoped you’d be here earlier. I wanted to review those contracts.”
Speaking to Whitmore always left Armi feeling inadequate and useless.
“I still have time before the meeting, don’t I?” He checked his watch to see the time and promptly spilled coffee down the front of his shirt.
“Shit,” he yelled and jumped, hoping to avoid the hot liquid, but the damage was done. A wet, brown stain spread across his white shirt, silk tie, and the top of his pants. Great. Tears stunghis eyes at his incompetency. Maybe his father was right and he lacked the ability to be a leader.
Russell appeared at his side. “I’ll get you some paper towels.”
“It’s not going to help,” Armi called out, but Russell had already sprinted to the men’s room and returned with a bunch in his hand. The man might be in his early sixties, but he was fast on his feet—Russell had been an All-Pro running back in college and had spent two years in the NFL prior to a knee injury, which had forced him to retire—and could probably beat Armi in a race without even trying.
Armi knew it was fruitless, but he dabbed at his shirt anyway. “Thanks.”
“Don’t worry. Happens to all of us.” Russell’s reassurance was tempered by Whitmore rolling his eyes.
Armi managed a weak smile. “Well, uh, I’d better get ready for the meeting. Jacob, did you email me the contracts?”
Whitmore raised his brows. “Last night. I expected a response, but I guess you were busy with something else?”
His face flamed. “I’ll read them and let you know.” Yeah, he’d been busy. Busy having a gorgeous stranger suck his dick, then paint him with come. Armi hurried away to his office.
Russell followed. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I’ll help you.”
Armi sat behind his desk and listened as Russell talked about salary caps and trade deadlines. As a CPA, Armi understood numbers. They went through the documents Whitmore had sent, and Armi asked questions, took notes, and was able to understand the complicated world of salaries, signing bonuses, and incentives. Russell explained how their scouts spread out over the dozens of top college teams, looking for standouts they could pick up in the college draft. The nuts and bolts of putting together a winning team that could make the playoffs and winthe Super Bowl all made his head spin, but he struggled to understand.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to look for excellent players who maybe don’t get all the attention? We could pay them less and give someone else a chance who maybe didn’t have the opportunity to make it to a big school.” An underdog himself, Armi wanted to give everyone equal footing.
Russell’s smile was indulgent. “That’s very noble, Armand, but fans aren’t going to pay season-ticket prices for nobodies. They want to see the players they’ve been following in college football—kids who’ve helped win the Bowl games and hold college records. We need the stadiums filled and advertisers buying space. The NCAA almost rivals the NFL in the money it brings in for advertising, and rabid football fans know their stuff. They don’t want to see some no-name player. They want Heisman Trophy winners. Rushers who break records. Defensive ends with big moves who hold sacking records. We have to be competitive with our offers to the top college players.”
While it made sense, he didn’t have to like it. “Understood. However, I’d still like to see a little more effort made with lesser division schools.” Nervous sweat rolled down his back. Taking a stand made him sick to his stomach, but he forced himself. “That’s my decision as owner.”
Russell frowned but nodded. “All right. We’d better get to the meeting. You can tell everyone your thoughts there.” His hand on the door, Russell hesitated. “You’re sure you really want to do this? Take over ownership of the Kings?”
He knew the organization expected him to sell the team, take his hundreds of millions of dollars, and wipe his hands clean. At the party his mother had thrown for him at his family’s East Hampton home when he’d passed his CPA exam, Armi had overheard his father talking to Whitmore, Russell, and TroyGeiger, the Kings’ CFO. He’d gone inside to change his pants after dropping a piece of cake on his lap, and the four men had been in his father’s study, having a drink.
“To think he’s my only child, a limp-wristed klutz with no head for business. All he knows is grubbing in the dirt. I still remember the first Kings game I took him to. Cried like a baby because the players were knocking each other over and he thought they were being mean.”
After hearing that exchange and the laughter from all the men, Armi knew, no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be the son his father wanted. It was one thing to feel a parent’s disdain, but to hear it put so bluntly to strangers was burned indelibly in his mind.
As for grubbing in the dirt…Armi’s first love had always been plants and flowers. As a young boy living on their Long Island estate, he’d helped the family gardener with the vegetable flats and the profusion of prize-winning rosebushes. Here in the city, he’d turned the backyard of his town house into a rose garden and spent all his time learning grafting to create new varieties and how to keep his bushes healthy. He loved his flowers. They were his world. Their beauty brought his heart joy when he had little else to give him happiness.
