He grunts.
“Cards on the table?” I ask and he nods. “We need to make a change. The current coaching staff isn’t cutting it for the amount of talent we have on the team.”
“Not wrong about that. Fields and Miller are good, but they can’t do it all. They’ve been carrying the load all season.”
“What do you know?” Preston Fields, my starting second baseman, is also his daughter’s boyfriend, so I wonder if they’ve had private conversations about how things are going in Nashville since Fields’ trade.
“Nothing that they’ve said, honestly.” He removes his cap and swipes a hand over his hair before replacing it on his head and crossing his arms. “I know how those guys operate. It’s impossible for them not to lead. You lucked out when you got them both at the same time. Early enough to influence the team dynamic from the inception. But you also ended up with a skipper with one foot out the door and all too happy to let his captains do the work for him.”
“I’ve gotten that impression. Ben thinks the Troubadours still have a chance at the Wild Card this year, but it’s not enough. Looking to next season, something’s got to give.”
He leans forward, resting his crossed arms on the table as he scrutinizes me. “So, why me?”
Matching his position, I roll my eyes. “Come on, man. Don’t make me blow smoke up your ass. You know you’re the best.”
“What if I’m happy where I am?”
I arch a brow at him. “Are you?”
He looks off to the left, considering how to reply. “The past couple years haven’t been a walk in the park with the moves management is making. It’s no secret that I didn’t agree with the way they benched Fields after the season started last year. That boy may have taken a colossally stupid risk going to Belize, but it wasn’t his fault he got stuck there, and he made it back in time for the season to start. They were just pissed off that the media attention was on him and Ivory instead of on the Tides’ chances to make the World Series.”
“Coming to Nashville would mean being in the same city as your daughter for once,” I say, casually, hiding my smirk by taking a sip of my drink.
Mike’s eyes narrow and he purses his lips. “I didn’t peg you for the guy who would stoop low enough to bribe me with my family.”
I shrug and we both laugh.
“Being close to Ivory is a selling point.” Mike rubs a hand over his jaw as he considers for a moment, only pausing to reach for his fresh beer when another round of drinks are dropped off at the table. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
He levels me with a stare that has me squirming in my seat. “Are you happy, Grant?”
“What kind of question is that?”
Of course I’m happy. I run a successful billion-dollar empire. I’m free from the clutches of my parent’s demands on my time and my life. I still get to work in baseball, even if my dreams of pitching collapsed around me too soon.
“The real kind,” Mike says. “You put on a good face for the public. No one would know by the photographs taken at events or at industry meetings that it’s all fake. But I know you. It's been a while, but I know what true happiness looks like on you, and it’s not this bullshit I’m staring at right now.” He looks over my suit.
“Okay old man. What’s your game?”
“If you want me to come to Nashville, then I want the truth. Are you hiding in this concrete jungle?”
Now he’s lost me. "Hiding? From what?”
“Life. Your second chance. The game.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Just spit it out.”
“Okay.” He moves his beer out of the way, crosses his arms, and leans on the table, leveling me with a serious look. “What I think is that your dreams of playing baseball deteriorated at the same time as your wife walked out on you. Daddy refused to foot the bill for anything because you defied him by getting drafted to begin with and he’s still salty about that, especially when your career ended prematurely and you were out of a job. He wantedyou back at the family empire, but you refused, so he doubled down by cutting you off. Only he couldn’t keep the trust fund your grandparents set up for you from paying out. Your defiance kicked in, and you started your own company to compete with him, but added a twist so it would keep you in the sports world. Am I right so far?”
“I didn’t use my trust fund to start my company,” I say. And it’s true—whether Mike believes me or not, the trust fund remains untouched.
“Then, when the opportunity presented itself to get back into baseball, you couldn’t resist. You started a team, but you were too scared to put your whole heart back into the game again, so you hired a staff to run it for you while you stayed hidden in your Lower Manhattan high rise and your brownstone near Central Park. You traded for Fields and Miller, hoping their notoriety would help when it became apparent the coach you hired was a dud, and now you’re here in this fancy bar when we should be tossing back beers in the dive bar on the corner as you ask me to come save the day because you don’t want to do what you know you should do.”
“That’s not—” I grimace as I reflect on what he’s said. He’s right. “My father did cut me off, but it wasn’t entirely because of baseball.”
Mike raises an eyebrow in interest. I don’t know why, but suddenly the urge to tell the full story has me signaling for the check as I say, “Want to get out of here? I’ll tell you the full story over beers somewhere less stuffy.”
