Page 141 of The Play

Cheryl tossed her hair. “I read the article. But you could easily lie. You lied before, when you said you didn’t know what the email was talking about.”

“I don’t think you want to get started on who’s lying,” Grant said softly, dangerously, leaning forward. “You never investigated the leak, because you already knew who it was. It was you, Cheryl. You found that email on my hard drive and then you shopped that email around, to various media outlets.”

Grant was gratified to see her go a little gray in the face. “You have no proof of that, and it’s just slanderous to go around telling lies about me,” she insisted.

“You know what business Mr. Green is in, Cheryl?” Darcy asked smoothly.

She shrugged. “Something to do with technology.”

“Security, Cheryl, security. And do you know whose program is installed on your computer?”

Cheryl went white then. “You can’t spy on me! That’s illegal!”

“According to InTech’s terms of service, no, it’s not. And not with the software agreement that the NFL signed. Also, they own that computer, not you. So for extra verisimilitude, we received additional permission from them and from the commissioner himself. To investigate, of course. The case you wouldn’t touch. With just cause, we can track IP addresses. Where emails came from. We know who sent the supposedly anonymous email that went out to the media. Incidentally, all your media contacts, Cheryl, which would be pretty damning on its own. But that wasn’t all we discovered. We have proof you sent those emails. We have the email address you sent them from. And we can link it to you.”

“This is all a terrible coincidence,” she spluttered. “I did no such thing.”

“Yes, Cheryl, you did,” Darcy said. He could see how much she was enjoying this, and so he went on.

“I was sufficiently concerned with the results of this investigation that I talked to some other people about them,” Grant said, ruthlessly clamping down on any sympathy he might feel, because Cheryl’s face had now gone from gray to white to bright brick red. He clicked the remote in his pocket and the screen on the other side of the conference room lit up. Six different boxes meant six different NFL owners. He didn’t need to identify the names on the call. She could see all of them, listed right there in black and white. Not everyone was available, but at the last minute, Grant had put together a decent enough group of other owners, all equally concerned that the commissioner’s office was sending private information to the media, without their permission.

“These other owners and I are very concerned,” Grant said, feeling no remorse about using the same term she’d overused when it came to every single thing that cropped up during his Condors ownership. She’d brought all of this on herself. By overstepping, for one, and also for leaking that email.

She’d made it a crusade, where one didn’t need to exist.

“Very concerned, Cheryl,” Rudy Gonzalez, the owner of the Piranhas, echoed Grant. “It’s very worrisome that you’d leak any information about an owner or his team to the media.”

“I didn’t . . .I wouldn’t,” she spluttered, lying out of her ass.

Because he knew she did. He had the proof. All he’d have to do was press send and the report would go public. The commissioner had given him permission—but he hoped he wouldn’t have to do it.

“When we had that internal disagreement between the coaching staff and our player personnel VP, somehow that leaked to the media,” Marisa Lyon, the daughter of the Riptide owner, chimed in. “Everyone here at the Riptide claimed they knew nothing about it getting out. But it did, anyway. I realized when Grant came to us that you knew.”

“Too many leaks,” Rudy agreed. “No more.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Cheryl practically shouted.

“I think your path forward is very clear,” Grant said. “Resign. Today.”

“You want me to resign?”

“Resign or be fired. Your choice,” Darcy said, and now her smile was undeniably vicious as she leaned forward. “And if this report we have happens to make it to the media . . .don’t be surprised. Maybe we’ll even use that email address you were so convinced was anonymous.”

“To anyone else, it might’ve been,” Grant said modestly.

“Good thing you’re so good with computers, Grant, or we wouldn’t have ever known who the culprit was,” Marisa said, chuckling.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll resign.” Cheryl stood, shooting each and every one of them a look that promised retribution, but it was too late for that. She was tied up. She couldn’t exact any revenge on them, not without her deeds becoming common knowledge. And she couldn’t risk that—or she’d be risking all her credibility going forward.

Grant had even talked to the NFL commissioner himself, before any of this had gone down and made sure he was fully on board with whatever punishment he deemed appropriate. The commissioner had also reassured Grant that as long as Deacon retired at the end of this season, the NFL considered the matter of “inappropriate behavior” fully closed.

This would end, and it would end right now.

“Today, Cheryl,” Grant said, his voice still pleasant.

“Today,” she echoed, glaring at him.

“Excellent. Well, thank you for coming by, then,” Grant said, watching with satisfaction as she stomped out, clearly furious.

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