Page 68 of All Signs Point to Malibu

He shrugs and nods—not going to give me anything—but I sense it’s a lie.

“But could you be happier somewhere else? Maybe a dream team you’ve aspired to?”

He looks at me like, “How’d you know?” and I push on.

“Loyalty is admirable, but how loyal do you think the team is to you? If you start to slack off next year or get a minor injury—” I nod to the brace on his right elbow “—do you think they’ll keep playing you? Put in any effort to get you in top shape?”

He hesitates and folds his arms across his chest. “There’s always a rookie to replace me, I get it.”

“Then maybe you should explore the options. Go out there and get what you want before a rookie steals that opportunity, as well.”

I’ve hit my mark. I can see Warren smile from the corner of my eye and I relax a little.

“Moving teams is a delicate thing...” Jeremy says and his large biceps twitch. It’s his tell—I noticed it before he folded at each hand of poker.

“So, let’s meet and I’ll help you strategize. If in the end you don’t want to take the risk, no harm done.”

He hesitates and I glance at the brace, see a potential opening to touch him. “How about this? Let’s arm wrestle and if you win, this discussion is over. If I win, you meet me for a drink.”

He relaxes and grins as he eyes me. “You think you could take me?”

No, but I need to touch him to put together a more solidly convincing pitch. I’m surviving—barely—on Warren’s tip, but it’s not enough. I’ll get there, but right now, I need my old standby to seal this one and convince the others to hear me out. “Maybe against your left arm. Worth a shot,” I say with an innocent shrug.

A second later, we’re seated across from one another as the other men watch with amusement. Eyes locked in silent intimidation, we reach out and join hands.

Our lifelines connect and my visionary powers are activated.

Jeremy sits in the Dallas general manager’s office. On the desk in front of him is the best contract of his career. He signs it and the manager hands him his new jersey with the number 17 on the back. He stares at the number with a look of pride.

When I blink back, I’ve lost the arm wrestle. Obviously. But I have exactly what I need.

“Sorry, Hailey—didn’t think I’d let you win, did you?” Jeremy asks with a “maybe next time” smile as he releases my hand and stands.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. I pause as he collects his wallet and car keys from the table. “But, uh, hey Jeremy, it’s too bad you don’t get to wear your number out there on the field.”

He pauses. “What do you mean?”

“Number 17—it’s the one you want to wear, right?”

He looks slightly freaked out that I could possibly know that.

“Just sayin’ negotiations with another team might allow you to do that.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Warren’s wide grin and I know I’ve nailed it. Player numbers are sacred and Jeremy’s been wearing one that doesn’t sing to his heart for ten years.

I wait.

Jeremy shakes his head as though he can’t believe he’s agreeing to it. “One drink.”

I contain my excitement as I nod professionally. “One drink.”

The rest of the players are suitably impressed and I’m able to gain lukewarm commitments from them as they leave. I’ll take it. Far better than I’d expected. And it only cost me four hundred dollars in lost poker money. Bargain.

Once everyone is gone, Warren approaches, carrying a large garbage bag. He tosses recyclables into it as he asks, “How did you know about the number thing?”

“I remember seeing it online somewhere that he used to wear that number in high school,” I say as I start to help him clean up. It’s not a lie. I did my research on these guys and the glimpse just sparked my memory.

“Well, it worked,” Warren says.

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