Page 26 of Fair Trade
“Actually, I wanted to chat with you before the rest of the guys arrived.” He nods slowly. “You see, when you were hired, I had no idea you’d be interested in working in the industry, much less on the field.”
His shoulders straighten slightly. “I wasn’t.”
Oh, right. I forgot how little Luke likes to talk. I’m going to have to do it for the both of us.
“Look, Luke, I’m going to give it to you straight—”
“You’re firing me.”
“What? No! Of course not. Shit. Am I doing this wrong? Let me start over.” I take a deep breath as Luke’s unwavering stare threatens to unnerve me. “I want to offer you a promotion. To manager. I think you being a pitching coach is great, but I believe that managing the coaches on the field and being in fullcontrol of our game would be an even better use of your skill set.”
He’s already shaking his head. “I can be a coach, but manager? Too much media attention, and I’m no one’s puppet.”
I put my hands up in a placating manner. “Yes, I already thought about this, but look at what’s already happening. Ever since you arrived at spring training, the reporters have been all over you. Unfortunately, this industry comes with media vultures. Trust me, I know.” His eyes soften slightly. I’m sure he’s seen some of the media chatter questioning if I was a PR hire or actually qualified to do this job. “But we have no control over their interest in you or me. And they are not the reason we’re in this field. We do it because we love the game and we know how to make our team better.”
He sighs as he shifts back in his seat. It might as well scream “I’m considering it,” so I continue.
“Look, you’ll still technically be a coach. Like the mega coach. Main coach in charge. Head honcho—”
“Álvarez, I know what a manager is.”
“Right. Exactly. So you know that you’d be in charge of who plays, what strategies we should make mid-game, and how to direct the other coaches to best position their players. You were always a cerebral player on the field. You saw things that most couldn’t. No one could have predicted your former team would win the World Series 4-0, and yet they got it done. Because of you.” I point at his chest.
His hand rubs his beard, and I force myself to stay silent and let him process what I’m offering.
If he agrees, he’ll be the youngest manager in the history of major league baseball at the age of thirty-one. This will open the floodgates to media attention, and he will be expected to do more interviews.
His face will be synonymous with the New York Monarchs like Joe Torre was for the Yankees.
After a minute of silence, he asks, “What about DiSorbo?”
DiSorbo is our current manager and, frankly, someone who should not be allowed in front of a mic because the mouth on that man will get us fined after every game. “DiSorbo is out. I can get an interim pitching coach while you establish yourself as manager.”
His brows rise. “You’re ruthless, Álvarez.”
I lean forward, steepling my hands on the desk. “So, what do you say, Skipper?”
His face scrunches, and for a moment I think I’ve blown it.
“If anyone dares call me Skipper, they’re getting benched for the entire season. I may be the new manager, but I will not take on the manager pet name when I’m in the dugout or elsewhere. I’ll always go by Coach.”
Did he—did he accept the job? Did I actually get this done during the week after opening day?
I don’t dare breathe. “So do we have a deal,Coach?”
He matches my posture over the desk as he replies. “Looks like we do,Luisa.”
Thank God I have a big office with actual walls instead of frosted glass. If not, I wouldn’t have the liberty of dancing barefoot in my office, celebrating the win I had with Coach Weston today.
The official announcement went live an hour ago, and the sports outlets have run wild with the news.
I was sure to set up Coach’s first interview for next week, giving the media frenzy a few days to simmer down so they don’t hound him too badly, although it’ll be a miracle if they get more than yes or no answers from him.
I’m so caught up in the moment, shaking my ass to my Rihanna playlist, that I don’t notice the massive form leaning against my open office doorframe until I turn around and let out a very unimpressive squeak.
Nick doesn’t try to hide his amusement one bit. “Oh, don’t mind me. I was looking to debrief with my GM about a major change in staffing that was announced to the media before we had a chance to discuss it in detail. But by all means, continue dancing to ‘Bitch Better Have My Money.’” He waves me on.
I slap my cell phone screen a few times to pause the song, my go-to when thinking about trades and potential deals, and catch my breath while staring at my office intruder.
