Page 87 of Mongrels United
Finally, she was inside, and the noise level spiraled. She could hear people already shouting and cheering in the arena seating area, too.
Grady paused at the top of the stairs that would take her down to the halfway point between the heavy zone and the top zone, right in front of the center of the long side of the tank, which was where she usually sat. Her attention was caught by a flutter of movement from the Captain’s box, and a stir of interest from everyone already seated.
She saw heads turn, looking up at the box. Elbows nudged neighbors.
Siran Carpenter moved to the front of the box. He wore no colors, but he was dressed casually and he carried a large cup that Grady knew would contain nothing stronger than coffee.
She didn’t know where the clapping started, but it swelled quickly, catching Siran by surprise. He had been lowering himself onto the chair, but he paused and straightened as the applause grew louder, and waved and nodded, acknowledging the ovation.
Then he settled back on his chair and the clapping died away.
Pleased, Grady moved down the stairs to the halfway point, found her usual row and moved through the row to the seat in the very middle, as she had done dozens of times this season.
The applause caught her by surprise, too.
She twisted to one side and the other. Everyone was watching her. Those in the lower rows had got to their feet and turned to look up at her.
Not only was everyone clapping, they were whistling and cheering and waving at her.
Grady cleared her throat. She could feel her cheeks heating. Did they like that she was here because she was the Mongrel’s lucky charm? Because she’d failed at that. Or were they happy that the Chief of Staff was sitting in the middle of Mongrels territory, as Siran had pointed out to her?
Grady lifted her hand awkwardly, in a wave similar to what Siran did so smoothly and elegantly. Then she sat quickly, and stared at the back of the seat in front of her, letting her face cool and her thoughts to settle.
“Hold this for me, hmm?” It was Nash’s voice.
Grady looked up, even more startled. Nash stood in front of the chair beside her, holding out a large cold drink cup.
Automatically, she took the cup. “What…why are you here? I meanhere.”
Nash settled himself in the chair and took back his drink. “I have to watch the game from somewhere. Why can’t I sit next to you?”
“But…you should be in the owners’ box.” She automatically looked up at the box that flanked the Captain’s box, where the owners and managers of the two teams would sit for the game, where they would be served by waiters and want for nothing.
People were already standing in the box, their backs to the tank and the people in the normal seats, mingling and doing whatever it was power-players who owned teams did when they were together.
“I can’t sit there,” Nash said. “I’m not an owner.”
Grady snapped her gaze back to him. “You’re…not? Yousold the team?”
Nash sipped his drink. She could smell the caffeine. Cold coffee, then. But she could see he was trying to not smile. “I did.”
Her mouth opened. She shut it again, then said, “Who did you sell the team to?”
Nash did smile, then. He lifted his chin in a little movement toward the owners’ box.
Grady looked up. The owners and managers were finding their seats, now. A woman, dressed in a simple shift and jewelry that Grady knew came with an exorbitant price tag, moved around to a chair at the front of the box, beside a man with a big belly that spilled over his trousers and stretched the front of his shirt. He had a red nose and cheeks.
The woman smiled brilliantly at him as she settled in the chair. She was so slender that she was possibly the only person in the box who could sit next to him—for he took up room that any other person would need to sit comfortably.
“Why that’s…Camilla Lippi,” Grady murmured, recognizing her. “You sold the Dreamhawks to her?”
“I did,” Nash said.
“Who is she sitting next to, the big man?” Grady asked. She had seen him in the box before, but team politics and upper management were of no interest to her. There were no Mongrels sitting in that box. They would all be in the tank, playing. Politics and upper management perks were of no interest to them, either.
“That’s Nathan Derrickson,” Nash said. “General Manager.”
There was a note in his voice that made Grady say, “You don’t like him.” She said it very quietly, aware of the interested glances Nash and she were receiving from the Mongrels fans around them. Nash would be known among tankball fans. His presence in the stands had to be raising a lot of questions and a lot of buzz.
