If anybody had asked me – and nobody did – I would have told them to steer clear of Rick Dempsey. He drafts poorly, goes cheap on free agents, and his track record as a GM doesn't include guiding a team to a single winning season. Twenty years in the league – thirteen as a GM – and Dempsey doesn't have a single winning season to his credit.
It's something that never fails to irritate me whenever I see his face. He's terrible at his job, but somebody else always takes the fall. It's the quarterback. It's injuries. It's a poor pass defense. The most recurrent theme is, it's the coach. Nobody ever really stops to look at his track record of drafting and signing free agents.
I have though, and it's horrible.
And the reason our relationship is so rocky is because he refuses to listen to my advice. Refuses to draft the players I want to target or sign the free agents I think can help the team. He simply smiles, nods, and blows me off – as if I'm just some spoiled rich kid who doesn't really know much about anything other than girls and partying.
Dempsey doesn't seem to understand that it's only a matter of time before I assume control of the team though, and will be the one calling all the shots. All he talks about is sticking to his vision and his game plan for the organization, promising that better days are ahead.
“Be that as it may,” Rick goes on, “There is always the potential –”
“I'm done talking about that,” I snap. “What I want to talk about – the reason I asked you to meet with me – is because of what I see down there.”
He sighs and puts on that smug, condescending, patronizing expression that irritates me so much. I point to the field and watch in frustration as a receiver blows by our cornerback, hauling in a forty-yard gain. If not for the safety coming over to help, that would have been a score. Easily. And with the team down by two touchdowns already, it probably would have been the proverbial final nail in the coffin.
“Yeah,” Rick says, rubbing a hand along his stubbled jawline. “It's a tough one out there today. Have to give Atlanta some credit though – that's a good squad.”
“No, more like, we're a terrible squad,” I reply. “Did you not just see Rogers give up that forty-yard gainer? What did I tell you at the end of last season?”
Rick shakes his head and takes a swallow of his beer. “Honestly, I don't remember,” he says. “I have a lot of things going on – as I'm sure you know.”
“Well, let me refresh your memory,” I growl. “I told you that Rogers is a third-tier cornerback. At best. I told you to cut him and go after Bishop Mickens.”
“Mickens signed with Minnesota,” he says.
“Because you didn't make a play for him,” I reply. “Everybody knows he wants to come play here. This is where he grew up, for fuck's sake.”
Rick shrugs. “The numbers didn't work out.”
“That's a pile of bullshit, Rick,” I say. “See, I spent some time with the capologists. I know exactly how much cap room this team has. And how much more it would have if you'd cut the players I told you to cut. With the warchest you're sitting on, you could have signed ten Bishop Mickens. And I don't even want to get into the abomination that is this season's draft class. I mean seriously, Rick –”
“Look, Brady,” he cuts me off, his tone smug and condescending. “I appreciate your passion and your enthusiasm. I really do. But I have a vision for this organiza –”
“A vision that hasn't produced a single winning season in the two years you've been in control, Rick,” I say. “And the way this season is starting off, you're probably going to extend that streak.”
Rick sighs and sets his beer down. A look of pure annoyance crosses his face and he looks like he wants to punch me. Part of me hopes he does – if he punches me, it might give me cause to force him out of the GM's chair.
“I don't think I need to remind you that I'm the President and General Manager of this organization, Brady.”
“No, you don't need to remind me, Rick,” I snap. “It's a situation I'm working to correct though. Believe me.”
“Well, until that actually happens – if that happens,” he says, glaring at me. “I will continue to appreciate your input, but all football related decisions go through me. For all intents and purposes, this is my team and I am going to run it the way I see fit.”
“Yeah, sticking to your vision,” I spit.
He nods. “Exactly. Sticking to my vision.”
“Forgive me for being skeptical,” I sneer. “But your vision hasn't exactly worked out in Buffalo. Or Cleveland. Or Miami. Or New York.”
Rick's face darkens – he apparently doesn't enjoy having his poor track record as a GM thrown in his face. Good. At the moment, it's the only power I have. As much as it pains me to admit.
“I think we're done here,” he says. “But just know that I will continue to do what I believe is in the best interest of this organization. And all decisions will continue to go through me – and will continue to do so unless and until you ever assume control of the team.”
I nod. “Oh, believe me, I will,” I say. “And when I do, the very first thing I'm going to do is fire your ass, Rick. It is going to be one of the greatest days of my life.”
He gives me a smirk. “Good luck with that, kid,” he says. “It's been a pleasure. As always.”
He turns and leaves my suite without another word, slamming the door behind him. I know I shouldn't antagonize him the way I do, but I can't seem to help it. I really detest the guy. He's incompetent at his job and refuses to listen – always referring to his sacred plan like it's the Holy Grail or something.
His plan is trash, plain and simple. And as I watch Rogers give up a touchdown pass to put Atlanta up by three scores, all I can do is shake my head. That will seal this game, giving us a three-game losing streak to start the season.
“Great plan, Rick,” I shout. “Great vision.”
Chapter Three
Amanda
“Mornin'. What can I get you?” I ask as the woman steps to the counter.
“Vanilla latte, double shot of espresso, extra foam, extra shot of vanilla,” the woman replies, her tone dismissive and condescending.
She gives me her order without even bothering to look at me, speaking as if she were speaking to one of her maids or something. And maybe, in her mind, that's all I am. Her perfectly styled hair and manicured nails, carefully applied makeup, not to mention her obviously expensive outfit, make me think she's some wealthy suburban housewife – I've seen enough of them come through here to know the type.
Which makes the way she speaks to me make sense – the ones I've had the misfortune of dealing with certainly have a terrible sense of entitlement about them. And this one is no different.
The woman's face is glued to her phone – of course. It looks like she's updating her Facebook – which is one of the many, many things that annoy me about people. Hey, I enjoy my social media accounts as much as anybody – but I never fail to say please, thank you, and to look people in the eye. It's only courteous.
In general, though, people seem to be so consumed with their social media accounts that they've forgotten things like common courtesy and manners.
Or maybe I was just raised differently. My parents taught me to always be courteous and respectful. If I wasn't, I always got a smack upside the head or some other form of unpleasant punishment, so I learned really quickly.
Yeah, my folks didn't win a whole lot of parent of the year awards, but at least I learned some manners from them. It's about the only thing I can be grateful to them for.
“Sure,” I say. “Coming right up.”