I didn't understand much about football – which is why I tolerate a cretin like Mr. Dempsey. He knows the league inside and out and has helped tutor me on those things I need to know. He's also helped establish some connections for me – connections I am using to further my goals.
“There are a few owners who still need massaging,” I say. “But I have been more or less assured that when the time comes to vote, I will have the necessary support.”
“How can you know for sure?”
“You just have to speak their language,” I say. “The owners are driven by one thing – money. And there is much more money to be made in South Florida than there is in San Antonio. A franchise there would be worth so much more than a franchise here. We're talking hundreds of millions of dollars, potentially.”
Mr. Dempsey nods, clearly impressed. “Sounds like you've done your homework.”
“Believe me, I have,” I say. “The minute I'm able, I will be moving your football team to a more – civilized and cultured city.”
“And just so I'm one hundred percent clear,” Mr. Dempsey says, “once the move is complete, you will retain me as the CEO and General Manager of the team at the agreed upon salary.”
“You have my word, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “If you can field a team bad enough to trigger the out clause with the stadium, and I get the approval to move to South Florida, so long as I own the team, you will be at the top of the food chain, making a very generous salary.”
“Excellent,” he says. “I appreciate your reassurance, Tiffany.”
I smile. “Of course,” I say. “We're in this together.”
He drains the last of his coffee, bringing our business to an end – thankfully. But there's something I've wanted to ask him for a little while now. A curiosity to me.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question, Mr. Dempsey?”
“Please.”
“Do you even like it? Football, I mean,” I ask. “Do you enjoy the game?”
He shrugs. “I used to love it. Used to live for it,” he says. “But this game chews you up and spits you out. I've been a part of organizations that treat their people like dogs. There's no appreciation, no pat on the back for a job well done. You're only working until you get fired – and when you work in the front office, you will be fired. It's a question of when, not if. And after playing good soldier in that meat grinder for so long, I think it's time I start looking out for me. Doing what's in my own best interests because the team – the league – certainly won't. Interestingly, it was you who made me see that.”
I nod and give him a small smile. He gets to his feet and shakes my hand before departing, leaving me at the table by myself. I motion to the waitress for another mimosa.
I almost feel bad for Mr. Dempsey. Almost. I wasn't lying when I said as long as I own the team, he'll be the man in charge. What I didn't tell him though, is that the moment I have approval to move to South Florida, I've got somebody already lined up to purchase the team from me. And I doubt he's going to want to retain Mr. Dempsey – he'll want to bring his own people in.
But, that's not my concern. Mr. Dempsey, like so many others, are simply pawns on the chessboard. They are there for me to move about and use at my discretion. And to this point, I'm playing the game like a Grand Master.
Chapter Eight
Amanda
The coffee house is already buzzing when I show up for my morning shift. Danny is in his office with the door closed when I get there, so I wave at him through the window as I clock in, putting on my best smile and “happy to be here” face. The truth is, I am happy to still be here – I just have a hard time expressing it.
Misty is already up front handling orders, but she's swamped. Poor girl can't keep up half the time when it's slow. When it's busy, she just about loses her damn mind. The line is long, going out the doors when I take my position up front.
Misty is sweating and looking frantic as she tries to pull double duty – manning the registers and making drinks at the same time. When I step up to the counter, she looks over at me with sheer relief and gratitude in her eyes.
“Short staffed this morning?” I ask her with a smile.
“Mick is out sick,” she says. “Strep throat.”
“Ha! You're a poet and don't even know it,” I tease her as I look over the drink orders in the queue.
Misty giggles as she waits on the next customer and I see my next order is a large black coffee, no cream, no sugar. Easy enough. But as I start to prepare his drink, I realize we're out of coffee. At least up front. It's a busier than normal morning, so she must not have had a chance to grind up the beans to make more fresh coffee.
“Geez, Misty,” I mutter under my breath “We're not much of a coffee shop without the basics, are we?”
She so busy trying to take somebody's order that she doesn't hear me, but I get to work scooping the coffee beans out of the barrel, putting them into the grinder. Everything is made fresh here – no Folgers or store-bought, pre-ground coffee here. All of our beans are roasted fresh overnight and delivered in the morning.
“Excuse me?” a male voice speaks up from behind me. “How much longer will it be?”
“Just a few more minutes, sir,” I say. “Appreciate your patience, we’re working as fast as we can.”
See? That was nice, right? That wasn't so tough. I can do this. I can make it through the entire day without berating somebody. But when I hear him muttering low and under his breath, the certainty that I actually can make it through the day without verbally abusing somebody begins to evaporate.
“Is that what you call it,” he mutters. “Looks more like chatting as much as you can.”
I clench my jaw tightly and resist the urge to say something as I continued making his coffee. But because none of the beans have been ground yet – something Misty should have done before we opened this morning – the line is getting more and more backed up.
“Seriously, Miss,” the man says again. “It's just a black coffee. It's simple. Basic. It's not one of your fancy ass overpriced lattes, darlin'. How hard can this be?”
I turn around and stare into baby blue eyes and a face I'd seen a hundred times before – just never in the coffee shop. But Brady Keating is San Antonio's most eligible bachelor according to the tabloids and gossip rags in town – most eligible bachelor meaning spoiled, pompous ass, who treats women like playthings. Seriously, in almost every article I see about him, he's with a different woman – most all of them the supermodel type. Of course. What other sort of woman would he date? Certainly not a woman like me.
In that moment, I realize that I know far too much about his life for never having met him – which says a lot about my life, given that I'm reading the damn tabloids and gossip rags in the first place.
“I said it'll be a few minutes,” I say, trying my best to sound pleasant and not let my tone of voice get too snippy – something I'm really struggling with. “I'm making it fresh. Unlike the pre-packaged, processed crap you get other places, we actually roast and grind our own beans. Hence, it takes a little bit longer.”
“Do you grow the beans too?” he asks. “Because this is taking so long, it seems like you must be growing the damn things back there too.”
I finish making his coffee and slam the cup down on the counter harder than necessary, calling out his name, “Brady!” as if he isn't standing right there. The force of me slamming his cup down made a bunch of it spill – scalding my hand in the process. Didn't really think that one through very well. But it made Brady scowl at me and shake his head in irritation, so I'll call it a draw.
Smiling sweetly, I tell him, “I can make you a new cup, if you'd prefer – but it will take a few minutes.”
He looks at me like he wants to put me through the bean grinder and I'm trying to hold that phony ass smile on my face. I am trying so hard not to be snippy or rude. So, so hard. I'm making a Herculean effort. But Brady is really trying my patience this morning.