“He’s also batting .284. He’s recovering from his surgery; it’ll get better.”
“It won’t. He’s a weak point. We could get some draft picks for him if we move quickly.” I chewed on the end of my straw.
“If we move quickly, we’ll have a hole in the outfield until the draft.”
“Coach says Vornisk is ready to move up. I watched his footage last week. He’s already better than Perkins.” There was the crack of a bat, and we all watched in silence, my eyes focused on Perkins, his run to third more of a hobble. “See!” I pointed, nudging Dick again. “Look at him. That could be a run. Right there, he just cost us a run.”
“I’m not trading an experienced player for a Minor League graduate.” He leaned forward, talking over me to Tobey. “You want me to get rid of Perkins? Give me enough cash to get a real player in. We can’t wait for the draft, and we can’t bring someone up, not halfway through the season. If Ty has a point, and you know I hate admitting that, we need quality, experienced blood.”
“I have a point,” I grumbled through a peanut shell, an empty cup to my lips, the shell spit out.
“You’ve got the biggest payroll in the league,” Tobey snapped, looking up from his phone. “Don’t poor-mouth me now. Not after I just paid twelve-mil for that reliever.”
“Hey, your wife’s the one griping.” Dick sat back in his chair.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, staring at Perkins, working through the scenarios. “He’s right,” I finally said, turning to Tobey, ignoring the dramatic sputter of Dick. “If Perkins needs to go, and he needs to go, we can bring up Vornisk from the Minors, and he can step in. He’ll be stronger than Perkins, and we can finish this season in a better place than we are now.”
“I’m missing the place where Dick is right,” Tobey said slowly, his eyes on mine.
“We’d finish the season in a better place than now,” I repeated, “but it’s still a waste of a season. We’ll make the playoffs, but we won’t win. And that’s why we’re here—to win. You’ve got three hundred million invested in this season for that reason—to win. And,” I pointed to the field, “you can’t do it with him. And you can’t do it—not this year—with Vornisk. We need to stop fucking around and fix this. And an experienced shortstop, one with a strong bat, would do that. It’d put us where we’d need to be. It’d put the World Series in reach.” I didn’t need to mention the girls, the curse. It was there, unsaid, in the corner of every room, haunting all of our lives, especially since Tiffany Wharton. I blinked away the memory, her lifeless eyes, and focused on Tobey’s face.
“How much?” he asked, the question directed at me.
“I think we could get—”
“Ty,” Tobey interrupted. “How much?”
“Fifty,” I said without hesitation. I could have said more. I could have said a hundred. But a hundred million put us in Chase Stern territory and—damn the curse—I couldn’t stomach that possibility. Fifty million would give us a solid player. Fifty million would be enough to fix everything
“And you’d be happy?”
The corner of my mouth lifted, and I hid my smile behind another sip of my drink. “For now.”
He leaned forward, pulling the drink away from me and kissed my mouth, the contact quick and hard. When he sat back, he nodded at Dick. “Fifty million. Get us the best bat and glove you can. But I want a promise, from both of you, that we’ll be in the World Series.”
“We will.” I nodded, Dick less than enthusiastic in his guarantee. He shook the hand Tobey held out, and I settled back in my seat, my eyes leaving Perkins, my outlook considerably improved.
“You guys are the weirdest couple on the planet,” Dick muttered. I laughed, Tobey’s hand sliding over mine, our fingers intertwining.
He knew what I needed, how to make me happy. And in that moment, I was.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know that I had just signed our relationship’s death warrant.
66
“Good news,” the voice rang through Chase’s headphones, and he paused the treadmill, slowing to a walk, his heart beating hard.
“What?”
“Yankees want you back.”
“What?” His hand jabbed the emergency stop, and he stepped off the end, ripping the earbuds from his head and lifting the phone to his ear. “Are you fucking with me?”
There was a long pause. “I thought you’d be happy,” Floyd said cautiously.
“I’m not. You told me four years ago, very clearly, that I was—and this is a direct quote—‘dead to them.’”
“I thought you were.”
“I don’t want to go to the Yankees.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, controlled breath.
“Are you serious? Stop holding a grudge and get excited about this. Remember when you were in LA, and obsessed with playing for them?”