“Do you call all the owners that?” she demanded as the crowd quieted down. They’d gathered close, making it impossible for Harper to leave. She was trapped, angry, and alone. “Would you have called my father that name?”
The man adjusted his lens and kept his eyes down, moving as if she weren’t speaking to him. Harper looked the other reporters in the eye, daring them to cross the line.
“Miss Richmond, if I may?” asked a woman near the back of the pack. She had on bright red lipstick and perfect waves in her long brown hair.
“Yes?”
“I understand you’re looking for a new manager. Have you had any luck?”
A basic question. One without malice. Harper leaned against the doorframe. “Not yet.”
“Can you tell us what you’re looking for?”
Harper paused. “When I look at this team, I see the potential for greatness. I want to look at the coach and see the same thing.”
“Even after they lost by seven today?” asked a man, incredulously.
“It’s not how many times you lose; it’s if you pick yourself back up and play again.” She pushed off the wall with her shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.” Harper shouldered her way through the barrage of questions and cameras with as much dignity as she could muster.
Lauren met her at her office door, a cold diet soda in one hand and a sheet in the other. “A Mr. Walker sent this over.” She handed Harper the envelope.
Harper didn’t have time to look at it before Assistant Coach Terry Shipley strode through the front office doors and made a beeline for her. Judging by the way his short, silver hair stood on end, she figured his post-game interviews had gone as well as hers. Maybe even worse, if the pitch of his shoulders was any indication. After all, they did lose the game by seven.
“Coach Shipley,” Harper greeted him.
“Find a manager by the end of the week or I’m out.” Terry folded his arms and puffed out his thick cheeks. “The team is in limbo. No one knows what’s going on up here and rumors are flying around the dugout. We need stability!”
Harper clenched her fists. “I assure you, I have everything in hand.”
“Then why do I have messages about trades piling up on my desk?”
“What? Those should go to recruiting. Or to me. Or …”
“Well, they’re coming to my office. I don’t have time for all this. We have three more games with Tampa and then we’re away.”
Harper nodded. I know the schedule. “I’m working on a manager. In the meantime, forward all trade queries to my office.”
Terry huffed and hauled his rather large behind out of the offices. Harper glanced down at the paper in her hand. Seeing the Walker, Hall & Clark Attorneys at Law letterhead, she scanned it quickly.
Saw the game today. Been watching interviews. Thought you might need this.
There was a scan of a business card for Pamela Jones, BMB, with her phone number—again. Harper took a long pull from the soda, letting the carbonation burn down her throat. She had no idea what BMB stood for, but the pitch count on her pride had expired.
The team couldn’t go on like this. Coach Shipley was right: they needed a manager, a leader, someone to give the men on the field goals and take Dad’s vision of what the team could be out to the grass.
Besides, there was no one left to call.
She glanced up at Lauren. “Will you call this number and let me know when Pamela Jones is on the line?”
“I’m sorry, who?” asked Lauren as she stared at the paper.
“The cavalry. It’s time I called in the cavalry.”
4
Isaac threw the local paper on the opulent desk of college athletic director Frank Michaels. He’d been called into the big office and he was really hoping for reinstatement. His résumés continued to drop with the speed of an infield pop fly.
“That’s quite a story.” He tipped his head, indicating the headline that read: “Whistle Blows in Bulldogs’ Locker Room.”
The administrator, well into his sixties if he was a day, spoke softly, causing Isaac to lean forward to hear his reply. “I’m pleased you were looking out for the players. I’m not pleased with the way you handled it. Going head-to-head with the coach in front of a reporter wasn’t smart.”
“In my defense, I had no idea the reporter was there.”
“Reporters are everywhere.” He jerked his wrinkled hands up. “They clamor for change like we’re responsible for all that’s wrong in college baseball.” With a sigh, he settled back into his chair. “There’s nothing wrong with Bulldog baseball.”
Well … Isaac’s gaze darted to the newspaper. The article brought up the issues of missing funds, ignored injuries, and the possible use of steroids for more than pinched nerve treatment. There was nothing wrong with baseball, but there were several things wrong with the way the Bulldogs ran their organization. Most of it was news to Isaac. How all this had been going on without his knowledge was disconcerting.
“No organization is perfect, but I believe, with the right leadership—” And by leadership I mean me. “—the Bulldogs can come out of this even stronger. The players are good guys; they just need a coach who will hold them to a high standard and encourage them to be their best.” His wet palm slipped off the armrest. The job could be his. Guarantee another three years here.
“I think so too.”
The conversation stalled and Isaac grew weary of the silence. “How did Gunderson’s scans come out?”
Michaels flapped his hand. “He’ll be fine. With a little physical therapy, he’ll be back on the mound. He might even be drafted next year—kid’s got a wicked curveball.”
Isaac bobbed his head. “That he does.”
Leaning forward, his arms resting on the desk, Michaels studied Isaac. “Jacobs is gone. I kicked his can the moment the story hit the driveway. So are the batting and the pitching coaches.”
Let the witch hunt begin.
“I’d like to get you back on the payroll, but …” Michaels shrugged his shoulders.
“So it’s a clean sweep, then?” His hopes dashed, the weight of his situation hung heavy on his back.
“I’m sorry, son. You did a good thing, and I wish it came out different.”
Isaac stood and offered his hand. “Thanks for everything.” And nothing.
He walked out of the office, taking in the picture of Babe Ruth smiling off into the distance as he left.
A pretty blonde woman in a suit came out of the office directly across from Michaels’s at the same time as Isaac. Her eyes caught his—and held. Isaac had a hard time looking away, like he was caught in a spell of some sort. Not a spell cast by her beauty, but a sense that this woman could control destiny.
“I believe you’re the man I’m looking for,” she said as she extended her hand. “Pamela Jones, BMB.”
Isaac took her hand and immediately felt like a home run ball sailing out of the park. He watched the field grow smaller and smaller as he spun around and around. Releasing her hand, he grabbed hold of the wall.
“I have a good feeling about you, Mr. Wolfe. Why don’t we chat for a bit?”
Once the world righted itself, Isaac asked, “I’m sorry, who did you say you are?”
“Pamela Jones. I own an employment agency of sorts and I’d like to offer you a job.”
Employment agency? “I’d be happy to chat with you, Ms. Jones.”
“Please, call me Pamela.”
“Very well. I should let you know that I truly want to stay in baseball. This is what I love.” Isaac opened the door and held it for Pamela. The bright afternoon sunlight momentarily hurt his eyes.
“Well, this position is in baseball—partially.”
“What team do you represent?”
“The Redrocks.” She breezed past him.
Isaac fisted his hand. The Redrocks were the butt of every late-night television comedian. “Working for the Redrocks might be worse for my career
than laying low for a season. No offense.”
She placed a hand on her hip. “Harper Richmond needs a manager yesterday. If you’re not interested, then—”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Isaac worked to process what she’d said. Jake Richmond, the Redrocks owner, had passed away a couple days before the fiasco with Gunderson that imploded Isaac’s world. Usually, he knew exactly what happened in the MLB; SPORTSNetwork played non-stop in his office and on his phone, feeding his constant need for baseball news. But when he’d walked out of the stadium that night, he’d turned inward. The fact that Jake Richmond had passed the team on to his daughter would have sent a tidal wave through the MLB.
How had he missed that?
Not even the announcement of the first female owner in the MLB compared to the bomb Pamela Jones dropped when she said manager.
“Did you say manager?” he clarified. Surely she meant assistant to the assistant coach or another lower-peg position more suitable for a guy who’d never played or coached pro.
Her lips spread in an I’ve got you smile. “Manager. Yes. I did.”
Isaac paced right there in front of the double doors. Moving up to manager would be … well, more than huge for his career. Working for a team like the Redrocks with a record even Minnesota would be embarrassed by wasn’t ideal, but they were a foot in the door. A step up to bigger and better opportunities and teams. And the Redrocks were ripe for reorganization with a new owner and a new coach. He tapped his lips. Managing his way would be a relief—no more tiptoeing around guys like Jacobs, who was a carbon copy of Payton Adams. Perhaps he would get a chance to take over for a subpar manager and fix up a team.
Stopping suddenly, he folded his arms. “What’s the catch?”
Pamela looked him square in the eye. “I prefer to think of it as a bonus, not a catch.”
“Uh-huh.” This didn’t sound good.
“The bonus is that you’ll need to marry the new owner, Harper Richmond.”
Isaac laughed. Marriage? “Since when has marriage been a requirement for a manager?”
Pamela smiled easily. “Since Ms. Richmond asked BMB for help.”
Was this a joke? This woman was taunting him like a runner with a long lead off second base. He wasn’t going to make the throw. Suffering through one marriage was enough for him. “I’m out.” He turned on his heel and stormed away.
Pamela was beside him in an instant, looking poised even as she matched his hurried step stride for stride. “Mr. Wolfe, if you’ll just give me a moment to explain.”
“Explain crazy? I don’t think so.”
She laughed—a light airy sound that wasn’t at all concerned with Isaac’s impending need to be away from her. How did she move so fast in those heels anyway?
“Isaac—it’s not what you think.” She placed a hand on his forearm and his feet cemented themselves in place. “I specialize in bringing two people together who have complementary skills and abilities as well as needs. You need a job. Fine. You could get a job at any company and work your way up through the ranks. You’re still young. In fifteen years or so, you could be in management. But, in your words, baseball is what you love.”
Isaac fiddled with his car keys. “What about her?”
“Harper wants to turn the Redrocks into a contending team. She needs a manager young enough to have the energy to overhaul the organization, smart enough to do it on a budget, and loyal enough to stick to the plan even when you’re under fire.” She let go of his arm. “I guess the question is, how much do you want to work in baseball?”
There it was again, that feeling of being put here for a purpose. Normally, he would tell his players that there was no such thing as a coincidence. If he truly believed that, then running into this woman was meant to be. “But … married? You’ve got to be joking.” He scratched the back of his neck.
Pamela’s cheeks lifted. “I have a very good sense of humor, but one thing I never joke about is marriage. Harper Richmond is looking for a coach she can count on.”
“Why not just hire me, then?”
“She is hiring you to be her husband and the manager.” Pamela’s eyes moved over his shoulder. There was a twinkle or a sparkle in his peripheral vision, but he ignored it. Pamela continued, her voice taking on an especially melodic quality. “What you two are about to undertake will demand a united front to the press, to the team, to the front office, and to the players. Nothing says unity like marriage. Besides, I’m good at this. Marriage is the best option.”
Rubbing the back of his neck to ease the prickling sensation, he replied, “I’m still not convinced a wedding is a necessity.”
“Harper is surrounded by men who are ready to either quit or take her head off. She’s not giving up and she won’t be eaten alive, but she needs a partner, someone who has her back.” She looked down at the keys in his hand. “Really, Isaac, what have you got to lose?”
My dignity. My heart. “We wouldn’t be seriously married?”
“BMB marriages are temporary. Both individuals go into it knowing there is an end date. You will share a home but not a bedroom. We have high standards for our brides and grooms, and both of you will be expected to adhere to a code of conduct. Our lawyer will give you the full ins and outs of the contract before you sign.”
“I have a son.”
Logan knew there was the probability of a move. That was how things worked in baseball—you follow the contracts. Up to this point, Isaac had worked hard to give the kid a stable environment. He understood the issues that came with moving from foster home to foster home, and then there was the whole Amy leaving thing that had rocked both their worlds. There was no way he would ever leave Logan behind.
Pamela’s pause was hardly discernible. If Isaac hadn’t spent years watching pitchers for the balk, he might have missed it. “Bring him with you,” she said warmly.
Bring him …? Could it really be that easy? The offer was insane. Coming out of the scandal he was in to emerge as the manager for a major league team was like sprinkling fairy dust on a draft pick.
However, the job was complicated enough without throwing in marriage. But then … he’d seen enough to know that managers and owners needed to be on the same page—pft, the same sentence on the page, or the team suffered. In the history of baseball there had never been an arrangement like this, and the fact that—what was her name? Harper?—was willing to try it suggested she was open to new ideas. Isaac had so many ideas for running a team.
He was being handed the chance of a lifetime. He eyed Pamela. If baseball had fairy godmothers …
“Let me talk it over with Logan.”
Pamela held out a card Isaac hadn’t seen in her hand. “Call me tomorrow.”
* * *
Isaac looked up from the computer screen as Logan came through the door. His lean frame didn’t fill out the T-shirt, but he needed the length of the larger size. He’d started another growth spurt and at his well-check the doctor said he could grow as much as four inches in the next eight months. Isaac was only two inches taller than Logan now. The idea of looking up to his kid was a little daunting, and he pushed it aside.
He’d determined to take the job. Pamela’s arguments had been convincing, but the more research he’d done on the Redrocks team, the more he knew, just knew, that he could do something with them. They had issues, but the players were strong and healthy, and some of them were real names. He could guess why they ended up in St. George playing for a building team. The Richmonds had enough money to pad contracts and agents loved to score those contracts for their clients, even if the player would have to spend a few years in the cellar of their division.
Knowing he’d be paid more than six times what he’d made last year was a definite bonus. The drawback was that he only had a one-year contract. One year to prove himself to the MLB and make a mark big enough to get him a spot on another team. He could handle that—all he needed was a shot. Now all he had to do was break the news to Logan.
/> “How’s it going?” asked Logan as he headed towards the fridge.
Isaac followed, his nerves bouncing around like ground balls. “Interesting. Today was interesting.”
“Yeah?” Logan’s reply was muffled by the fridge door standing open between them.
Isaac grabbed the paper towels off the counter and tossed them from hand to hand. Logan came out of the fridge, his arms loaded with sandwich meat, bread, and condiments. He glanced at Isaac and froze in place. “What?”
“I got a job offer,” Isaac threw out. Logan’s brow furrowed and Isaac lost all his nerve. This was too much to ask of his kid. New school, new friends, new home, new family situation. Logan had been through enough. He slammed the paper towels down. “It’s crazy. I can’t do it. Never mind.”
Logan stared, his focus, for once, not on the food in front of him. “Is it … in baseball?” he asked hesitantly.
Isaac scrubbed his face. How to answer that? “Sort of. Yeah. I guess. Yes. Yes, it is in baseball. I’m not going to take it. I shouldn’t have said anything.” So he wouldn’t be an MLB manager. So what? He’d just get a nice job at some company and slowly waste away until he retired.
Logan broke into a grin. “If you’re not going to take it, then tell me what it was.” He went back to making his sandwich.
Leaning into the counter, Isaac shrugged. “It’s mixed up. So the new owner of the Redrocks fired her manager.”
Logan’s movements slowed.
“Instead of just hiring a manager, she wants to hire a husband who will also be the manager.”
“Hire a husband? Is that even a thing?” Logan stuffed a rolled-up piece of meat in his mouth.
Isaac thought back to the world-tipping sensation and Pamela’s confident smile. She’d acted like it was no big deal, like she did this kind of thing all the time. “I guess it is,” he muttered.
The Athletic Groom: Billionaire Marriage Brokers Page 3
