The Athletic Groom: Billionaire Marriage Brokers

by Lucy McConnell

  Isaac ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, being a husband is harder than it sounds.” His marriage was crustier than the remnants of hair gel. Being Amy’s husband had been easy—until she decided she wanted something else out of life. He thought he and Harper were on the same page, but she’d rewritten the playbook with her “don’t change my dad’s team” rule. Like a wicked slider—he hadn’t seen that one coming. Strike one in the husband department.

  “You’re a smart guy—I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  “I hope so.” Two more strikes and I’m out. “Come on. I’m starving.”

  At the mention of food, Logan’s priorities changed in an instant. Isaac may have been wrong about him and Harper. And he was wrong to argue with her in front of her employees. But Isaac was right about one thing—Logan knew the way to the dining room.

  9

  Isaac knotted his tie, then tugged it loose again. He hated wearing these stupid things, but he had to look the part, no matter how nervous he was to meet the players.

  After a stilted dinner last night, Isaac agreed to let Zeek take Logan to check out the local junior high school. They’d discussed homeschooling until the end of the year and having Logan start next fall at the high school when every tenth grader felt like the new kid. Today’s tour would play into that decision, and it was killing him not to walk the halls with his son. In the end, it was Logan’s “Dad, I’ve got this” that convinced Isaac to back off.

  If he was going to get through this day, he had to trust Logan, and trust Zeek, and trust Harper too—and trust wasn’t a strength in his life.

  Ripping the tie off and yanking his top button open, he gasped for breath.

  “Mr. Wolfe?” his assistant, Anna, asked through the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “They’re ready for you in the locker room.”

  “I’ll be right down.” Slipping on his jacket, he checked himself in the window. He could go without the tie—there shouldn’t be press and he was only stressing himself out. He made his way to the elevator, trying not to think about what he was about to do and who he was about to meet. These players—these men—were the top tier of baseball athletes. What the heck was he going to say to them that they hadn’t heard before? Beads of sweat appeared at his hairline and he swiped them away with numb fingers.

  The elevator opened at one end of a long hallway. The double doors at the other end would open up to the locker room. Isaac put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, but the doors weren’t getting any closer. Until all of a sudden, they were right in front of him. Before he knew what was happening, Assistant Coach Terry Shipley had introduced him and Isaac stared into the uninterested faces of the Redrocks Baseball Club.

  Starting pitcher and Redrocks star Jackson Kimber leaned back, stretching his lanky legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. Jackson Kimber! Isaac wanted to strut over there and offer him a fist bump. The guy was awesome—with his funky windup and 98-mph fastball. Cool under pressure, he hated being taken out of a game until he got at least six innings notched off.

  To the left was shortstop Dustin Colt. Dustin had played with Arizona last year, making the move to the Redrocks on a contract buyout that would have his great grandchildren dancing in the street. He struggled at the plate, but he could make a play like you couldn’t believe.

  Catchers Rex Barns and Ross Ketcham leaned against the back wall, their arms folded. Rex was near forty and retirement, and Ross was still shaking off the minors.

  Grasping the sense of finding a job at the end of a rainbow, Isaac grinned. “It’s great to be here today. I’m honored to be a part of the Redrocks’ organization.” He took a breath. “Some of you are looking at free agency this year. Others are locked into contracts. Trades are always a possibility.” No one in the room had any more job security than he did. “But for this moment in baseball history, we’re all on the same team. What you do in games will be recorded on STAT sheets, on blogs, and in the books for all of time, and you’ll do it wearing that jersey.” He pointed to Jake Richmond’s jersey, signed and framed, hanging on the wall in memory of their former owner. For just a moment, a feeling of the sacrifice Jake made to bring this team into existence filled his chest with a burning fire, and then it was gone. “I don’t care where you came from or where you want to go—today you’re the Redrocks.”

  Jackson Kimber rolled his eyes. A.J. Peck scooted lower in his seat. Heath Darsey coughed.

  “Let’s get to it,” barked Coach Shipley, and the room erupted in movement as players grabbed their mitts and pulled their hats down. They streamed past Isaac, who shook hands and patted shoulders like a second-rate politician.

  The room was almost empty when Shipley turned to him, his two-day stubble sprinkling gray across his cheeks. “Good speech.”

  “I thought so …” Isaac put his hands on his hips, his shoulders hunching forward. The team had no spark, no fire inside them to play ball. He’d been afraid of this when he reviewed their stats on the plane. The veterans’ batting averages had dropped from where they were a year ago and the younger players hadn’t advanced. They were stagnant, which was not good for the team, and it wasn’t good for the individual players.

  “Listen,” Shipley began, “these guys are past the point of pep talks and cheerleading. The only way to speak to them is through money.”

  Isaac shook his head. “With all due respect, Coach, I don’t believe you. Men don’t start out playing baseball because they want to make a million bucks. They start out playing because the smell of a leather glove gets in their skin or because the sound of a home run as it comes off the bat sings to their soul. Every one of those guys has a love for the game that supersedes the cash.”

  Coach Shipley’s white eyebrows lowered so far they cast shadows to his chin. “If you can find that guy, let me know. I’d love to coach him.” He swung his belly around and headed towards the door. “Come on, Wolfe. You might as well watch batting practice.”

  Isaac grinned. “I’d like nothing more.”

  Shipley ducked through the door that led to the dugout. Isaac held back a moment, scanning the locker room. Just like every other locker room he’d ever been in, uniforms hung on metal pegs; shoes were tucked under the benches; the lingering smell of grass stains, sweat and body spray hung around like clingy girlfriends. Unlike the other locker rooms he’d been in, this one had shiny paint on the walls, televisions in every corner, the team logo emblazoned upon the doors and across the wall where the players stood for interviews, clean tile and grout in the showers, and power outlets every four feet. All of the upgrades were reminders that this was the big leagues.

  Isaac paused at the threshold, his foot hovering in the air like a dramatic moment in the classic baseball movie Field of Dreams. When he stepped through the doorway, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath full of just-washed concrete steps, fresh mowed grass, red dirt—baseball dirt mixed with St. George’s signature burnt umber sand—glove oil, polyester uniforms, and fun.

  Man, I love this game.

  Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, Isaac scanned the field. Brock Mattock and Juan Castillo, both outfielders, were playing catch by the back fence—razzing one another while warming up their arms. The rest of the infield and outfielders worked with batting coaches. Some of them were down in the cages under the left bleachers; the rest lined up to take soft toss at home plate. The pitchers were in the bullpen, jawing and throwing, except starting pitcher Jackson Kimber. Kimber was behind third base, talking to that jerk reporter that had upset Harper. Their heads were close together and Jackson’s mouth was moving faster than a spitball.

  Isaac narrowed his eyes, skirted behind the net at home, and interrupted their conversation. “Excuse me—batting practice is closed to the press today.”

  Jackson turned his chin towards Isaac, but kept his body towards the reporter in a show of disrespect. “We’re talkin’,” he said as though Is
aac were a child interrupting his older sibling.

  The reporter licked his chapped lips, ready for some juicy confrontation between the new manager and the Redrocks’ star.

  Upon quick evaluation, Isaac labeled the two issues. Issue number one: a reporter in the stadium during a closed practice. Issue number two: Jackson talking to said reporter. While he didn’t like Jackson’s attitude or decision to skip out on practice to chat this guy up, none of it would have happened if the reporter wasn’t here in the first place.

  Palming his BMB-issued phone, Isaac hit the number three and was connected to security. “We have an unauthorized reporter in the stands. Please send someone to remove him immediately.”

  “I’m thirty seconds away, Mr. Wolfe,” came the answer.

  “Thank you.” Isaac put his phone in his pocket and folded his arms. “You can leave or you can wait to be escorted out,” he told the man.

  The guy settled himself into a seat. “I’ll wait.”

  “Fine.” Isaac turned to Jackson. “I believe you’re wanted in the bullpen.”

  Jackson took off his wraparound sunglasses and glared. “You’re not my daddy.”

  “Not trying to be.”

  He glared for a few more seconds. Isaac didn’t move. He wasn’t trying to cause a fight, but if he backed down now, he’d have an uphill climb to earn any of the players’ respect—well, a harder climb than he already had from marrying the owner. Thankfully, no one inside the organization had been rude enough to bring it up—yet.

  When the security guard arrived to physically remove the reporter, Jackson stormed to the bullpen and Isaac let out the breath he’d been holding. He watched the reporter crest the stairs and then disappear before heading over to the bullpen, hoping to see some of these guys throw their signature pitches.

  He got there just as Blake Rygs was complaining of a stabbing in his throwing arm. “It’s right under my shoulder blade.”

  The pitching coach, Brad Andres, set his iPad on a folding chair and picked up Blake’s arm. He moved it this way and that, testing range of motion. “It does feel a bit stiff. Why don’t you go get it worked on by a PT and see how you feel?”

  “Thanks, Coach.” Blake trotted around the field and ducked into the dugout.

  “You think it’s serious?” asked Isaac. Blake Rygs was a relief pitcher. His cutter alone could bring a batter to tears. Without Rygs, their team would sink faster than a changeup.

  “Hope not,” replied Brad.

  Isaac nodded. He hooked his fingers in the chain link and watched the pitchers while Brad filled him in on their strengths and weaknesses. They talked for a minute about the guys’ attitudes. Brad said most of them were easy to work with and a couple were challenges because of some things going on in their personal lives.

  “I’m thinking of bringing in a sports psychologist—what’s your take on that?” Isaac asked.

  “We had one on my last team, and while I can’t say he was the reason we won games, I believe he was able to make a few breakthroughs with some of the players.” He lifted one shoulder. “Might be a good idea.”

  Harper insisted on doing things the way her dad had done things, but Isaac was certain adding one staff member could do a lot of good. He’d just have to find a way to convince her to make the change—in the name of the team. “I’ll let you know.”

  He said goodbye and headed back under the bleachers. Wanting to get a feel for the building, Isaac took an impromptu tour of the facilities. When he came to the physical therapy room, he jerked back at the sight of Blake Rygs making out with a redhead in yoga pants and a Redrocks T-shirt. He blinked once. It appeared consensual, but still. “What the …?”

  She shoved Blake away, her brown eyes wide with equal parts shock and fear.

  Blake kept one hand on her elbow as if steadying her. She brushed it away before pressing her hand over her mouth.

  Of all the low-down, dirty things to do—skipping out on practice to chase a pair of long legs. Blake had a reputation as a ladies’ man, but by all accounts he was a loyal teammate. You can’t always believe what you read. Isaac bit back the tirade that built behind his teeth. But couldn’t stand by and let a player manipulate the coaching staff by faking an injury. Nor could he let the staff make the team look bad. “How’s the shoulder?” he ground out.

  Blake glanced at the girl, still frozen with her hand over her mouth. “It’s good. Good. So good, I think I’m ready to throw.” He went to touch the girl’s arm, but she ducked away.

  “Hold on.” Isaac blocked the door. “If you two want to date or hook up—”

  The woman lifted her chin. “We aren’t dating.”

  Then what was that? “Whatever this was.” He circled his finger. “Do it on your own time. No more skipping practice.” He pointed at Blake. “If she’s a distraction, she’ll have to go. Understand?” Getting a new physical therapist would be easier than finding a new relief pitcher.

  Blake nodded. With one more silent plea to the woman to look at him—which she didn’t—he snatched up his glove and left.

  The PT clasped her hands together in front of her, her face bright red under her freckles. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know how that happened.”

  “Does it happen often?” Isaac wondered if the other players came on to her. She was a cute little thing with her carrot-colored hair and freckles. Nothing like Harper with her long blond hair and midnight eyes, but he could see how Blake would be interested.

  She glared at the floor. “No. And it won’t happen again. I can promise you that.”

  Sensing her determination, Isaac decided to put the incident behind them. “What’s your name?”

  “Elise Smith.”

  “And you’re a physical therapist?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her eyes lit with pride.

  “Why did you want to work with the Redrocks?”

  “I played softball at Western Nebraska—Go Cougars. I ended up taking some PT classes and decided I like taking care of an athlete’s body more than I liked competing.” Her hands flew to her cheeks. “That sounds horrible! I’m not—I didn’t mean—”

  Isaac laughed. She was all innocence and mortification. Blake Rygs, on the other hand, had a reputation with the ladies. “Relax, I know what you meant.” He cleared his throat—hating this big brother feeling that he couldn’t do anything about. If she was going to play with Blake, she was going to get burned and there wasn’t much he could do about it. “I’ve got to get back to work.” He paused. “Be careful,” he admonished.

  “I will.” Elise glared at the table as if it were to blame for her kissing Blake.

  In the hallway, Isaac rubbed his temples. His speech had flopped, he’d alienated Blake, ticked off a reporter, and threatened to fire a PT who was a really sweet girl way in over her head. His second day on the job wasn’t looking all that great. He punched the elevator button, ready to hide out in his office until quitting time.

  “Coach Wolfe!”

  Isaac turned to see Blake jogging down the hall, his cleats clicking on the floor. “You didn’t fire her, did you?” Blake’s voice was low.

  “No. She’s still here.” He lifted his hand. “I meant what I said—”

  “I know you did and I promise I’ll stay away. I promise. Just, she needs this job. I can’t be the reason she gets fired.”

  Isaac contemplated Blake’s words and earnest expression. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the guy was in love. Elise was cute, but that was just it—she was cute. Blake dated Hollywood starlets and groupies with silicone and Botox, not the girl-next-door kind of girl. Maybe there was some substance to this guy after all.

  “I’ll walk you back out to the field.” The lackluster performance of the team still bothered Isaac and he wanted to see if it was individual or an overall cloud.

  He ducked back into the dugout, where Jackson Kimber was spitting sunflower seeds and lounging in the shade. “Hey, Kimber, you’re up,” called Pablo Santacruz from home pl
ate, a bat in his hands.

  “I’ll catch it next time,” replied Kimber as he spit another mouthful of shells onto the still wet floor of the dugout.

  The grounds crew must love this guy.

  “Thanks, Rygs.” Isaac slapped Blake on the back.

  “So, we’re good?” Blake jerked his head towards the door they came through, referring to the incident with Elise.

  “We’re good.”

  “Great—thanks, Wolfe.” Blake tapped him on the chest with his gloved hand and then jogged out to the bullpen.

  Three moist sunflower shells landed on Isaac’s right shoe. He looked down and then looked over at Jackson. “You know what they say about humility. The moment you claim to have it, you lost it.”

  “I never claimed to be humble,” Kimber scoffed. Tipping his chin back, he poured seeds into his mouth right from the bag.

  “No, but the same principle applies to greatness. I’ve seen your stats this season. If you think you don’t need the practice, think again.”

  Kimber made a show of putting his hands on his knees and rising slowly. “Hey, I earned my way onto the team—and it wasn’t by sleeping with the owner.”

  Isaac locked his jaw.

  “You need me, Coach.” Kimber sauntered off. He yanked a bat off the stand and made a few half-hearted swings to warm up.

  “He’s right, you know.”

  Isaac started at the sound of Harper’s soft voice, surprised by how her flowery scent overpowered his senses. She moved as though she belonged in this world—a world he loved. Maybe it was the fact that she owned the team, but he had a feeling it was something more, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Which would explain how she could sneak up on him like that, especially since, now that he knew she was there, he couldn’t stop paying attention to her.

  She folded her arms and leaned her right shoulder into the doorframe, her gaze on the team. “Daddy built this place as a practice field. It’s a starter bike with training wheels. We were supposed to begin construction on the new stadium last fall, but the revenue just wasn’t there.”