by Erin Hayes
Seventeen
A week cured most of the hurt from the team’s loss in Detroit. They came home and practiced the game while I practiced being a proper team owner with Sydney. Andre and I settled back into spending our nights together, making everything, well, amazing. We still had some things we would have to work out—but that was mostly because Rodney couldn’t stop shooting eye-knives at the team captain every time we were all in the same room.
But all of that meant I’d have to stay in Birmingham longer than I’d ever anticipated. It meant that I had to find a place to live. A hotel wasn’t a good long-term solution. I was counting down the days until Ash got back from San Francisco, where she was busy sorting things out—like a lease we no longer needed—so we could be here longer.
I was looking into apartments and rentals, but Birmingham’s version of Craigslist didn’t have anywhere near the number of listings I was used to, so it was slow going.
In the short term, I needed to pick up some more things. I should probably find a grocery store at some point. I hadn’t worked up the nerve to set foot in a Piggly Wiggly yet. For some reason, the Porky Pig character on the outside intimidated the hell out of me, so I’d been getting odds and ends at random places.
Right now, though, I needed to gas up my rental car before this afternoon’s preseason game. The third one, this time back in Birmingham.
I decided to fill up and do my shopping at the nearby convenience store.
I headed over there, running through a list of everything I needed to get and do. More breakfast food, maybe some fruit if they had it—eating out every meal wasn’t doing my waistline any good, not that Andre seemed to mind—gas for the car, maybe some supplies to do laundry with. I was running out of clean clothes.
So much to do, and the game was starting soon. I’d be damned if I didn’t make it to support my team this time.
I got out of the car to fill it up. I hadn’t realized exactly how much gas I would burn driving around the hills in Alabama. For that matter, I had never thought of Alabama as a hilly kind of place—but there were so many trees that hid everything in a kind of constant verdant carpet rolling off into the distance, covering everything on either side of any highway exits. It was hard to find my way around here.
Then again, I had trouble in San Francisco, so maybe that was just me.
Still thinking of the difficulties I was having acclimating to both Alabama’s landscape and the landscape of the football team, I popped the top off my gas tank and ran my debit card through the reader at the pump.
My team and I needed to start making money fast, or we would all go under. After losing the first preseason game, season tickets were trending at 20% less at the same time last year. I knew numbers and financing, at least—this was unsustainable.
Surely something could be done.
Leaving the hose pumping gas into the car, I made my way into the giant convenience store and began gathering up the things I needed.
More granola. Fruit—they have apples, at least. Laundry supplies…
A small stand beside the single housewares aisle advertised a laundry detergent manufactured locally. They’d just come out with their own version of laundry pods. Alabama Proud, the ad read. Sponsoring a whole new kind of clean living.
I smiled at the images of the kids covered in mud in one panel, then wearing the same outfits, miraculously clean, in the next.
Laundry Pods.
Tide Pods.
Roll Tide.
Laundry and football …
And sponsorships.
“Oh, holy shit,” I said aloud, dropping everything in my hands. Apples rolled away from me, and I scrambled to pick them up.
“Can I help you?” The young guy who worked the counter picked up an apple on his way over to me.
“I have the answer. I know how to keep us going!” I shoved the apples into his hands and in my excitement, considered leaning over to kiss the clerk—but then I reconsidered, since I couldn’t tell whether he was closer to fifteen or twenty-five. Instead, I simply dashed for the door, calling over my shoulder, “I’ll be back later. Just keep those for me.”
I jumped into my car, dropped my sunglasses down over my eyes, put my car in gear, and turned the steering wheel to head toward the road, back toward the stadium.
“I am absolutely fucking brilliant!” I announced, laughing aloud.
I hadn’t gone more than a few feet when an enormous clatter sounded from the right side of my car, and then a giant clunk as something hit it, bouncing off the back quarter-panel. Slamming on the brakes, I looked behind me in my rearview mirror to see the hose from the gas pump dangling forlornly out of its perch in my car. Right where I had left it.
The other end was no longer attached to the gas pump.
I had forgotten, when I ran out of the convenience store, to stop pumping the gas and put the hose back where it belonged.
This is what came of spending way too much time thinking about football, and not enough time paying attention to the world around me. My cheeks burned. I glanced up to find an old man at the next pump over snickering at me.
It was probably the least I deserved.
Stepping out of the car, I surveyed the damage. For a terrifying second, I feared that gas would pour out of the ripped hose and explode like a Michael Bay movie. But it didn’t—it just dangled from my gas tank by the spigot. The hose itself had apparently been designed to break away from the pump easily.
“Guess I’m not the only idiot who drives off with the gas pump still attached,” I muttered.
Glancing up again, I saw the old man by the pickup truck now chortling aloud. My cheeks flaming, I made my way inside the convenience store again.
“Um. I’m back already,” I said.
“Yeah. I noticed.” On third glance, the guy behind the counter really was pretty young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with short dark hair gelled to stand up in a tiny spike along the top of his head, like the crest of some mildly exotic bird.
“I got distracted,” I confessed. “I drove off with the gas pump still attached my car.” I wrinkled my nose, hoping I looked apologetic.
The kid moved like a bird, too, blinking round eyes at me rapidly and twitching a little. “Is the hose still out there?” he asked.
“Yeah. I tried to put it back together, but it didn’t work.” I blinked at him, finding myself unconsciously mimicking his facial expressions. I forced my face to be still.
He didn’t say anything, just stared at me, twitching. Finally, I shrugged, mumbled, “Sorry,” and left. If he didn’t have anything to say about it, then I guess I didn’t either.
Still, on the way to the stadium, I found myself almost as distracted by my plans as I had been at the gas station.
I might be an idiot when it came to putting gas in my car.
But this idea? It really was pure gold.
Still, I was going to check with my team—or at least, my guys on the team—to see what they thought about it.
And as soon as I had it all sorted out and had some funding, I was going to fire that prick Mack, hire a new coach, and build the kind of team…
I stopped on that thought.
The kind of team that what?
That I can sell, an inner voice said. Teams changed hands all the time. Didn’t they? It wasn’t a terrible idea.
Even if I had begun to really think of the Yellowhammers as mine.
Especially three of them.
“One step at a time, Madison,” I said aloud to myself. “First, you build up the team. Then you figure out what to do with it.”
And before I could do any of that, I needed to talk to Andre, Clancy, and Rodney to make sure my plan was as good as I thought.
Ripping apart a gas pump took more time than I had allotted for my convenience-store stop, so by the time I got to the stadium, the guys were already in the locker room getting ready for that afternoon’s game.
But I couldn’t wait. If they thought
my idea was viable, I wanted to start doing my research right then. Tracking down information. Making phone calls. Marketing the Yellowhammers. This is what I was good at. Jacob might not ever admit it, but I was the reason our start-up was able to, well, start up. I had been in charge of finding investors.
My current plan didn’t exactly involve investors, but the principles were basically the same.
I slammed open the locker-room door, causing several half-dressed players to jump. Some of them were even buck naked and grabbed a towel to cover up. That quick glimpse at them told me that Andre was team captain in more ways than one.
I grinned wildly.
“Damn,” one of them muttered. “What’s up with her?”
“Y’all take note,” Clancy said, stepping out from behind a row of lockers, carrying his helmet. “When the team owner shows up looking like a tiny avenging angel, something big is brewing.”
Tiny avenging angel? What the…? No. I shook off the thought. I didn’t have time to pursue it.
“You.” I pointed to Clancy. “Go get Andre and Rodney. Now. The rest of you—” I spun around, meeting each player’s eyes as I made a complete circle. “—Clancy’s right. I have a plan to turn this into a real football team. I know some of you have been considering leaving at the end of this season. I’m asking you right now to commit to staying one more year. Because we are going to turn everything around. Starting right now. So hurry. Finish getting dressed so I can talk to your team captain and get this thing rolling.”
Some of them looked confused. But I saw a light click on in the eyes of several of them, like they’d been waiting for someone to come in and inject some electricity into this business.
I was about to become Electro-Girl. Like some sort of superhero in the comics I liked to read.
“You heard the lady,” Andre said from behind me. I had no idea where he and Rodney had been, but their sudden presence behind me, along with Clancy, buoyed my confidence even more. “Gear up, men!”
He gestured over my shoulder toward the depths of the locker room. “This way.”
When the four of us were alone in an empty row of lockers, I asked, “What are the league rules about team sponsors?”
Clearly that wasn’t what they had expected me to discuss with them. “Um. I’m not sure,” Andre finally said. “But plenty of teams have them.”
“Not us, though?” I asked, and then ignored the glance that passed between Rodney and Andre.
“Not us,” Clancy confirmed.
That was in line with what I expected. “Having more money would improve team morale, though, right? Better uniforms, better practice conditions, better everything?”
“Definitely,” Rodney agreed. “But I’m pretty sure the managers already approached companies to sponsor us. Most of them bailed last year and didn’t want to come back.”
“And you know we can’t approve any money stuff,” Andre added.
“Of course you can’t. But I can.” I laughed wildly.
“Who do you think will sponsor us?” Clancy asked.
“Laundry Pods!” I shouted.
They all looked confused.
“Tide Pods?” Rodney corrected.
“And it’s actually Roll Tide,” Andre added, thinking that I was still clueless about football. Which I still totally was.
I gave his shoulder a hearty slap. “Guys, you go win this game. I’m going to turn us into a rich team.” They still looked confused, so I laughed again and quickly kissed each of them on the mouth, one at a time, like I had considered doing to the store clerk. This was much better, I decided.
I was still kissing Andre and holding the other two guys’ hands when Coach Mack came thundering around the corner of the lockers, demanding to know where his team captain was.
“You slut.” Coach Mack stood at the end of the row, his face bright red, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. “You … you … Whore of Babylon!” He shook, his mouth opening and closing as he grew redder and redder, apparently unable to come up with any epithets more denigrating.
I felt all three of my guys circling me protectively, Rodney and Andre on either side of me, Clancy behind.
I met Mack’s eyes. “You sexist, obnoxious jerk.” I could almost see his head actually swelling as he inhaled, preparing to tell me off. I didn’t give him chance. I thundered ahead with the two words I’d been dying to say ever since I met the asshole. “You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me,” he spluttered. “I have a contract.”
“And I have three witnesses to sexual harassment,” I said, gesturing in a half-circle with one hand to indicate my guys. “I can imagine something like calling your boss that would break the contract.”
The coach’s eyes widened. “My boys will never turn on me,” Mack snarled.
I crossed my arms. “Oh, I think you’ll find that my men like the new direction I’m taking the team. Because you’re sure not taking them anywhere.”
Andre and Rodney each took a half step forward until they were looming menacingly over their now-former coach.
Clancy moved out from behind me and circled around the other two guys, coming to stand directly in front of Mack. “Coach,” he said gently, “I think we’d better get on out of here. Let’s go talk about this somewhere else.”
And just like that, Clancy was leading the apoplectic football coach out of the locker room. Gently, just like he did everything—except play football. I wondered which side came out in bed.
My lip curled at the thought as I watched them go. “Maybe we should arrange to have somebody clear out his desk,” I said thoughtfully.
“It might be more important to let security know he’s not allowed back in.” I nodded at Andre’s suggestion.
“In the meantime, what are we going to do for a coach?” Rodney asked.
“We’ll figure something out. For now, though, I think you guys are going to have to do a little double duty.”
“Oh, hell, no.” Rodney’s voice was determined. “That’s what assistant coaches are for.”
I blinked at him. “We have assistant coaches?”
The guys burst out laughing. “Who did you think all those other people hanging around Coach Mack were?” Andre wiped his streaming eyes.
“I don’t know. I guess I thought they were…” My voice trailed off. I had no idea what they were. An entourage? Scorekeepers?
“Are any of them any good?” I asked.
“Good enough to get us through a couple of games while you figure out who to hire to replace Mack, anyway,” Clancy said from the doorway.
“Did you get him out of here okay?” I hated that I sounded so anxious, but the thought of Mark Mackenzie having a rage-induced heart attack on my property made me sick to my stomach.
Honestly, though, mostly because of the liability issue. I didn’t wish a heart attack on him, of course. But if he had to have one, he needed to go somewhere that wasn’t mine to do it.
“He’ll be fine,” said Clancy. “He just needs some time to cool off.”
“He needs a good ass-kicking,” Rodney said.
“Oh, I think Madison just gave him that,” Andre said mildly.
“Thank you all for supporting me. I can’t tell you how much it means to know you have my back here.” My voice choked up a little. I didn’t say it aloud, but I couldn’t help comparing what had just happened to how Jacob had acted when things had gone pear-shaped with our startup. He had raged and screamed and blamed me for everything that went awry. Even when I tried to offer suggestions or support to help fix the problems, all he had done was insist I was biggest problem.
Not these guys. They simply backed me up, literally and figuratively.
Andre reached out to squeeze my hand. Rodney and Clancy followed suit—though Clancy settled for squeezing my upper arm.
“We’re a team,” Rodney said, but I didn’t miss the odd glance that passed between him and Andre.
Yeah, they were team, but it was
going to take some time to get everything sorted out in our personal lives.
Still, this was a start.
Eighteen
I spent the first half of the game tracking down the owners of Alabama Proud Laundry Detergent. It wasn’t because I was avoiding watching the game, but because I really, really wanted to get this squared away so that the team could just focus on playing their best.
Win or lose this game, after I secured more money and interest into the Yellowhammers, this would be one thing that they wouldn’t have to worry about.
It would be my first big contribution to the team as their owner. The first of many, I hoped.
I paced in the privacy of my office during the game. Unfortunately, I’d left my laptop back at the hotel room, so I was searching for an old-school phone book. I’d gone through the drawers of my desk again, seeing if Uncle Dusty had left anything. There was that weird, locked drawer that I couldn’t open, so I made a mental note to open that another day.
Resorting to my phone, I tried various phone numbers for the Alabama Proud Laundry Detergent company. Some were defunct, others went to various stores throughout the state. I tried looking up their social media contacts, but they didn’t even have a Facebook page. Or a website. Or really any way of contacting them.
Finally, I resorted to looking up the business registrar listing for the company. It was apparently owned by a James Clayton out of Huntsville. I pulled up the white pages listing for James Clayton to see if there was a phone number.
I found three James Claytons. Hopefully one of them was the guy I was looking for. And hopefully that James Clayton didn’t have an unlisted number.
The first one went unanswered. Not even a voicemail.
The second one, a man answered, angry that I was interrupting the game. My initial thrill of finding someone who was watching the Hammers on TV faded quickly, though, the more I talked to him.
“Hi there,” I said, remembering to smile. “My name is Madison Harte, and I’m looking for the owner of the Alabama Proud Laundry Pods.”
