Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 68882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“Then I suppose he can’t play for me.”
She’s staring me down, playing a ridiculous game of chicken. So, I stand and turn to Bill, who’s still sitting.
“Call San Francisco. I’ll lead them to a championship next year.”
I turn to leave, and Florence says with a tight voice, “Wait.”
I look back at her and raise an eyebrow, not saying a word.
“You can’t just toss out empty threats of going to another team.” Her lips press together, making them almost disappear.
“It’s not empty. I have other offers. I know that I can lead our team through the playoffs next season, just like we did this season. We were so close to winning the championship, I could smell it. I can’t guarantee that, of course, but we have a talented lineup, and I know we can be successful. I want to stay here. But I won’t sign a contract that has anything to do with the Montgomerys in it. If you won’t waver on that, we don’t have anything else to discuss, and I thank you for four great years here.”
One of her attorneys leans over and whispers in her ear. Florence blinks, sighs, and speaks through her teeth.
“Fine. I’ll take it out. But I want it known right here and now that I do not like the idea of my star player having anything at all to do with a family that would like to see the ruin of our team.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way all around, ma’am. I don’t think they want to see the ruin of this team.”
“You’re wrong.” And with that, she turns to the attorney who spoke in her ear. “Have the final draft drawn up, now, and let’s sign and get it over with. I’ll want the press here within thirty minutes for a statement.”
“I don’t—”
“I don’t care what you don’t,” Florence interrupts. “Make it happen.”
Laptops are opened, Brandon already has his phone in his hand as he scrambles out the door, and I simply turn to Bill.
“I need some air.”
I walk out the doors and down the hall, then press the button for the elevator as Bill joins me. We don’t say a word as we ride down to the ground level, and I walk out a side door where I know no one else is.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I hate that she owns this team,” I mutter.
“I know,” he says. “She’s never cared about her players. But she does own the team, and I’m glad her attorney was able to talk some sense into her.”
“Did we really have other offers on the table, or did you tell me that to bolster my confidence so I’d stand my ground?”
He grins. “We have more than two others, Ike.”
“Nice.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Sophie says as we drive through the city on our way to her parents’ house for dinner. It was a last-minute arrangement, but one I didn’t mind.
It’ll keep my mind on something other than waiting for my old man to call once the sports channels start airing the news of the day, which should be just about any time.
“I’m happy that it all went well,” I say and follow the GPS.
“I’m sorry that we’re not celebrating by ourselves,” Sophie adds and takes my hand in hers. “But Mom called and said that they’d love to have us for dinner, and I just said yes without really thinking about it.”
“It’s fine with me. Honest. We can celebrate anytime.” I turn into the driveway and kill the engine, smiling over at her. “I might be a little nervous.”
“Are you kidding? You play football for thousands of people. Millions, if you count the TV viewers.”
“None of them are the father of the girl I’m dating. That’s a whole different level of intimidating.”
Sophie just laughs and opens her door.
“Wait.” I jump out and hurry around to help her out of my truck, and before we get to the front door, it swings open, and Sophie’s parents are waiting.
I recognize her mother from the bridal shower, and her dad looks a lot like Will.
“Mom, Dad, this is Ike.”
“It’s good to see you again,” I say as Stacy offers me her hand, and then I turn to Isaac, who’s watching me with blue eyes just like his daughter’s. “Hello, sir.”
“Isaac,” he replies and shakes my hand. “Just call me Isaac. Come on in. I have some steaks on the grill. Help me with that, will you, Ike?”
“You bet.” I follow the other man through the house and out the back door to a nice patio and backyard. “It’s great back here.”
“The kids loved it when they were little,” Isaac says and opens the grill to check the steaks. “How do you like your meat?”
“Medium is great.”
He nods and flips them over, then closes the lid.
“How did you meet my daughter?”