Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Then, maybe I can help my parents out. Dad’s a high school football coach. Mom is a bank teller, and the last recession took a bite out of their retirement funds. I’d love to take care of them in little ways.
But first things first. Pay off the rest of my loans.
And I can do that as long as I keep this job, which means focusing on work—not the date who’s ghosted me.
I tap the gas and take off for the Bandits facility, ready to put Drew in the rearview mirror.
Sports have been a part of my life since I was a kid, thanks to my dad. We had some of our best father-daughter chats while throwing a ball in the backyard. He’d share his playbook for upcoming games, and I’d pepper him with questions. I analyzed everything about how football was played, fought, and won. I learned the formations, the types of coverage, and when to go for a forward pass, a screen pass, or a play-action pass.
Sometimes, he’d ask me what to do in an upcoming game, and I’d weigh in with suggestions based on the opponents and their style of play—their skills at running and passing, or whether they were defensive-minded, and so on. Dad would take all my feedback seriously, even though with a winning record of over thirty years, he hardly needed my help.
I’m still grateful for those chats now. Being a lawyer is all about strategy, and those sideline talks with Dad made me a very good lawyer.
My work lets me apply my questioning mind to something I love—sports.
When I arrive at the ballpark, I head to the executive suites, saying hello to my colleagues along the way.
There’s Nancy in publicity, who wants to know when I’m going to do an interview with Sailor.
Felipe in college scouting, who watches all of Sailor’s videos.
Abby in analytics, who has a crush on Sailor.
Before I reach my office, my phone buzzes with a message from Stephen. Brooke, can you come to my office when you arrive? I picked up lattes.
I study the note with suspicion. After all, this is the man who sent flowers when he passed me over for a promotion.
With dread coiling in my gut, I walk the plank to his office.
Even though I was frustrated with my job last week, I don’t want to lose it. I can’t afford to lose it.
I reach his door. It’s ajar, and he’s typing on his phone from behind his desk, expressionless.
“Good morning, Stephen,” I say cheerily.
Putting his phone down, he looks up. “Come in,” he says, laissez-faire as always.
I step inside the pit of doom.
Taking his time, he stands, walks around his desk, and grabs a cup. “Remembered you liked horchata lattes,” he says. Most of the time, the man talks in phrases. “When you indulge, that is.” He taps his temple. “Filed every team member’s coffee preference. Comes in handy.”
Is that the secret to being an EVP? Memorizing the staff’s coffee orders? Is that handy when you need to fire them?
“Stopped by the Cuban café near the ballpark and picked some up for you,” he says and holds the cup out for me.
“Thanks,” I say tentatively, taking it.
He takes one for himself from his desk too. “Try it.”
I lift the cup and down the hatch it goes. And wow. That is tasty, warm, and cinnamon-y.
And damn him for his well-honed strategy. Making an employee feel good before you drop the hatchet.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to a chair. I obey.
He parks himself in the chair across from me. “Wanted to take you out to lunch to tell you this,” he says, and I brace myself. It’s coming.
Oh yes, it’s coming.
“But…I couldn’t wait till lunch. So horchata it is,” he says, then his gray eyes dance and, wait. Is that a hint of a smile too, to go along with a full sentence? “The reason you didn’t get the promotion is…we have a brand-new job for you instead. And you’re the only one I trust to do it.”
A few full sentences.
“I am? You do?” Wait. No. I shouldn’t be speaking in question marks. I clear my throat. “I can’t wait to hear about it.”
“We’re adding new responsibilities to your plate. Along with a hefty raise,” he says, then shares the dollar amount.
I purse my lips so I don’t drop my jaw.
But holy ovaries. That’s a twenty percent increase. It’s like a hazard-pay level raise. “That sounds terrific. And what are the added responsibilities?”
Stephen beams, something he rarely does. “We want you to handle legal work for both the baseball and football teams that Carlisle Enterprises owns.”
I nearly jerk back in my chair. I did not see that coming. Of course I know Elizabeth Carlisle also owns the Los Angeles Mercenaries, but the day-to-day operations are run separately. “That would be great,” I say, trying to strike a balance between gobsmacked and appreciative. I’m not the overly effusive type, even though I want to overly effuse right now.