How in the world did this happen?
I scowl as I lean back in my chair and lace my hands behind my head.
So I have to split this temporary ownership with someone else - fine. That I can handle. That I’m actually somewhat grateful for, to be perfectly honest, seeing as I still have my job as the board chairman for this team along with all the other responsibilities of my life. But sharing this with some rich clown or some other football guy who I could micromanage and show the ropes to would be doable.
Her, though?
How in the hell does Sam even know this girl? He’s never mentioned her, and the only remote connection I’m seeing through Google is that her dad was actually the late, great Billy Roth - probably one of the best defensive coaches in the league. But he worked for Houston, never Denver, and I’m fairly certain Sam doesn’t know him either.
Sam, who I could almost look at as a father, but who’s somehow given control of half his legacy to a girl who works for a rival team, with zero management experience.
I should go see him.
Obviously, he’s still in his induced coma, but still. I should ask him these questions, even if I know he can’t respond. Except it’s getting late.
Shit.
I glance at my watch and swear as I jump from the desk. It’s not getting late, it is late.
I’m late.
I shove the laptop into my bag and grab my keys before running out the door.
Forget Serena Roth and her mysterious appearance. Forget Ashley Kemp sitting on the edge of my desk like some cartoon lounge singer on a piano.
I’ve got the main girl of my life waiting for me.
And I’m already twenty minutes late.
“You’re late.”
Emily crosses her arms and glares at me, her bottom lip sticking out.
“I know,” I nod solemnly. “I know, honey.”
She sighs dramatically. “This is going to cost you.”
I grin.
“Yeah? What’s the price?”
“We’re watching Frozen tonight.”
I die a little inside.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep.”
“Not getting tired of that one, huh?”
“Nope,” she says smugly as she marches past me towards the car.
“Let’s go.”
I shake my head, grinning.
It’s hard to get mad when you’re getting chewed out by an eight-year-old.
“Dad!”
I glance back to see my daughter standing by the car.
“Let’s go?”
I turn back to Mrs. Dearborn, her second grade teacher.
“Look, I’m sorry for being late.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Dearborn laughs and waves a hand at me. “Don’t you worry about it, Mr. Reece. We did some reading, started a little homework, and went over some words for the spelling bee next week.”
I nod. “Thank you, but you really shouldn’t have to wait here just because I-”
“I’ve got plenty of things to do here after class ends, believe me,” she says with a smile. “Don’t you fret.”
I nod at the older woman. “Thank you, really.”
“I know it’s hard, Mr. Reece.”
Her hand lands on my arm as her smile turns more into sympathy than anything else.
God I hate that look.
“When I lost my Albert, it took a long-”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dearborn,” I say again quickly, pulling my arm back from her hand and smiling at her. “I’ll be sure to be on time in the future.”
She looks like she’s about to say something else, but she only smiles and nods quietly as I turn back to the car.
“Ready kiddo?”
“Duh?”
Chapter Five
Serena
I sit in the silence of the car for a minute, staring up at the Rattlesnakes logo emblazoned across the side of the stadium.
What am I doing here?
I dodged London’s texts and calls after my meeting yesterday, instead retreating to the hotel room mini bar and trying to make sense of this whole mess.
I’ve been with the Bulls for my entire professional career. No, scratch that. I’ve basically been with the Houston Bulls since before I was born, back when my dad worked for Archie Jacobs as head defensive coach. And after he died, all I had was the Jacobs family - London and her dad Archie, who treated me like a sister and a daughter.
And now there’s this, and this feels like treason. This - walking into the headquarters of the enemy for my meeting with Landon - feels like betrayal.
Except as of yesterday, and my signature across about two-dozen documents, I now partially own the enemy.
Twenty-four and a half percent of the enemy, to be specific. Somehow, through some surreal, fantasy-land mechanics, I now own twenty-four and a half percent of a voter share of the Denver Rattlesnakes.
Voter share. For now, that means my opinion matters, but it doesn’t mean anything more than that until after a month when the board decides if this arrangement is working for the team. After that, my voting shares become holding share. And holding shares means money.