Swing (Landry Family 2)

The carpet silences my steps as I take forty-six to the back conference room. Billy Marshall and my agent, Frank Zele, face me. They stand as I enter and shake my hand.

“How are you, Lincoln?” Billy asks

“Good. How are you?”

“Doing good, thanks.”

Frank and I greet each other and we all take a seat.

“How was your holiday?” Billy asks.

I grin. “Excellent. Went home to Savannah.”

Billy doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my response and that concerns me. Greatly. He’s always so talkative—the guy could talk for two hours about a bright, sunny day. Now he won’t look at me? My shoulders stiffen as I clasp my hands in front of me and await the verdict. Frank gives me a look, one that further chills my hopes.

“So,” Billy says finally. “I’m just going to get down to business, if that’s okay with you?” He looks at me and his features are hardened. This isn’t the guy that threw a Fourth of July party last year on Tybee Island and let me take out his brand new fishing boat. This is Billy Marshall, General Manager. I’m just not sure what I am today and that scares the ever-loving fuck out of me. Glancing at Frank, he’s poring over a stack of papers in front of him.

Billy clears his throat. “We’ve been going over next year’s forecast and roster. We really believe we have a shot at a title.”

“I agree. We were the best team in the league this year,” I say with enthusiasm. “I really believe we’ll nab it next year if we can just stay healthy.”

“That’s the thing—staying healthy.” He pushes a paper towards me. My name is at the top, followed by a list of items and numbers and dollar signs and percentages. “This,” he says, indicating the first column, “is our win percentage with you in play. It’s great. But this one is the percentage with you out.”

I look at the numbers and feel a ball tightening in my gut. “I’ll be ready,” I promise him.

“Lincoln,” he says, blowing out a breath. He rests back in his seat and takes his glasses off. “While we don’t have a salary cap, as you know, we do pay a luxury tax. The higher our payroll is, the more we pay. This year, the organization paid the highest tax in the league.”

“Let’s talk numbers,” Frank says, as I swallow a searing breath. “Let’s see if we can get to a place where we are all happy.”

Billy watches me for a long moment before sitting up, his hands folded in front of him. “You are the highest paid player, by far, on the team. You’re worth it, I’m not saying that,” he says. “But when we calculate how many games you missed this season along with the report on your shoulder, you just aren’t worth it to this team.”

“What?” The room could explode into a fiery inferno at this exact moment and I wouldn’t be able to move. I’m frozen in my seat, trying to convince myself I misheard him. “Say that again.”

“I’m sorry, Lincoln. You know I love having you on staff and I think you have a lot of baseball left in you. But that specific injury coupled with the pressure I’m getting from the top to get our payroll down and manageable . . .”

“What’s this mean?” I utter, looking between the two men in front of me. My hand shakes as I place it on my lap and look at the Arrows logo on the paper in front of me. It’s my team. My brand. A part of me. But is it? Now? Oh God . . .

“It means we can offer you less, significantly less. Let’s face it—even if we get you back one hundred percent, the odds of re-injury sometime in the next five years is pretty much a guarantee. Tha

t means I’m looking at this win percentage,” he says, tapping that fucking paper again, “and I can’t swing that. It doesn’t work, Lincoln.”

“How much money we talking?” Frank asks.

“Less than you should or would agree to,” Billy sighs heavily. “We also have negotiated a trade with you to the San Diego Sails. Their payroll is one of the smallest in the league—”

“As is their winning percentage,” I scoff.

Billy shoots me a look. “You can stay here. This is the number you’re looking at.” The page flips and I see a salary I can’t believe is real.

“This? Are you serious?”

“Yes. Or you can agree to San Diego and look at it as rebuilding, restructuring, extending your fan base,” he says, trying to make it sound appetizing, “and take this one.”

“You know that’s unacceptable,” Frank insists.

The number Billy shows me on another sheet is much better. But still. “Billy,” I say, laughing in disbelief, “you’re really letting me go?”

“This is business. You know that. It just happens to be a business where we play baseball for a living. Think about that. You’re still playing a damn ballgame for a paycheck. That’s a good thing whether it’s here or in San Diego.”