“She must not be hot because I got nothing.”
Graham laughs, clearly amused. “Okay, moving on. What the fuck is wrong with you tonight?”
“With me?” I ask, swaying a little.
“You drinking tonight.”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” I say, my eyes sinking closed. “Oh! Because I got traded to San Diego.”
“Really? Wow. How do you feel about that?”
“Drunk. I feel drunk, G.”
“When do you guys move?”
My ass tumbles off the sofa and I land on the ground with a thud. For some reason, I find it hysterical and nearly drop the phone as I laugh.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Graham asks.
“I fell off the couch,” I say, catching my breath.
“Shit, Linc. Take it easy.”
“There’s nothing fucking easy about this.” I hate the way my voice wavers and sounds weak. I’m not weak. I’m Lincoln Fucking Landry.
So why do I feel like crying?
“You don’t like the trade?”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about the trade,” I say, more coherent than I anticipated. “Less money. New city. Opportunities. It’ll be fine. But Dani won’t go.”
The line stills. I give Graham a second to really feel that . . . and myself a second to get back on the couch again. This time, I lie down and secure the phone against my ear with a pillow.
“Why isn’t she going?” Graham asks.
“She hates fucking baseball. I told you that a long time ago. Remember?”
“But that’s not enough of a reason.”
“And her dad is the fucking GM.”
The sound of understanding slips by his lips and he sighs. I sigh too because I can. Because I don’t know what else to do. Because it’s not crying and is acceptable.
“I’m sorry, Linc.”
“Me fucking too.”
“There’s no way to make this work? Did the Arrows offer you anything?”
“Basically, no. I mean chicken scratch. Just a little more than average. How can I take that much of a cut, G? My entire stock, my brand, goes down if I accept that.”
“True.”
“I just . . . you know . . . ugh.”