Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(21)

“Did I tell you how close we are to sealing the deal with the Vipers?” I ask him, deliberately pivoting from the conversation’s sad direction.

“You lying.” Pop’s voice immediately brightens, and even though I can’t see him, in my mind’s eye, he leans forward with a familiar eagerness only basketball elicits.

“Yeah. If all goes well, I’ll have a controlling interest, but AJ will maintain a minority ownership and his seat on the board of directors. He wouldn’t budge on those conditions.”

“Too bad you still have to work with him,” Dad grumbles. “He’s an asshole. His daddy was an asshole.”

“I wish Andrew Senior were still around to see them lose this team,” I say, flecks of bitterness in the words.

“Andy Senior wasn’t my favorite person, but it was Jerry Keys who blackballed me.” The annoyance in Pop’s voice reaches through the phone. “That motherfucker blocked me at every turn.”

“Had they hired you as the Vipers’ head coach, they’d have at least one championship. Everybody knows that and no one ever did anything about it.”

“Just my luck my archrival became one of the most powerful men in the league.” I can almost hear my father’s shrug of resignation. “Jerry was one of the commissioner’s closest advisers, and he always made it clear that anyone who helped me would be on his shit list.”

My teeth clench at the memory of Pop being passed over time and again, job after job that he was qualified for, but never hired. Stuck as an assistant, but never given the chance to lead a team. I can’t get those years back, can’t make it right, but I can make him feel better. Not just about the blocked ambitions in his coaching career, but maybe ease some of the loss and grief he hasn’t been able to release. I hope having this deal to focus on and then the endeavor of helping to shape the team will help.

“If I could get rid of AJ altogether, believe me I would,” I tell Pop. “But this has been his family’s team for so long. He’s for damn sure not letting it go.”

“Andy Senior would roll over in his grave,” my father chuckles. “A Black man owning his family’s team? Unbelievable.”

“I still can’t quite believe it myself, that I can actually pull this off.”

“Why you surprised? All you’ve accomplished, the money you got when you sold True Playahs, and you didn’t think you could buy the Vipers?”

“This shit is not just money. Some things you can’t even buy your way into. You and I know owning a professional team is often one of them.”

“When you have the capital and they don’t, things change. They need the investment.”

“They also need the leadership,” I say. “I hope you’ll help us with that.”

My father releases a sigh. “I’m an old man. What do I know anymore?”

“Pop, you’re sixty years old. Younger than half the men running things and owning teams in this league. And all my life I’ve heard you complaining the Vipers’ front office couldn’t lead a fly to a pile of shit.”

His laughter booms over the phone, drawing a smile from me in reply. “Ain’t that the truth, though? Okay. You buy your team, and we’ll see.”

“I’m working on it.”

A noise at the door distracts me. I turn to grin at my assistant standing there with his iPad, obviously ready to work.

“Pop, I gotta go,” I tell him, closing the door to the balcony and walking past Bolt out into the hall. He follows, our quiet footfalls the only sound in the house. “Bolt’s here to make me do some work.”

“Tell that assistant of yours to take it easy on you,” Pop laughs.

I glance over my shoulder, and Bolt is hot on my heels, a stern look on his face like we’re about to get down to some real business.

“Not a chance,” I say. “He’s ready to get started. You know how he is.”

“Well, I’ll let you go…” Pop pauses. “You sure you’re—”

“I’m okay.” It’s a struggle to keep the irritation out of my voice. I know he’s concerned, but he really doesn’t need to be. I’ve had weeks to get used to the breakup with Zere. The rest of the world is still catching up. “Gotta go. Love you.”

“Love you, too, and… well, I guess you can keep me in the loop on the Vipers thing.”

A triumphant grin takes over my face. “I’ll do that. Bye, Pop.”

I’ve arrived in the kitchen by the time we disconnect. Laurenz, my chef, has left my morning smoothie on the pristine expanse of marble countertop.

“Need this,” I groan, grabbing the frosted glass and sitting on a stool at the counter.

“Gulp,” Bolt orders, frowning. “You have a Zoom in thirty minutes and still need to shower and change, I presume.”

“What’s wrong with what I got on?” I ask, gesturing to the wetsuit peeled down around my waist to reveal my arms and torso still slightly damp from the ocean.

“I think the board will expect less…” He runs assessing eyes up and down my frame. “Less chest and more clothes.”

“They want my money, not the other way around,” I say, unable to suppress my cynicism. “I’m sure they’d make allowances.”