Chapter Two
“We really need to talk about you screwing half the hospitality staff,” Rick says when he steps into my box, closing the door behind him.
I look over and give him an amused grin. “Why? Is the other half jealous?”
Rick Dempsey, the current President and General Manager of the Copperheads, sits down in the plush, padded seat next to me. The large windows are open so I can hear the roar of the crowd, the popping of the pads as the players collide with one another, and soak in the ambiance of a Copperheads home game. There's really nothing else like it.
I've visited with other owners in the league in their stadiums. Some of them like to spend their Sundays down in the hospitality suites, drinking and stuffing their faces, not even paying attention to the game. Others like to sit in their luxury box, drinking, stuffing their faces, and watching the games on the televisions that fill the suite – if they pay attention to it at all.
Many of them just like to be surrounded by a loud crowd of hangers-on who are there to be seen rather than to enjoy a game. And that's just not my way.
I don't understand it. You own a team and you don't even watch them play? I'm convinced that half the owners in the league – maybe more – don't really care about football one way or the other. They own a team for the status and stature of being an NFL owner.
But not me. Football is in my blood. I played in high school and college – and if not for a blown-out knee in my sophomore season, who knows what might have happened? Maybe I'd be down there strapping them up with my hometown Copperheads too. It had been my dream at one point in time – a dream my body was unable to help me fulfill.
Yeah, there's still a little bitterness about that in my system.
Instead of being on the field blowing up receivers on Sundays, I'm sitting in the skybox, watching them play – the owner-in-waiting, as my lawyer, Kendrick Booth likes to say.
The blonde I'd banged at halftime comes in with a tray bearing wings and beer. She sets it down on the table between Rick and me before giving me a flirty little wink and a smile.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I say.
Rick shakes his head and sighs as she turns and leaves the box. I grab my beer and take a long swallow of it. Rick grabs his bottle and holds it, watching the play on the field unfold. Our second-rate quarterback, Jake Penn, throws another incomplete pass, bringing up yet another fourth down. It hasn't been a great game for the Copperheads. Hell, it hasn't been a great start to the season.
“The hospitality girls,” Rick says. “I need you to lay off of 'em, Brady. Not only is it unprofessional, you're opening yourself – and this organization – up to a potential lawsuit.”
I shrug. “They're all of age,” I reply, watching with a simmering anger as the punting team comes out onto the field. Again. “What happens between two consenting adults is nobody's business. Least of all yours, Rick.”
Rick and I have a – contentious – relationship. To put it mildly. Mostly because I forget more about football in a day than Rick is ever going to know – and he knows it. He's only in the position because after my parents died, somebody had to step into the role – and he was available. For whatever reason, he and my father were friends and he has a lot of years in the league – many of them in a GM capacity. So, to some, that gives him some credibility around the league.
Not that his years as a GM were good years. For any of the teams he's been with.
If anybody had asked me – and nobody did – I would have told them to steer clear of Rick Dempsey. He drafts poorly, goes cheap on free agents, and his track record as a GM doesn't include guiding a team to a single winning season. Twenty years in the league – thirteen as a GM – and Dempsey doesn't have a single winning season to his credit.
It's something that never fails to irritate me whenever I see his face. He's terrible at his job, but somebody else always takes the fall. It's the quarterback. It's injuries. It's a poor pass defense. The most recurrent theme is, it's the coach. Nobody ever really stops to look at his track record of drafting and signing free agents.
I have though, and it's horrible.
And the reason our relationship is so rocky is because he refuses to listen to my advice. Refuses to draft the players I want to target or sign the free agents I think can help the team. He simply smiles, nods, and blows me off – as if I'm just some spoiled rich kid who doesn't really know much about anything other than girls and partying.
Dempsey doesn't seem to understand that it's only a matter of time before I assume control of the team though, and will be the one calling all the shots. All he talks about is sticking to his vision and his game plan for the organization, promising that better days are ahead.
“Be that as it may,” Rick goes on, “There is always the potential –”
“I'm done talking about that,” I snap. “What I want to talk about – the reason I asked you to meet with me – is because of what I see down there.”
He sighs and puts on that smug, condescending, patronizing expression that irritates me so much. I point to the field and watch in frustration as a receiver blows by our cornerback, hauling in a forty-yard gain. If not for the safety coming over to help, that would have been a score. Easily. And with the team down by two touchdowns already, it probably would have been the proverbial final nail in the coffin.
“Yeah,” Rick says, rubbing a hand along his stubbled jawline. “It's a tough one out there today. Have to give Atlanta some credit though – that's a good squad.”
“No, more like, we're a terrible squad,” I reply. “Did you not just see Rogers give up that forty-yard gainer? What did I tell you at the end of last season?”
Rick shakes his head and takes a swallow of his beer. “Honestly, I don't remember,” he says. “I have a lot of things going on – as I'm sure you know.”
“Well, let me refresh your memory,” I growl. “I told you that Rogers is a third-tier cornerback. At best. I told you to cut him and go after Bishop Mickens.”
“Mickens signed with Minnesota,” he says.
“Because you didn't make a play for him,” I reply. “Everybody knows he wants to come play here. This is where he grew up, for fuck's sake.”
Rick shrugs. “The numbers didn't work out.”
“That's a pile of bullshit, Rick,” I say. “See, I spent some time with the capologists. I know exactly how much cap room this team has. And how much more it would have if you'd cut the players I told you to cut. With the warchest you're sitting on, you could have signed ten Bishop Mickens. And I don't even want to get into the abomination that is this season's draft class. I mean seriously, Rick –”
“Look, Brady,” he cuts me off, his tone smug and condescending. “I appreciate your passion and your enthusiasm. I really do. But I have a vision for this organiza –”
“A vision that hasn't produced a single winning season in the two years you've been in control, Rick,” I say. “And the way this season is starting off, you're probably going to extend that streak.”
Rick sighs and sets his beer down. A look of pure annoyance crosses his face and he looks like he wants to punch me. Part of me hopes he does – if he punches me, it might give me cause to force him out of the GM's chair.
“I don't think I need to remind you that I'm the President and General Manager of this organization, Brady.”
“No, you don't need to remind me, Rick,” I snap. “It's a situation I'm working to correct though. Believe me.”
“Well, until that actually happens – if that happens,” he says, glaring at me. “I will continue to appreciate your input, but all football related decisions go through me. For all intents and purposes, this is my team and I am going to run it the way I see fit.”
“Yeah, sticking to your vision,” I spit.
He nods. “Exactly. Sticking to my vision.”
“Forgive me for being skeptical,” I sneer. “But your vision hasn't exactly worked out in Buffalo. Or Cleveland. Or Miami. Or New York.”
Rick's face darkens – he apparently doesn't enjoy having his poor track record as a GM thrown in his face. Good. At the moment, it's the only power I have. As much as it pains me to admit.
“I think we're done here,” he says. “But just know that I will continue to do what I believe is in the best interest of this organization. And all decisions will continue to go through me – and will continue to do so unless and until you ever assume control of the team.”
I nod. “Oh, believe me, I will,” I say. “And when I do, the very first thing I'm going to do is fire your ass, Rick. It is going to be one of the greatest days of my life.”
He gives me a smirk. “Good luck with that, kid,” he says. “It's been a pleasure. As always.”
He turns and leaves my suite without another word, slamming the door behind him. I know I shouldn't antagonize him the way I do, but I can't seem to help it. I really detest the guy. He's incompetent at his job and refuses to listen – always referring to his sacred plan like it's the Holy Grail or something.
His plan is trash, plain and simple. And as I watch Rogers give up a touchdown pass to put Atlanta up by three scores, all I can do is shake my head. That will seal this game, giving us a three-game losing streak to start the season.
“Great plan, Rick,” I shout. “Great vision.”