What the hell is he doing here?
I hang up the phone on Alec downstairs in the lobby and wait in my foyer for the elevator to ascend and the doors to open.
And when they do slide open I’m greeted by the hulking figure standing there. The man I was intimidated by as a child when I went to work with my dad. The man I’ve grown to respect as an adult playing for his team.
“Mr. Boseman,” I say as he walks off the elevator and gives a cursory look around before shaking my extended hand.
“Easton. Good to see you.”
“Likewise.” I hate that my hopes surge momentarily from his unprecedented house call, but know there’s no way in hell he’s coming to offer me my job back. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“May I come in for a moment?” he asks, already walking into the open space, a man not used to waiting for others.
“Yes, please.” I follow him and wonder what’s going on.
He walks toward the wall of windows and spends a moment taking in the sight as most do. His hands are in his pockets, his suit jacket pulled tight over his shoulders, and he wears cowboy boots on his feet. He looks every part the oil tycoon that he is, less the cowboy hat that has left an indentation on his salt-and-pepper hair but is nowhere to be seen.
“Quite a view,” he says with a nod as he turns around and faces me. We look at each other for a moment before he speaks. “I’ve done a lot of business dealings in my time, Easton. Some I’m proud of. Some I’ve been extremely successful at. A few that didn’t sit well with me.”
“Okay.” I draw the word out, knowing that Ted Boseman likes to set the stage when he’s working toward making a point.
“How long have I known you?” he asks before answering it himself. “Most your life?”
“Pretty much.”
“I think of you like family. I think of all my players like family but you especially. In saying that, I hope you’ll hear me when I say that what Tillman did to you is one of those things that didn’t sit well with me.”
“Thank you, sir.” What else can I say?
“I was off pretending I was on Survivor in the Amazon trying to stave off a second midlife crisis, and he was here trying to screw up my organization.” He clears his throat and looks back toward the stadium below. “I hired him because of his reputation. I’ve been preoccupied with business the past two years and things got a little out of hand in the front office. I talked to some fellow owners and heard about Cory Tillman and how he was able to cut costs and streamline other organizations. Trimmed the fat, if you will, as is needed every so often when running a business. I ignored the pissed-off players he had traded—their talk of him being unethical—and chalked it up to them being angry at being uprooted.”
“Understandable,” I say feeling like I need to participate in this one-sided conversation.
“As you know, I hired him. I gave him a budget I wanted him to be under and the authority to cut where he thought things needed to be cut to hit it. I even dangled a Texas-sized bonus for him if he could hit my budget by season’s end. But see, that was where I was shortsighted and preoccupied elsewhere. You don’t give a man carte blanche and then not expect him to cut your franchise player to make it easier to hit that budget in one fell swoop. Your salary is . . . was one of our largest. Our pockets are nowhere as deep as say, the Yankees, and so by trading you and bringing a catcher in at half the price, the budget becomes lower and that bonus a lot more attainable for Tillman.”
“I appreciate you telling me,” I say but don’t understand why he’s coming forward now and saying all of this. What has changed?
“Upon my return and hearing your agent’s numerous messages, I was enlightened on the many things Tillman had done in my absence. Things that my other managers should have caught but didn’t. Ethically questionable things. I called around to the other organizations he’s worked for, spoke to the players who had been traded, and their answers—the ones I should have listened to originally—pissed me off.” He runs a hand through his hair before taking a seat on the edge of the couch. “Why didn’t you come to me after he made you sign those addendums when you were first hurt?”
Uncomfortable, I shift my feet. Do I tell him the truth? Admit that I can’t read for shit and so I pulled Finn from pursuing it with him? That doesn’t exactly make me look too bright. “You hired him so I figured you knew what was going on. It doesn’t exactly look professional to complain to the owner when you don’t like the new boss.”
When I turn back around, his lips are pursed and he’s sitting with his elbows on his knees and hands.
“I let Tillman go today. I had to pay a pretty penny to buy him out of his contract, but I couldn’t let him ruin my organization any more than he already has.”
His admission may stagger me, but it’s a lot too late. For me, anyway.
“I can’t say I disagree with your decision,” I finally say.
His laugh rumbles as he shakes his head. “I didn’t think you would, son. I know it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a Wrangler.” He spits the word out as if it’s almost hard for him to mention our rival. “And I apologize to you for that. But it’s important to me that you know if I ever get the chance to rectify that clusterfuck and bring you home, I will.”
He rises to his feet and takes a step toward me, hand outreached to mine. I shake it. “Thank you.”
“What I’d give to have you back and Santiago gone,” he murmurs as he makes his way to the door, “but contracts are contracts and I can’t force other teams to negate theirs too. I don’t think the Wranglers would take too kindly to me trying to steal you back, but God knows I’ll try in the future.” He turns to look at me one last time. “Sorry for the house call, but I thought you deserved this apology in person.”
I’ve said thank you enough times I feel like a broken record, so I don’t say anything at all. Rather, I nod my head and accept an apology I never expected to get.
It takes a lot for a man to face his mistakes head-on.
I should know.