Swing (Landry Family #2)(69)
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. That 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.”
My head hangs, my heart skimming the floor. Never did I dream they would trade me. Is this even happening right now?
“Take some time,” Billy says. He stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Go home and think about it. Discuss this with Frank. Figure out what you want to do. You know I’m happy to pay you to stay here. I just know it’s probably not feasible.”
My entire body feels the weight of the world and my brain is a freeway full of racing thoughts and colliding ideas. It makes me want to vomit . . . which I do once I’m out the door and find the nearest bush.
The drive home took three times longer than it should’ve. I spent a good hour sitting outside of Arrows Stadium, trying to get my head wrapped around the situation before going home. To Dani.
I grip the steering wheel as I wait for the gate in my subdivision to lift. Every muscle in my body is sore. My jaw hurts from clenching it. My knuckle aches from slamming it into my steering wheel.
I might be coming out of shock. I don’t know. Things are starting to fill the void that seemed too deep to get across until now. I can only make sense of some of it if I block out what the media is going to say and the articles that will be put out as soon as this comes to fruition, one way or the other.
Swallowing this is so bitter I can barely manage to deal. How did this happen to me? I was king of the world only a few months ago. How did I fall so far so fast?
Taking the money the Arrows offered would be a joke. It would make me a joke. I think I make more money than that off of Graham’s investments every year. A player like me can’t play for that; I wouldn’t be taken seriously. No one would hire me as a spokesman. My jerseys would stop selling. It would be one, big disaster. They know that, which makes it even more humiliating that they even bothered to offer it.