The House of Wolves (House of Wolves #1)(27)

“That would be extremely helpful.”

When he told me who it was, I laughed.

“You think I’m joking?”

“No. I was thinking that just when I was off the front page, here I am, being pulled back in.”

Then we called Thomas and put him on speakerphone and told him who we wanted to bring in for a tryout.

“Wait,” my brother said. “He’s out of prison?”





Thirty-One



HIS SISTER HAD JUST walked right into his office a little before nine in the morning, not caring if he might be in a meeting or on some kind of important call—not that he was making or taking any calls like that these days, at least as they related to the Wolves.

She acts as if she’s always had the run of the place, Danny thought.

But she’d find out soon enough that she was only renting here, as if her office, down the hall, were an Airbnb. The only surprise, considering what they’d thrown at her so far, was that she wasn’t gone already.

“You never knocked when we were kids, either,” Danny said to his sister.

“I believe,” Jenny said, “that’s how I walked in on you and Peggy Brooks playing doctor that time.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Danny said.

“Well, I’ve got something I want to say to you.”

“Don’t care.”

But he could see she was dug in. When she got like that, Danny knew, it was like trying to stop the ocean.

“Is it true that you started the process of selling this football team to John Gallo before the reading of the will?”

“No,” he said.

“Liar.”

“Prove it.”

“If I could prove it, I wouldn’t be in here asking you. And hoping to get an honest answer out of you for once in your life.”

“You just asked,” he said. “I just told you. Now beat it.”

“If it’s true, I’ll find out.”

“You know what you should do?” Danny said. “Ask Gallo if it’s true.”

He smiled then.

“And let’s just say, for the sake of conversation, that it is true. What are you going to do about it? Fire me? If you were going to do that, you would have done it already.”

“Did you really hate Dad that much?” she said.

Danny leaned forward and put his chin in his hand, trying to look curious.

“Still assuming it’s true,” he said. “This Gallo thing.”

“Only because I know what a sneaky bastard you are and always have been.”

“This isn’t any of your business.”

“Now it is, whether you like it or not.”

“I forget,” Danny said. “Who was the one who walked away from our father, and this team, and this family? Was that your idea of family honor?”

“And what’s your idea of honor, Danny? Getting into bed with a cockroach like Gallo?”

“Why are we still having this conversation?” Danny said. “You’re the one in charge. Do what you have to do.”

“While my two older brothers do everything in their power to crush me.”

“But you’ve got Thomas now,” Danny said. “The legendary football executive, for as long as he stays clean and sober. Two against two. Fair fight, right?”

“You never fought fair,” Jenny said. “Neither did Jack.”

“You should know as well as anyone that’s how we were all raised,” Danny said to her. “When it’s all over, nobody cares how you won. They just remember that you won.”

“You’re taking this team away over my dead body,” she said.

“Isn’t that what Dad always used to say?”

“I’ll tell you what I told Jack,” Jenny said. “Take your best shot.”

“You want some brotherly advice?”

“From you? Hard pass.”

“Stop being delusional. No shit, Sis. You think you’re the one respecting our dead father’s wishes? What you’re really doing is embarrassing him, embarrassing this team, and embarrassing a family that you’ve suddenly decided you care so much about.”

Jenny turned and walked out of his office, leaving the door open behind her. Danny was about to walk over and shut it when she appeared back in the doorway.

“I’ll tell you one more thing, and then you can pass it on to Jack.”

He waited.

“I haven’t taken my best shot yet,” Jenny said.

Then she was gone.





Thirty-Two



“WHEN WAS THE LAST time you played in an actual game?” I said to Billy McGee, who’d been the bad boy of professional football when he was still allowed to play professional football and before he really did do six months of prison time.

He smirked. After only ten minutes, it already seemed like his default look. Or attitude. Or both. Somehow he seemed to be slouching even when he wasn’t.

“Blackjack or football?”

“Come on, Money,” Ryan said.

It had been Billy McGee’s nickname from the time he’d scored his first college touchdown, off a thirty-yard scramble, as a freshman at Arizona State. He’d pulled up his jersey when he was in the end zone that day and shown off the tattoo of a dollar sign on his chest, right under his shoulder pads.