“There’s Kansas City. I’ve quietly inquired, and they’ve expressed interest.”
Both decent teams. Not as good as the Pythons, but ...
“Salary?”
“Twelve million—I know, less than you’re making now, but there’s a bonus for making the playoffs.”
It’s not really about the money ...
“Okay, what else?”
“Let me be frank as a friend. You’ve had a tough year. You’re a free agent, and who says you have to decide right away? Take some time away; take your yacht out, and let it simmer. If you don’t do football, we can check in with broadcasting. You’re damn pretty, you speak well, and people like your charm. You’d do well in front of the camera.”
“Broadcasting?” I scoff.
“Less stress while still being part of the world; feel me?”
“I’m starting a nonprofit.” I lay out the framework I’ve been working on and how I’d like to see it run.
He nods. “That’s a huge undertaking to fund. Are you sure you can handle that and play football?”
“I have more money than I know what to do with. My dad left me two billion. I can use it to help others.”
His eyes blink. “Fuck.”
I smirk. “Drinks are on me, right?”
He whistles under his breath. “Tuck, you canbuya football team—or invest in one at least.”
“Nah, if I’m not playing, I don’t wanna watch some other guys.”
“Okay, circling back to the nonprofit. We need a needs assessment, a market analysis, a board of directors, fundraising. There’s legal, accounting, and technical issues to tackle. I can put you in touch with some lawyers who specialize. Meet with them, maybe touch base with other similar people who’ve started big foundations.” He frowns. “I don’t know, Tuck ...”
I finish my drink. “Yeah. It’s a lot to think about.”
He gathers his things. “So when are you taking your boat out? Going to the Caribbean or the Mediterranean?”
Once again Francesca pops in my head—her lying in the sun on my yacht. Jasper said he’s in for a couple of weeks, and Deacon too. I told them to invite whomever they wanted, but I haven’t talked to her about it. She has her job, and while it’s flexible, I’m not sure she can afford to take weeks off at a time.
“Not sure yet,” I tell him.
Just as the valet is bringing around my car, he stops and pushes a brown manila envelope in my hands. “Oh, almost forgot. Here’s the latest from the investigator. Sorry. I meant to drop it off at your place last week.”
I frown. “More? I thought I had it all?”
“Apparently, he dug a little deeper. I gave you an initial report, and this is the last of it.” He slaps me on the back. “Keep your head up. We’re gonna figure out this football thing.”
I look down at the envelope.
A terrible unease washes over me as I rub my fingers across it. Things between Francesca and me have been great. I’m not hiding my anxieties or worries about football. She sees the real me.
But this envelope, coupled with this niggling in my brain ...
I shake it off. This is nothing.
So why do I feel as if an axe is about to fall?
I take a seat on the couch in Dr.Newman’s office. A psychiatrist in her late forties, she wears her hair in a ponytail that never looks quite straight. Potted greenery is scattered everywhere: in her windows, on her desk, on the floor.