by V.K. Sykes
“Come on, Bud. Cut the bullshit.”
Nate Carter glared across the table at his friend. They’d picked this corner of the hotel bar because it had been nearly deserted when they arrived. Now, it was filling up quickly. A middle-aged woman sitting not much more than arm’s length from Nate gave him a dirty look, obviously objecting to his language. He gave her a sheepish smile by way of apology.
Buddy Baker shook his head, a grin on his round, ruddy face. “Hell, no. Would I do that to a pal?” He took a long, slow pull from his beer, leaving Nate hanging.
“Every damn chance you get,” Nate retorted. “That’s just a dumb rumor.”
Nate had played Double A ball with Buddy at Trenton way back when, and had kept in close touch when his friend was traded to the L.A. Dodgers organization. Now Buddy had worked his way up to first string catcher for the west coast team. Every time their two squads met, they’d get together for dinner, or at least a drink. This time, they’d met at a downtown L.A. hotel after Nate’s Philadelphia Patriots had won the afternoon game behind his three-hit pitching.
“No way, smartass,” Buddy replied. “Not when the assistant GM comes straight to me like he did. He knows we’re close. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I know he wants me to sound you out. If you’re open an offer from the Dodgers, he’d be prepared to make the Patriots a sweet deal for you in a trade. I’m just guessing on this part, but I figure the boys upstairs might be ready to part with the two best prospects in our organization, plus a half-ton pickup load of cash.”
Holy shit. That little tidbit captured Nate’s attention. Buddy might not be blowing smoke, after all. He wouldn’t make up a detailed story like that just to yank Nate’s chain. Especially when Buddy knew he would get pounded to dust when the con was revealed.
“For real?” Nate asked, trying to hold back the surge of adrenaline. “The Dodgers want me that bad?”
Buddy leaned his impressive weight onto the table, making it wobble on its base. Nate snatched his beer glass before it slid off.
“Damn straight they do. And it’d be a hell of an opportunity. This is one of only a few teams that can afford to shell out the really big bucks. And think about the endorsements. You know you’ve got to be here or in New York to really cash in on that action.”
Nate felt his shoulders stretch with tension as he gripped his beer glass. A muscle twitched in his jaw. It happened every time his nerves kicked into overdrive.
Yeah, but I’ve always been a Patriot.
He forced himself to sit quietly while his friend stared at him, expecting an answer.
Nate loved Philadelphia and he loved the Patriots. The team had believed in him and drafted him. They’d brought him to the big dance. They’d nurtured his career through a couple of difficult early seasons in the minors, and supported him in both the good times and the hard times. Now, they’d built a strong team around him and slugger Jake Miller, and the two stars had led the Pats into contention for the NL pennant last year, falling just a few games short.
But baseball was a business, too. And, like Buddy had said, business was damn good in L.A. Most players would give up the last ten years of their lives for a chance to play for one of the big-market teams like the Dodgers, Yankees or Mets. It wasn’t just about the salaries those teams could afford to pay, either. It was about exposure. Endorsement contracts. Visibility.
Hell, fame.
Even more importantly, the Dodgers had a legitimate shot at winning it all this year. The World Series. The Patriots were good, but probably not that good. For his team to go all the way, everything would have to go perfectly—no major injuries, no prolonged slumps, with key players having big seasons. He knew the odds of all that falling into place were long.
Nate couldn’t hold back a disbelieving laugh. Buddy had clearly been sent on a mission to gauge his reaction, so the Dodgers must be serious. Before making the Patriots an offer, they needed to know he’d be willing to sign a multi-year deal, and not bolt when his current contract ended after this season.
“I know it’s the opportunity must guys would kill for,” he finally said. “But money’s not everything.”
Buddy’s guffaw caused the lady next to them to turn again and glare. “It’s not? Then what the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’d have to consider a lot of things.” Like the fact that his teammates would murder him. And, if they didn’t, the passionate Philly fans surely would.
Buddy gave a sympathetic grimace. “Everybody gets traded eventually. Especially if they’re any good. Nobody expects a player to spend his whole career with one team anymore. It’s not realistic.”
Nate couldn’t argue with that. These days, star players were shuffled around like chess pieces, sometimes staying only for a pennant drive before they were shipped off somewhere else or let go through free agency. But Philadelphia was his home, and had been for a long time.
“True, but I always thought I would.” The thought of abandoning the Patriots twisted his stomach. “I wanted to win the World Series as a Patriot. Enter the Hall of Fame as a Patriot. Hell, die a Patriot.”
Buddy shook his head. “I’d rather die rich, preferably with a few World Series rings on my fingers.” He drained his beer and signaled the waitress. “Think about it. You’re not going to have to decide for a while yet. But wouldn’t it be great to be together again? Me behind the plate calling the game and you throwing hellfire off the mound?”
It was a great image, but it was quickly replaced by one of Nate and Jake Miller standing shoulder to shoulder in every official team photo for the past six years. “No promises, Bud. But yeah, it’ll be on my mind. Big time.”
Chapter Three