Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Martinez sat forward. “You’ve always been dynamic. Fire, Babineaux. Fans like fire. Media loves fire. Fire unchecked?” He sat back, swiveling in his chair. “Burns the brand. You’re selling tickets to fans. Men. Women. Children. This is not a boxing match!”
Sniggers rolled around the table.
I leaned forward, letting my gaze sweep to every owner. “I deliver. At bat, in the box. You pay me for wins. Y’all got rings because of me.” Me and my boys, but arrogance sounded impressive.
Hartley’s smile tightened. “What good is a bat if the man holding it …”
Don’t say it. Don’t you dare cut me!
“… sits through spring training?”
That sliced through me. I couldn’t miss spring training. It kicked off the season. I worked my jaw.
LaShawn touched my shoulder briefly—a silence check.
I swallowed the heat in my chest, then let the truth spill out raw. “I’d never dream of damaging the team. MacKenzie, Ohtani, the rest of ‘em? That’s family. I’m here to build something real. Whatever disciplinary action you consider given the circumstances have changed, I’ll take it. That’s how much I love this game. My team. But don’t y’all forget, when the bases were loaded this October, bottom of the ninth. Who ain’t choke!”
Martinez chuckled. “Babineaux, I just arrived from over a month in St. Bart. You been?”
I almost rolled my eyes.
“Breathtaking, but I still can’t forget October. The stadium chanting, ‘Big Country! Big Country!’ ” He tapped the side of his fists on the table, an amused gleam in his eyes. “Maybe next time you’ll keep your hands to yourself after bringing home those rings.”
Laughter bounced around the room. Everyone joined but me and LaShawn.
My knuckles flexed under the table, tendons strained. The memory of my bébé’s kiss—rough and grounding—was the only thing stopping me from showing ‘em just how far they could push.
One more inch, and they’d learn Big Country wasn’t just a chant in the stands. A brand. He was flesh and blood. And men only bent so far before something broke.
zuri
. . .
The wealthiest men alive trickled out of the conference room as Montana approached me. My heart sank at the sight of his stoic expression. At his side, LaShawn wore a sharp sneer, which told me she went to bat for him.
My eyes searched his. “What happened?”
“They slapped me with sanctions. No public incidents. No threats. No looking at anybody sideways. They benched me.” The last words dripped with venom. “Til April.”
Benched? I glanced at LaShawn.
“He’s gotta sit out the entire spring training,” she murmured.
Passion burned behind Montana’s eyes. Instantly, I understood. The tenderness with which he taught Darius to catch a ball … that love distilled from passion.
LaShawn shrugged. “I thought … after I pulled out stats, just chatted with them—eye to eye. They’d …”
I glared at a Black man who just stepped out, some ex-NBA star, his suit a touch too tight across the shoulders. Two other executives flanked him like LeBron followers. Did they just mention hot chicken? Oh, the irony. And disrespect. If I were serving them, I’d make it so hot their future bloodlines started fanning themselves. No sides, or cornbread, just salty-ass tea and pain.
Eyes locked on Montana, my voice rose for the trio who’d probably choke on a lemon pepper wing saturated in ranch. “Did you tell them about your dad? You told them your story?”
“Your father?” One of the guy’s brows lifted to his sloppy toupee.
Montana’s glare dropped on me like a brick to the chest. My stomach clenched, and his expression faded to neutral.
“While I ain’t tryna be a statistic,” Montana said, “and there are some damn good fathers where I come from, I ain’t got no daddy.”
He and ex-not-on-LeBron’s-level shared a glance, while the other two Dodger owners licked their lips, their minds on chicken.
Zuri … don’t. This is Montana’s story to tell …
But Montana hadn’t taken their punishment well.
Besides, my mouth had other plans.
“Ezekiel is his father.”
A few more execs slipped out of the room, eyes on us.
“You haven’t seen him in years?” This from Never-skilled-like-LeBron.
Montana roughed a hand over his face. “Ezekiel put hands on my mom. She came to her senses when my brother Washington—”
“Ah, the judge.” This from Navy Blue Suit, voiced with esteem.
Yes! They cared … somewhat.
“Wash did something stupid,” Montana said.
That’s not all! “Washington stabbed him with a knife,” I said.
Montana groaned. “He was five. Thought it was a game. The whole ordeal—taking me to the ER because of a slice in the chest—sobered Momma up real quick. She left him. Dude came and went. Last thing I knew, he got locked up out in Victorville—armed robbery. Did a dime.”
“Ahh. That’s why he didn’t appear when we won the first World Series?” Another nodded and said, “Had just got out in time for this one.”
“Yep,” Montana’s reply was short.
“Have any of you ever seen the effects of spousal abuse on the nuclear family unit?” My voice shifted, clinical. “Every day …” before I quit, “ahem, I’ve seen it in the ER. Bruises inconsistent with stories. Kids carrying trauma in their bones. Women who haven’t wised up after the honeymoon stage in the abuse cycle.”