What I did find out was that there were a few other female franchise owners, but at twenty-nine, I was the youngest owner of an American football team—by twenty-some years. Now that I was almost thirty, I usually relished it any time I was the youngest person in the room, but in this case, it did not bode well in terms of respectability. So the up-do might help with that.
“Okay. What about the game? Are there any terms I should know? Plays?”
“There are. I just don’t know them. But I will Google them. Except I have to take the kid to school in fifteen minutes.”
I groaned. “I have no idea how to do this.”
“Of course you do! You have an MBA! You were made for this! And the good news is you don’t actually have to run the franchise just because you’re the owner. You could either sell the team or hire a management team that you trust and then delegate the responsibilities. It could be like a part-time job. That way you can come back to New York. To keep being my best friend. And managing your clients’ money, of course.”
I wrinkled my nose and twisted my lips to one side. “I mean, obviously I don’t want to leave New York and I definitely want to keep being your best friend…” But Jen and I both knew I wasn’t going to sell my father’s biggest investment and most prized possession right away—not unless I could get a great price for it. We also both knew that it was not in my nature to delegate responsibilities. It was in my nature to want to know and understand and have some semblance of control over every aspect of any business I was involved with. That was how I had been with every investment I’d made with my trust fund money, and that was how I’d been with every investment I made on behalf of my clients at work. So my only real option at that point with the Tomcats was to jump in feet first and pretend to know what I was doing until I actually knew what I was doing.
I needed to look at the numbers and figure out what this team was all about. In a fiscal sense. Not physically. “Wow. I really need to get some sex,” I mumbled. “I mean sleep!”
Jen was snort-laughing at me.
“I meant sleep! I need sleep! Shut up.”
“You said it, not me!”
“We need to focus. Come on. The news hasn’t broken yet about my inheritance, so I have a little time to bone up on this subject. Let’s do this.”
“Yeah. You need to bone up on any one of these subjects. Take your pick.”
I buttoned up my blouse a little more, ignoring that last comment. “I just need to know three good football terms, and I’ll be able to wing it.”
“Okay, okay. I gotchu girl.” She stretched her arms out and flexed her fingers. “Google search activated. Let’s get you boned up.”
We were both silent for a few seconds before bursting out laughing.
I was not doing my father proud.
The first thing I said to myself as I drove my rental car up to my brand-new assigned parking spot at Minuteman Stadium was: “Holy shit.” Because this place was enormous.
The second thing I said to myself, as I got out of the car, straightened myself up, and strode with confidence toward the entrance to the building was: “Shit…” Because even though it was mostly empty now, Minuteman Stadium might as well have been called Planet Men. This place was gigantic and clean and just teeming with testosterone somehow, even though it was early in the morning and I didn’t see anyone else around. It felt like I was wading through an atmosphere that was totally composed of rapidly deployed civilian New England man-molecules.
Or maybe I was just tired.
And maybe it had been too long since I’d been boned up.
But I couldn’t even imagine what this place must’ve been like on a game day. So many people. Soooo much testosterone.
I own this, I thought to myself.
I literally own this stadium.
It was still too much to process.
I realized, as I was entering the building, that I forgot to email the equipment guy to reconfirm that he could give me the tour. My meeting with the GM didn’t start for an hour.
I found myself in an wide, empty, shiny corridor with several double doors on either side. My inner ten-year-old was dying to roller skate all over this corridor, but Grown-Up Me couldn’t decide if I should find the ladies’ room to give myself a mirror pep talk or find someone to talk down to so I could feel better about myself.
I wondered if I should stop watching Home Alone and Wall Street so much.
One of the doors opened, and a very tall man in gray sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt walked out carrying some kind of large football equipment thing over his shoulder. His arm was casually draped over it as if he were giving some little kid a ride, and he moved with such grace it looked as if that thing weighed nothing at all.
I stopped in my tracks, about twenty feet away. He appeared to be so focused on the floor in front of him as he crossed the hall. He had something on his mind. He didn’t even realize I was there. He opened another door with his free hand and carried the equipment inside, letting the door shut behind him.
I figured I’d just stand there and wait for him to come out again.
I figured I’d just stand there and wait until I stopped thinking about the intensity of that guy’s expression and the tattoos on his muscle-y arms and what was going on in those sweatpants.
The door opened, and his alarmingly handsome face peered around as if he was checking to see if I was there.
“Hello. Are you Jonathan?”
His lips were caught somewhere between a smirk and a boyish smile, but it was the sparkle in his eyes that made me trust him. Or did it make me want to run away and breathe into a paper bag? Those blue eyes took a slow and steady journey down and back up the front of me before he answered.
I mean. Normally, I would’ve rolled my eyes and walked away from this, but I guess I was too sleep deprived. Or perhaps my body actually enjoyed the attention. Or maybe this guy was just a lot better at checking women out than every man in New York was.
“Nobody really calls me that,” he finally said, very matter of fact, as he sauntered out into the corridor and placed his hands on his hips. “But sure. And you are?”
“I’m Hannah.”
He took a few strides toward me, and I managed to propel myself in his direction with one hand extended.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Hannah. You can call me Johnny.” His grip was firm and meaningful. His hand was so big, I just wanted him to carry my groceries and throw me over his shoulder and toss me onto his bed—not at the same time though. I wanted him to rearrange my furniture and then break my bed and crack the wall because the headboard kept slamming against it.
Wait, what?
What was happening to me?
He finally released my hand.
We both ran our fingers through our hair as we stared at each other.
It felt like I was having an allergic reaction to his pheromones. Or his testosterone. Or maybe my body was in fact having a very positive reaction to his pheromones and testosterone. It was such a new experience for me that my brain was interpreting it as an attack on my immune system. Or maybe that biological clock thing coincidentally started kicking in right at the exact moment I first laid eyes on him because I really wanted to have this man’s babies. I didn’t want to marry Johnny or even date him—I just wanted to procreate with him.