Ricky McCoy pulled at the edges of his blazer with a reflexive urgency, checking his leatherbound watch as the B Terminal at Asheville ushered in the wet cold of Carolina in wintertime.

More out of habit than interest, Ricky looked to the faded screen of his phone—long overdue for a replacement—and raised a brow at the singular notification:

Ricky studied the phone, scrutinizing the message like an archaeologist might gaze at the ancient rivulets of clay cuneiform.   With little decorum, an unshaved passenger behind Ricky cleared his jiggling throat—so close that he felt the pajama-clad man’s breath on his neck.  Uttering some inaudible apology, Ricky half-turned—revealing the middle-aged source of the impatient inflection—a balding Floridian clad in bulging Featherheads pajama bottoms.  Always the Featherheads. Ricky squeezed the handle of his small, fading carry-on suitcase and trudged on over the narrow carpet before so much as a “Steve Hott will rise again” could escape from the man’s large lips.  Ricky had other things on his mind.

Yes, I just landed.

Yes, just arrived.

Yep! 

Yes, I am 🙂 

“Mr. McCoy?”

Tania Polinski, Richard’s exhausting personal assistant, broke his concentration on the glow of his cell phone screen.  Ricky looked up, annoyed, at the twenty-two-year-old Columbia grad.

“Talking points!” Tania announced in an annoyingly enthusiastic manner, producing a banded stack of notecards from her microsuede satchel bag. Ricky took them, an uneven glance to his assistant, and casually released them into the trash bin at his side, returning to his phone.  Tania titled her head, mouth slightly open—but knew better than to question Ricky twice in moments like these.  With a soft sigh, she flanked her boss, opening the guarded lid of the can amidst unusual glances and fishing the cards out.

“I heard Bob Mayberry’s wheeling around somewhere in the airport,” Tania mentioned airily, waving an array of spaghetti noodles out of a notecard reading “SELL THE FUTURE” in permanent marker.  “May be worth discussing the Munoz idea we rehearsed last week—”

“Mayfield doesn’t give a shit about Munoz,” Ricky answered absently, eyes still on his phone.

Tania shrugged. “Still, better to be prepared!  “The Readiness is All, as a Shakespeare would say!”

“What does Shakespeare say about shutting the hell up?”

“Be silent,” Tania replied dramatically, one hand to her heart and the other outstretched, “or say something better than silence.”  she smiled and offered the marinara-soaked note cards back to the General Manager.

“Never was a Shakespeare man.” Ricky lied, snatching the cards from his assistant and flipping through them.

“I always pictured you as more of a Hemingway type. Depressed, drunk, fighting bears.”

Unable to resist a small chuckle, McCoy shook his head and looked through the cards, rubbing his temple and looking back to his phone.  Tania raised a brow and crossed her arms.

“If I didn’t know any better, sir, I’d say you were waiting on a hot date.”

“Something like that.”

Tania whistled, placing her hands behind her back with a wry grin.  “Romance at the Winter Meetings!  Mixing work and play, I see.  Hemingway indeed.”

“Tania?”

“Yes, Mr. McCoy?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, Mr. McCoy.”

Later, in the personal car that hailed Ricky from Arrivals, Tania rattled off the WAR of various “unofficial” trade blocks from the PEBA underground.  It was a fascinating nexus—teeming with inside information, rumors, and luck.

“Again,” Tania said firmly, the glow of her iPad glaring from her black-rimmed glasses, “Sell the future.  Protect the rebuild.  Aim for some midmarket relievers—reach for third base.  But above all, no risks.”

“That’s the plan,” Ricky said with a nod.

“The 2035 Warriors will be the fiercest team in PEBA history!” Tania  declared with a clenched fist, helping herself to the uncorked bottle of Nicolas Feuillatte.  She offered a glass to Ricky, who declined with a wave.  Tania shrugged and downed it herself.

2035. Geological time.  Entropy has a will of its own. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.  Ricky shrunk in the seat opposite Tania, checking his phone and then tossing to the seat with rising aggravation.

“If you ever need relationship advice,” Tania offered from her glass, “I am, in fact, a woman.”  Ricky squinted and waved his hand in a “so-so” manner, which she ignored.

“I’m happy for you,” she said with a small toast.  “To the stone-chiseled Colonel McCoy, showing the doubting populace that he is, indeed, human.”

“Pushing it, Tania.”

“Must be the champagne.”

When the car finally arrived at the oasis-themed turnabout of the luxury hotel, a large marquee flashing “WELCOME PEBA GMs!” darted beneath reporters and similar personal cars—and one luxury limousine with a felt-tophat-clad Drew Streets waving from the sun roof.

“I need to get one of those hologram machines Caleca uses,” McCoy said wearily, watching from his window.

“It would never do in Duluth,” Tania chided.  “We lake-folk are a tactile people.”

“You’re from Hoboken,” Ricky replied sardonically.

“I’ve inhaled enough Lake Superior exhaust to be a Pontiac.”

An hour and a half, no response.  Ricky drummed his fingers on his knee and worked his tongue against his teeth.

“What’s the latest on Fuller?”

“Wants more cash, again.  Like I told you this morning, sir.”

“Medina?”

“Same.”

“Douglas?”

“Ditto.”

“Jesus,” Ricky nearly shouted, annoyed, slamming his fist into the window.  “Who do these guys think they are, Angel Hernandez?”

“Forget about Gordon Fuller,” Tania replied with a grin.  “Who’s the girl?”

“None of your business.”

“In strictly professional terms, I’d say you’re incorrect.”  Tania leaned forward.  “New fling?  High school sweetheart?  Old Army crush?”

“Looking to reconnect,” Ricky answered, quietly, tapping at his cellphone screen.

“People love a good comeback story.”

“Sure.”

Three messages, no answer.  Why did Ricky feel like a Sophomore?  He shook his head.  didn’t have texting when you were a Sophomore, Ricky. Thank God.  Probably would have never found a girlfriend.  Still, as outdated as he felt, he knew 3 to 1 was a deadly ratio in the text messaging world.  His ears felt hot, and he loosened his tie.  The car stopped, and his door to the car opened.

“Hey Ricky,” Jason York, the Assistant GM of Duluth nodded with a brimming smile, his oversized cigar-fingers offering a patronizing clap on the shoulder.  He had a brunette girl on one arm—probably 18 or 19—and she gave a flashy smile to Ricky.  He ignored her and nodded at York.  Ricky frowned instinctively at his Assistant GM.

“Tania, how are ya, darlin?”

“Progressive,” Tania answered coldly with her arms crossed around her ipad.  York furrowed his large eyebrows.

“All set?”  Ricky cleared his throat.

“Live a little, Ricky.”  York said with a large grin—his mustache fully regrown.  He waved at the luxurious hotel tower before them.  “Lots of time for the meetings—and we’ll be lucky to lick the grease off Shin Seiki’s plate this year.  Hell, if I wasn’t already drunk I might feel damn afraid to walk in those doors!”  He laughed, shaking his head and departing with the beaming girl.  Tania screwed up her face and Ricky shrugged.

“Did you know a vending machine kills two or three people a year?”  His assistant noted informally.

Ricky turned, raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I’ve had the interns slowly move all of them in Warrior Hall closer to York’s office.”  Tania observed her fingernails.  A girl can dream.”

Ricky smiled, faintly. Tania was alright.

A reporter descended on the pair, followed by a hefty cameraman and a few producers.  Without even introducing herself, the young, pantsuited woman shoved a foamed microphone up to Ricky’s face.

“Mr. McCoy, is it true the Warriors are expecting another collapse in revenue this season?”

Ricky cleared his throat, painting a faint smile on his face.  “Well, that’s a bit—”

“You’re famously tight-lipped with your responses to the press, Ricky.  Let’s here a real, genuine answer from you.”  The reporter glowered up at Ricky, who stared down, dumbfounded, at the bold little journalist.  He paused, and Tania waved a stained notecard from behind the camera:  SELL THE FUTURE! 

“We…” Ricky looked to the notecard and tilted his head, before snapping out of it and looking back to  the woman with a soft smile “We expect favorable trades and sensible advances to the team this year.  No more questions, thanks.”

The reporter sighed, rolling her eyes and dropping the mike to her side.  She glowered at the cameraman and ordered the cut—clearly nothing worth editing.

“Proud of you, Mr. McCoy,” Tania said quietly, speed-walking to catch up with him as the two passed through the casino doors.

“Be silent,” Ricky replied, “or say something better than silence.”

“There’s something better than silence,” Tania said flatly, dropping her spectacles down a bit.  There, across the roulette table, stood Don “Jasper” Mercer, dice in-hand, a large and adoring crowd following his every move.

“I cannot believe you let him go,” Tania said dreamily, shaking her head.

His face growing hotter, Ricky took a water glass from a passing waitress and downed it, looking around.  Jason York was chatting up a couple PEBA executives in a far corner, who had just burst into a raucous round of laughter.  The chandeliers above the casino seems garishly bright—like a toaster oven.  All sound and fury.  Ricky rubbed at his neck—reaching desperately as he felt—at long last—his phone vibrate.  Greedily, he threw it from his pocket and unlocked the screen:

Not ready.  Ricky checked his watch.  They weren’t supposed to meet up for at least another two hours.  He tilted his head, searching for a reply, when his phone buzzed again:

The loud music and ringing keno machines seemed to dim around a point in space somewhere above Ricky’s head for a moment.  His cheeks flashed, and he slowly let the phone fall into his pocket.  Suddenly—the entire room whirled back into motion—like a lagging film reel catching up with the present. Not ready.  Never ready.  Adverb. Adjective.  Silence.  It became clear, like the stilling of water after the scattering of stones–his daughter did not want him in her life.

“Tania,” Ricky said, watching Ken Hannahs and Reg LeBlanc chatting it up over cocktails in the corner.  He took off his jacket, “Tell Jason York he has the night off.”

“Wait,” Tania said warily, “Ricky, you always do something stupid when you take your blazer off in public.  Remember Yuma?  Let’s talk about it.”

“Get lost, Tania.”  Ricky said, a little too loud.  “Go ask Don Mercer for an autograph.”  he looked one more time at his phone, then shut it off, throwing his jacket at his assistant.  Tomorrow creeps in this petty pace, from day to day.

With that, Ricky McCoy was off to sell the future.