“You don’t have to do this,” Marty said for the third time, standing beside the gleaming jet the organization kept for road trips. “Owners fly. It’s tradition.”
“Hank built this team from a bus, didn’t he?”
“In 1962.”
“Last I checked, it’s still the twenty-first century. Buses still work.”
“But—”
“No but,” Sienna said, and walked past the jet toward the team bus idling at the far end of the tarmac.
Coach Bud watched her climb the steps with the resigned expression of a man who knew he’d already lost the argument.
“Seat’s open in the back,” he said. “Near the card game. Fair warning — they don’t go easy on rookies, and they’re not going to go easy on owners either.”
“Good,” she said. “I’d hate to be condescended to.”
The back of the bus was running a card game.
Sienna didn’t fully
