CHAPTER FOURTHE TICKET-RICHARD
1527 Words
Richard Avery had forgotten about the basketball player.
At least, he thought he had.
The incident had happened yesterday.
A drink.
A white shirt.
A nervous young man apologizing repeatedly.
A spare shirt from his car.
Dry cleaning.
Nothing worth remembering.
Richard had far too much going on to spend time thinking about a stranger.
The meeting yesterday had gone exactly as planned.
The acquisition was moving forward.
The numbers were acceptable.
The lawyers had already started reviewing the paperwork.
Richard had left the building satisfied.
Then the rest of the day had swallowed him whole.
By the time he returned home, it was nearly midnight.
And the next morning hadn’t been any better.
His father had arranged a lunch.
Then a dinner.
Then another meeting afterward.
Richard had barely had time to breathe.
His entire family had been there.
His mother.
His brother Malcolm.
His father.
A few family friends.
People Richard had known his entire life.
People who had opinions about everything.
His father had spent half of lunch trying to convince him to become more involved in politics.
Richard had spent most of lunch trying not to roll his eyes.
By dinner, he was exhausted.
By the time he returned to his office, he wanted nothing more than silence.
Unfortunately, silence was the one thing his schedule wasn’t giving him.
He still had international meetings.
Clients in the Middle East.
Different time zones.
Different working hours.
Different expectations.
Richard glanced at the clock.
9:47 p.m.
He had another call at 11:30.
Then another at 1:00 a.m.
He rubbed his forehead.
“Fantastic.”
His office was quiet.
The city outside his windows was still alive, but Richard had learned how to make Manhattan disappear.
Close the blinds.
Turn off the unnecessary lights.
Put the phone on silent.
Work.
That was what he did.
He opened another document.
Reviewed the numbers.
Made three corrections.
Sent an email.
Opened another file.
He was halfway through a contract when someone knocked.
“Come in.”
His secretary stepped inside.
“Mr. Avery.”
Richard didn’t look up.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Baker has been waiting.”
Richard’s fingers stopped moving.
“Baker?”
“Yes, sir.”
Richard looked up.
“Which Baker?”
His secretary hesitated.
“The basketball player.”
Richard stared at him.
“What basketball player?”
The secretary looked slightly confused.
“The young man from yesterday.”
Richard leaned back.
Then it came back.
The Diet Coke.
The hoodie.
The nervous apologies.
The seafoam-green eyes.
The kid.
“Oh.”
His secretary nodded.
“He’s been here for almost four hours.”
Richard frowned.
“Four hours?”
“He’s been waiting for approximately two.”
Richard checked the clock.
“Why didn’t you send him away?”
“He said he wanted to wait.”
Richard sighed.
He remembered telling the young man he didn’t need to bother with the dry cleaning.
He had assumed that would be the end of it.
Apparently not.
“Where is he?”
“He left.”
Richard glanced toward the door.
“When?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
Richard nodded.
“Good.”
His secretary turned to leave.
Then stopped.
“He left something for you.”
Richard looked up again.
“What?”
“The shirt.”
Richard frowned.
“Bring it.”
The secretary returned a moment later carrying a neatly folded garment bag.
Richard stared at it.
He hadn’t expected that.
He opened it.
His white shirt was inside.
Clean.
Pressed.
Perfectly folded.
Richard ran his fingers briefly over the fabric.
The stain was gone.
Completely.
His secretary watched him.
“He insisted on paying for the cleaning himself.”
Richard nodded.
“I told him he didn’t have to.”
“He said he knew.”
Richard looked at him.
“Anything else?”
The secretary handed him a small envelope.
“And this.”
Richard took it.
There was also a folded note.
He opened that first.
The handwriting was neat.
Slightly rushed.
He read it.
Mr. Avery,
I’m really sorry for spilling the drink on your shirt. I already got it cleaned. I waited for you, but you didn’t come, so I left it with your secretary. I’m sorry again.
—Rowan Baker
Richard read it twice.
Rowan Baker.
So that was his name.
He had known the last name, obviously.
Baker.
But he’d never bothered to ask the young man’s first name.
Richard placed the note on his desk.
Then looked at the envelope.
He opened it.
And froze.
Inside was a ticket.
Richard pulled it out.
He looked at it.
Then looked at it again.
A courtside ticket.
For a basketball game.
In two days.
Richard raised an eyebrow.
“What is this?”
His secretary smiled.
“He left it for you.”
“I can see that.”
The secretary laughed quietly.
Richard examined the ticket.
Courtside.
Not a regular seat.
Not a hospitality suite.
Courtside.
Close enough to the floor that the players would be directly in front of him.
Richard looked at the name printed on the ticket.
Rowan Baker.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
The kid was a basketball player.
Of course.
Richard hadn’t recognized him yesterday.
He hadn’t known who he was.
Now he understood why the young man had looked familiar somehow.
Richard wasn’t a basketball fan.
He knew the major names.
He understood the business side of professional sports.
Sponsorships.
Endorsements.
Broadcast rights.
Franchise valuations.
But he didn’t follow individual players.
His attention was usually elsewhere.
Business.
Investments.
Politics.
Family.
Work.
He turned the ticket over.
Nothing.
Just the game information.
He looked back at the note.
Then the ticket.
“Why would he give me this?”
His secretary shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
Richard looked at the door.
“Did he say anything?”
“He just said you might enjoy the game.”
Richard was silent.
“Did he seem upset?”
“No.”
“Embarrassed?”
“Very.”
Richard almost smiled.
Almost.
He remembered the young man standing in the bathroom.
Apologizing every thirty seconds.
Talking too quickly.
Looking everywhere except directly at him.
He had seemed young.
Very young.
Probably early twenties.
Richard had assumed he was some athlete.
Now he knew.
Twenty-two, perhaps.
Maybe younger.
Richard picked up the ticket again.
Courtside.
That wasn’t cheap.
Especially not for a professional game.
He looked toward his secretary.
“How much?”
“Sir?”
“The ticket.”
“I don’t know.”
Richard sighed.
“Find out.”
His secretary nodded.
Then left.
Richard sat back in his chair.
He should have returned to work.
He had contracts waiting.
An international call in less than two hours.
Three emails marked urgent.
A financial report that needed reviewing.
Yet his attention kept returning to the ticket.
He couldn’t understand why.
Maybe because the kid had gone through all that trouble.
He could have simply apologized.
Richard had already told him it was fine.
Instead, Rowan had waited in his office for hours.
He had found an expensive dry cleaner.
Paid for the shirt.
Returned it.
And then left a courtside ticket.
That was excessive.
But strangely thoughtful.
Richard looked at the note again.
The handwriting was almost annoyingly sincere.
No attempt to impress him.
No mention of Rowan’s career.
No photograph.
No request.
Just an apology.
Richard leaned back.
He found himself remembering those eyes.
Seafoam green.
Unusual.
He had noticed them yesterday.
He hadn’t thought about them since.
At least, that’s what he’d told himself.
His secretary returned.
“The ticket is worth quite a bit.”
“How much?”
He gave Richard the figure.
Richard’s eyebrows lifted.
“That’s unnecessary.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Richard looked at the ticket.
“He didn’t have to do this.”
“No, sir.”
Richard nodded.
His secretary waited.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
The secretary left.
Richard remained alone.
He picked up the ticket again.
He could return it.
That would be the sensible thing.
He could have his secretary send it back.
No complications.
No unnecessary connection.
No reason to meet the young man again.
Simple.
Clean.
Controlled.
Exactly the way Richard preferred things.
He placed the ticket beside his computer.
Then opened the contract again.
He read the first line.
Stopped.
Read it again.
His eyes wandered toward the ticket.
Richard exhaled.
“Damn.”
He picked up his phone.
Opened his calendar.
The game was in two days.
He had a dinner that night.
He could cancel it.
The thought surprised him.
Richard almost never canceled commitments.
Especially not for basketball.
He stared at the ticket.
Then at his calendar.
Then back at the ticket.
Finally, he placed it inside the drawer of his desk.
He wasn’t going.
Probably.
He closed the drawer.
Returned to his computer.
And forced himself to work.
But for the first time in a very long time, Richard Avery had something sitting inside his desk that had absolutely nothing to do with business.
And he couldn’t explain why he hadn’t thrown it away.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD