His open laptop was flanked by a half-drunk bottle of sparkling rooibos and the skeletal remains of a cheese-less flatbread. He had just finished reading the latest column of The Gold Standard by Jakob Van Wyk.
“Through seven games, the Gold are 2–5. The defense is porous. The pitching is volatile. The offense is equal parts boom and banality. But the stadium is full, the lights are on, and they’ve still got 155 chances to rewrite the story.”
Graham leaned back against the starched pillows, rubbed his face, and thought to himself, Well, at least he didn’t call me a fraud. Or a war criminal. So that’s a win.
Jakob’s tone was fair—reasonable, even—but that “allergic to leather” line stuck to his ribs like regret stew. It brought back memories of his sophomore year debate final, when he accidentally quoted lyrics from an old Taylor Swift song thinking it was a Margaret Atwood quote. That silence after he finished? This felt like that.
He reached toward the minibar, attempting to fished out the tin of overpriced peanuts when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.
A red light blinked on the hotel landline.
Graham stared at it like it might explode. Who used these anymore? Lobby prank? Housekeeping? Or had Rosario accidentally called it from down the hall again, thinking it was the room service line? (That had happened during the Winter Meetings. Twice.)
But curiosity, that eternal killer of cats and GMs, got the better of him. He picked up the handset, pressed the voicemail button, and waited.
BEEP
“Hey, Graham. It’s Graham these days, right?”
The voice was molasses and gravel. Deep, amused, and unmistakably Southern.
“It’s Darryl, not sure if you remember me. Been a minute. I’ve been trying to reach you, pal.”
Graham’s heartbeat ticked up.
“I bet your probably wondering how I got this number. Let’s just say… I know a guy who knows a guy whose daughter once dated one of Victor Guerra’s bodyguards. Small world. You know how it is.”
There was the distinct clink of ice in glass.
“Listen, we should talk. Real talk. Face to face. You know, like people did back when TikTok was just a dance app and not a sovereign nation with a permanent UN seat. You have my number, I’ll be expecting a call.”
BEEP
And just like that, the line was dead.
Graham sat in stunned silence, one hand still hovering near the receiver like he expected it to say more.
Before he could spiral further, his real phone buzzed.
Graham keyed in his response: "No and I’m pretty sure “roaming goblin” violates the spirit of baseball, even in the GBC. It might even violate the Geneva Convention."
Graham set the phone down beside him and exhaled.
Van Wyk was right. They had 155 games left. Still time to right the ship. Still time to prove that this team, and this front office, wasn’t a massive mistake.
Graham laid back on the hotel bed, staring at the cracks in the plaster ceiling, wondering how long it would be until the next call came and whether it would be from the owner, Jakob, or worse, Darryl.