2063.28 – London Gets Peyton. Graham Gets a Threat.

[Graham]

Graham Luna was halfway across the warning track, phone wedged between shoulder and cheek like a man bracing for an anvil to drop.

Rosario’s voice came in fast and crackly, the verbal equivalent of a fire alarm in a library.

“They got Peyton.”

“Who did?”

“London.”

Graham blinked. “London? As in tea, fog, questionable dental hygiene?”

“Yes, that London. It’s done. Peyton’s a Monarch.”

He stopped walking. He realized he was holding a clipboard. He had no memory of acquiring a clipboard. “How?”

“They gave up a few prospects and got Cairo to retain half the salary.”

“Half?”

“And!” Rosario continued, now fully breathless, “they sent Cairo Pedarzolli’s $7.5 million anchor contract. Cairo paid them to get better. I’m going to scream into my furniture.”

Graham stared across the field. The Gold were in the middle of a pregame light workout. Infielders tossing warmups. An outfielder laying flat on the grass, possibly asleep. Someone was using a fungo bat to try and launch a baseball into the third deck.

“And,” Rosario added, “there’s some weird buzz out of London. I don’t know how much of this is true, but supposedly they’ve been taking advice from a mysterious advisor named Molly. Or a market analyst. Or maybe she’s a psychic.”

“A psychic,” Graham repeated.

“Some say she just appeared last month with a binder labeled 'How to Rebuild Without Really Trying.' Others say she drinks herbal tonics and whispers trade strategies to Sir Pouncealot.”

“Who—”

“The front office cat.”

Graham stood still. Processed this. “So we just got outbid by a franchise that makes roster decisions via catnip and tarot?”

Rosario sighed. “Also one of the prospects they gave up is named Aukake. I don’t even know his last name. I refuse to learn it out of protest.”

Graham hung up without saying goodbye, both hands required to push open the clubhouse door and brace for whatever new flavor of front office dread was waiting inside.

He walked the hallway, past the framed photo of the team’s 2061 twelve-game losing streak (captioned “Character Building”), the motivational sign reading “Bunting Is a Personal Failure,” and the mural someone had half-painted last offseason but never finished. It just read “TRUS” in block letters. No one had the heart to ask.

He opened his office door.

And stopped.

The light was on. Nothing unusual.

His bonsai was gone.

In its place: a single sheet of white paper, folded once, sitting perfectly centered on his desk like a threat dressed up as a receipt.

Graham approached slowly. He had once opened a note like this in college and accidentally agreed to perform in a one-act play about the dissolution of the Soviet Union.

He unfolded it.

You can keep ignoring me. That’s your choice. But it’s a dangerous one. Call me, or don’t. But you might not like what happens next. Consider the bonsai a warning. — D.

He read it three times. Sat down. Read it again, slower, like the words might change if he blinked politely.

His laptop chimed. A new email.
SUBJECT: Extension Talks – Ivan Martinez

That sat atop another from Max Dawe’s agent. And Montgomerie’s. And Belinda’s. Vogelsang had simply texted Graham a gif of someone pacing in a suit labeled “AGENT SAYS CALL NOW.”

He rubbed his temples. Graham Luna was many things but he was not a man built for deadline season and botanical extortion.

Another ping. Text from Rosario: “Cairo’s still open for business. Your call.”

Graham exhaled and spun his chair slightly to the left, where the bonsai once lived. The bare corner looked exposed. Vulnerable. A plant-shaped void now filled only undeterminable threats.

That tree had made it through customs. Through a Johannesburg blackout. Through three months of accidental underwatering. It had heart.

So did the Gold.

Even if they were limping through July like a dog trying to shake off a wet sock. Even if Sydney was closing the gap.

He thought about calling Cairo. Thought about asking about shortstop or bullpen help. Or both. But something about that Peyton deal made him nervous. It wasn’t the numbers. It was the weirdness. Like there was an extra piece we weren’t seeing.

And then there was Darryl.

Somewhere out there, still watching. Still threatening bonsai. Still ending notes with single initials like a cartoon villain or a disgraced sous-chef.

Graham got up out of his chair. He had a meeting with Mal in five minutes to discuss social engagement trends and listening to SoundCloud playlists for August walk-up music.

Until then, he would not panic.

He would not deal from desperation.

And he would absolutely not be outmaneuvered by a cat in bloody England.

[Jwalk100]

Not the bonsai!!!!