He wasn’t sulking, he was “evaluating from a distance.” Which is GM-speak for sulking.
Cesar Torres fired a slider that moved like it just saw its ex at the grocery store and locked down the Gold’s 79th win of the year. Franchise record. Most wins in club history. A clean 5–2 dub in Buenos Aires to snap a three-game skid.
Graham stared at the television, deadpan.
The ticker below the broadcast flashed: JOHANNESBURG 79–65. NEW FRANCHISE HIGH.
He sighed and reached for his notebook, where he wrote, simply:
“Not enough”
There was a knock at the door. Then it opened without permission, as it always did.
Rosario entered first, carrying a box. Mal followed with the finesse of a magician’s assistant. Inside: a small, white cake. On top sat two wax digits, a "7" and a "9", already lit and dancing, like they were taunting him.
“Surprise!” Rosario announced, in a tone that implied this had been Mal’s idea.
“Do not say the word historic,” Graham warned, not turning from his screen.
Mal blinked. “He didn’t. He said surprise.”
“Close enough.”
Rosario set the cake down on the edge of the desk, right on top of a folder labeled ‘Offseason Arbitration Nightmares.’
“I thought we agreed, no celebrating until we clinch,” Graham said flatly.
“You said no cake until we had a winning record,” Rosario replied.
“I did not.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied you should buy fewer novelty bobbleheads and maybe use our travel budget on—”
“Boss,” Mal interrupted, “the candles are lit. That’s a big moment.”
Graham stared at them.
Then, at the cake.
Then back to them.
“I’m not acknowledging any mark until we clinch the playoffs.”
“That’s dark,” Rosario said.
“That’s focused.”
“It’s vanilla buttercream. And rainbow sprinkles, you know that’s your weakness,” Rosario added.
Mal leaned in. “I can blow the candles out if it helps.”
“Don’t you dare,” Graham muttered.
After a moment, Rosario cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So…Anaya.”
Graham perked up, slightly.
“Kid looked good tonight,” Rosario continued. “Two hits. RBI single on a pitch that was two inches off the ground.”
“I told you he was ready,” Luna replied with steely confidence.
“He stole a base too. Haven’t seen a third baseman move like that since we accidentally invited that Icelandic speed skater to spring training.”
Graham almost smiled. “He’s raw. But I like him.”
“I hope so,” Rosario said, “since you called him up at 6:15 this morning and told him, ‘Pack a bag, you’re playing in Buenos Aires.’”
“I said please.”
“No, you said, ‘Congratulations, you’re our solution to third base now. Also, try the empanadas.’”
Mal was snapping a photo now: Graham, arms folded, hovering near the glowing cake with the dead-eyed caution of a man who didn’t trust frosting. She was probably captioning it “Mr. 79!
#HaveYourCakeAndEatItToo”The tablet on Graham's desk dinged again; another media request. He tapped the screen and beat reporter Jakob Van Wyk’s smirking face filled the corner, attached to that morning's column with a headline that read:
“All That Glitters Is Not Gold”
He hadn't read it yet. He didn’t need to. He could recite Jakob’s style by now: poetic cynicism wrapped around a stat sheet and two anonymous sources from the clubhouse who were probably just Mal doing voices.
“Let me guess,” Graham muttered, “he thinks we’re melting down.”
Rosario looked sheepish. “He compared our playoff hopes to a minibus taxi with no brakes.”
“That’s generous,” Graham replied. “Minibuses get places.”
Mal leaned over. “He also said you extended Sanchez too early and that the bullpen has the energy of a gas leak.”
“I stand by the Sanchez extension,” Graham said. “The bullpen part…well, he’s not wrong.”
There was a long pause. The candles still flickered.
Mal tilted her phone screen toward Graham. “This is going to be the photo.”
He glanced at it. He was scowling at the cake like it owed him money, flames glowing in the reflection of his glasses. He looked exactly how he felt: victorious, annoyed, and too tired to tell the difference.
“Send it to me,” Graham said. “I’ll frame it when we clinch. If we clinch.”
Rosario grinned. “So you do want cake?”
Graham stood, straightened his dress shirt, and pointed his finger like a prosecutor.
“I want a playoff spot.”
“Fair,” Rosario confidently nodding.
“And I want Sydney to lose four of their next six.”
“Reasonable.”
“And I want a middle reliever who can get three outs without testing the strike zone’s elasticity.”
“We’re dreaming now.”
Graham stepped around the desk. “Put the cake in the fridge.”
“Like, save it?” Mal asked.
“Like hide it. If I see it before there's a ‘z’ next to our name in the standings, I’ll throw it out the window and blame dietary reform.”
He opened the door and turned back. “Eighteen games left. No more surprises. No more cute headlines.”
“You know Jakob’s already got one cued up if we blow this,” Rosario said.
Graham didn’t blink. “I’ve got one too.”
Then he disappeared down the hall, already pulling up scouting reports for the big Sydney series in two days, already thinking about bullpen usage, already tuning out the flicker of celebration still glowing in his office.
