The Boiled-Chicken Wife Who Bought the Team

"Forty-eight hours," I said aloud, staring at the digital clock glowing on the dashboard of my SUV.

The numbers blinked, a constant reminder of the tight window Sloane had secured for me. I tapped the leather steering wheel once, shifted into drive, and pulled out of the garage. The slate-gray hood of my car pointed away from the hills. I didn't glance in the rearview mirror at the mansion.

Forty-five minutes later, the GPS led me to the industrial edge of the city. I parked outside a rusted chain-link fence. The faded aluminum letters above the entrance read Coastal Reapers Arena. Weeds choked the cracked concrete of the VIP parking lot. The franchise hadn't seen a winning season in a decade.

I grabbed the top cardboard box from my trunk and walked through the unlocked employee entrance. The smell of stale beer and damp concrete hung in the tunnel.

Tobias Reed sat in the lower bleachers, a thick manila folder resting on his knees. The gray-haired head scout wore a windbreaker that had seen better decades. He didn't stand when I approached.

"You're actually here," Tobias said, his raspy voice echoing off the empty plastic seats. "I thought Sloane Whitlock was pulling a prank."

"I don't do pranks, Mr. Reed," I replied, setting the heavy box onto the metal bench beside him. "Do you have the financials?"

Tobias slapped the folder. "It's a horror story. We owe half a million just for turf maintenance. The city is threatening to shut off the stadium lights over unpaid utility bills. The front office hasn't seen a paycheck in four weeks. Why does a high-profile agent want this hot potato?"

"I am no longer an agent," I corrected, keeping my posture straight. "And I prefer buying at rock bottom."

"This isn't rock bottom," Tobias scoffed, opening the folder to reveal columns of red ink. "This is a subterranean grave. The roster is full of washed-up veterans and rookies who can't catch a cold. We don't have a single marketable star. You're buying a sinking ship."

"Good," I said. "Stars are expensive and arrogant. I need hungry players."

I reached into the cardboard box and pulled out a frayed green logbook. I flipped past the pages detailing Marcus's early career metrics and stopped at a section marked with blue tabs. The pages were thick with my handwriting. Fifteen years of margins, footnotes, and medical observations. I handed the open book to Tobias.

He squinted at the handwritten columns. "What is this?"

"A scouting report," I told him. "Every player the major leagues undervalued over the past fifteen years. Guys who missed the combine due to poorly timed injuries. Practice squad players with off-the-charts lateral speed but terrible management. I tracked their recovery curves and their current free-agent status."

Tobias ran a thick finger down the page. His eyes widened slightly. "You tracked Eli Thorne's knee rehab?"

"He's fully healed and working at a hardware store in Ohio," I said. "He'll play for league minimum just to get back on the field."

"And this kid, Mason Caldwell?" Tobias pointed to another line. "He got cut for attitude problems."

"He got cut because his former agent didn't understand how to handle a learning disability," I said, my tone flat. "I have something others don't, Tobias. Phone numbers I've been saving for fifteen years that no one knows about."

Tobias closed the logbook, tracing the worn cover. "You want to rebuild the Reapers with outcasts."

"I want to build a team that will dismantle the current champions," I said. "Are the current owners ready to sell?"

"They'd hand you the keys for a dollar if you take on the debt," Tobias muttered. "But the league requires a ten-million-dollar proof of liquidity to approve a transfer of ownership."

I pulled my cell phone from my coat pocket and dialed Sloane. She answered on the first ring.

"Tell me you're looking at the turf," Sloane said over the speaker.

"I'm looking at the scout," I replied. "Execute the bid through the blind trust. Push the entire twenty-million-dollar divorce settlement into the acquisition fund."

Tobias gripped the edge of the metal bleacher. "Twenty million? Your settlement?"

"Seed money," I corrected, looking directly at the older man.

"Done," Sloane confirmed through the phone. "The holding entity is initiating the wire transfer now. I am sending the preliminary contracts to the Reapers' front office email."

"Make sure my identity stays completely out of all public documents," I instructed. "I am a silent partner. The LLC name goes on the press release, nothing else."

"Understood," Sloane said. "Check your inbox in two minutes."

I ended the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I pulled a silver fountain pen from my purse.

"You're hiding from someone," Tobias observed, watching me uncap the pen.

"I am controlling the timeline," I corrected. "When the time is right, they will know exactly who owns this team. Until then, you are the face of the rebuilding process."

Tobias pulled a tablet from his canvas bag. The screen pinged with an incoming email. He opened the attachment, his eyes scanning the legal jargon. He scrolled to the bottom line, where the proof of funds displayed a verified bank seal.

"You just bought a football team," Tobias whispered.

"I bought an opportunity," I said. "Print that page so I can sign it."

Tobias tapped the screen, sending the document to a portable printer sitting on the bench behind him. The machine whirred to life, spitting out a crisp white sheet.

He handed me the paper. I pressed the document against the hard cover of the logbook and signed my name. The ink dried instantly in the cool stadium air.

I handed the paper back.

Tobias stared at my signature. A slow, hesitant grin broke across his weathered face. He extended his right hand toward me.

"Welcome to the Reapers, Ms. Russo."

I raised my hand to meet his.

A sharp blast of static echoed through the empty arena.

The massive jumbotron suspended over the center of the field suddenly flickered to life. The groundskeeper must have left the feed connected to the national sports network.

The volume blared, echoing off the empty plastic seats.

"Breaking news from the third quarter in Miami," the anchor's voice boomed through the stadium speakers.

I froze, my hand suspended inches from Tobias's fingers.

On the massive LED screen, the live broadcast showed Marcus sprinting down the sideline. It was a play I had watched him run a hundred times.

But this time, I wasn't there to tape his knee.

Marcus planted his left foot to cut inside. His leg buckled inward at a grotesque angle.

He collapsed onto the turf, clutching his hamstring, his face twisting in agony. The ball tumbled out of bounds.

The camera panned to the VIP sideline access area.

Kelly stood ten feet away from my writhing husband. She didn't look at him, her back turned to the field as she pressed a cell phone tightly to her ear, frantically yelling at whoever was on the other end.