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advantage of their expertise. She’d be an idiot to ignore that powerhouse of information now.
    But when no one had anything to add, she pressed on. “Looking at Gregory’s report, I only see one real option. We need to get Tyler Brock from Texas.”
    Jimmy sat up straight, his entire wiry body vibrating as if she’d shot an electric arc through his chair. The scouts started talking to each other, immediately flipping to the relevant pages of Gregory’s report, tossing out numbers like Wall Street traders in the pit. Gregory himself sat back, nodding minutely as he steepled his fingers in front of his chapped lips.
    Boyd Larson’s baritone cut through the chaos. “That’s impossible,” he said. “The team can never afford a contract like Brock’s.” Emphasizing his point, he slammed his pencil down on the table. As the tip flew off, the flunky was already slipping another bright yellow Ticonderoga under his boss’s palm.
    “Nothing’s ever impossible,” Anna said, forcing herself to smile. But even as she said the words, she had her doubts.
    The injured Cody Tucker’s salary was guaranteed; the Rockets owed him over a hundred million dollars, even if he never set foot in the batter’s box again. Anna knew Gramps had been leery of the massive contract when he’d signed it; only his complete faith in Gregory Small had made him agree to bite the bullet.  
    But Cody wasn’t the Rockets’ only high-ticket player. Left-fielder Adam Sartain was the face of the franchise; they’d secured his bat with a mammoth contract five years back. The team still owed him for another year.  
    And Zach Ormond still had two years left—on a deal that had rocked the baseball world when he’d negotiated it eight years earlier. A ten-year contract, for a catcher who would obviously be past his prime by the end of the deal. A ten-year contract, still worth tens of millions of dollars each and every year.  
    Tens of millions of dollars that could buy the desperately needed Tyler Brock from Texas.
    Jimmy Conway lost no time getting to the point. “We’ll have to trade Sartain. Tucker may be out forever, and no one’ll touch Ormond, at this point in his career.”
    Anna couldn’t help but feel a wash of relief. Coach was certain Zach would not be traded. One of the scouts chimed in, though. “Texas doesn’t need Sartain. They’re juggling three Gold Glove outfielders right now.”
    The other scout nodded. “They’ve still got Hernandez down in the minors. Lee, too. They’d be idiots to pay top-dollar for Sartain, just to sit him down half the time.”
    Anna’s loyalty to the team forced her to add: “We’ve built three years of ad campaigns around Adam Sartain. We can’t let the man go now. Not when we’ve told every season-ticket holder in town that he’s the face of the Raleigh Rockets.”
    The words made perfect sense. They were exactly what Gramps would say—minus a few half-swallowed curse words—if the old man were sitting at the table. Texas couldn’t use Sartain and Raleigh didn’t want to give him up.
    But that left Zach on the block.
    Anna’s stomach twisted around itself. Reflexively, she picked up the bright red can of soda that sat beside Gregory’s report. The drink burned like battery acid as she gulped down a swallow. There was a solution here, one that didn’t require her to send Zach halfway across the country. There had to be.  
    She turned to Small. “Have you talked to Texas?”
    Gregory nodded. “I had them on the phone this morning.”
    When had he done that? Some time between shaving his head and ironing his shirt? Texas was an hour behind—had he gotten someone out of bed to talk about this deal? Who had authorized him to do that?
    But that was Gregory Small’s job. His job, which he did so perfectly no one in the Rockets’ organization could imagine functioning without him. Gregory Small was the architect of the team’s success. Without him, Anna might as well be presiding