Page 155 of The Fall Classic

Kayla looks up from her phone. “Of course, Georgie.”

Jane takes the drink carrier, and I point them to the only open booth—my booth, which I put a “Reserved” sign on before I hopped up to fill in for Abby.

I tell one of the baristas that I can’t fill in any longer, and she nods. The shop is slammed, and all I can do is hope Abby will come back soon.

But I can’t keep putting off my future while others live theirs, so I join Kayla and Jane.

“Thanks for coming,” I say to Jane. “And thanks for joining us, Kayla,” I add. “Sorry, Mrs. Carville-O’Shannan?”

“Kayla is so much easier to say,” the woman says with a smile. “Now, what do you have for us?”

I take a deep breath, trying to shift my worry over Coop to the side so I can focus on the excitement I’m going to need to carry me through a pitch to a woman who made the Forbes Thirty Under Thirty list after rebranding a cult underwear line, leading to it having the most successful IPO in undergarment history, to say nothing of her rebrand of the famous Sugar Maple Farms.

Oh, and her billionaire cousin-in-law.

Everything’s fine. If I sweat through my blouse, at least I remembered to wear white. I hand them both packets I printed out, and I pull the presentation up on my laptop so I have something to follow along. After only a few slides, Kayla’s already nodding.

“This is all well and good, but next time, jump straight to the money,” Kayla says. “You’re proposing to make me more money. That’s the kind of thing that makes an owner excited.”

I breathe a laugh. “Yes. I’m proposing that I make us both more money.”

Kayla smiles. “I did some research after we last talked. Coffee carts have an incredible markup. We’re leaving money on the table by not having one in the stadium.”

“That’s right, and looking at average concession spend per attendee across the league, I think we’re looking at real margins, even conservatively,” I say, trying not to let my imposter syndrome swallow me whole.

“I like it,” Kayla says, looking at Jane. “I’m sure Ash will have thoughts about the color scheme and logo, right?” Jane nods. “Good.” Kayla looks at me. “I like it.”

“I do, too, but I think we’re thinking too small,” Jane says, her deep blue eyes narrowed in thought. “A coffee cart at the Triple-A level working around seventy-five home games a year—that’s real money, but it’s not the number that should excite you.” The corner of her mouth curves up. “Somewhere between thirty and forty percent of Major League stadiums don’t have dedicated coffee offerings, including the Firebirds. You can get a crappy drip cup with your hot dog, but for real coffee enthusiasts, there’s nothing. And MLB fans already average around sixty dollars a game on concessions, so they won’t mind ponying up real money for a quality espresso.”

“You think I should pitch this to the Firebirds?” I ask, my voice wobbling.

“I do. Make it a club-level offering. An espresso machine takes a minute, doesn’t it? Those kinds of lines are tolerated more at the club level than the general level.”

“I don’t want to leave anyone out,” I say, my thoughts racing through possibilities. “I could invest in a rapid-pour draft system and focus on pre-batched cold brews. Maybe a couple of specialty drinks,” I say. “And I could have regional favorites. Barrel-aged cold brews and matchas in Chicago. Ooh, and iced Irish creams. Nonalcoholic for the kids. I could dye them green⁠—”

Kayla and Jane are staring at me.

“You’re a dreamer,” Kayla says. Normally, I flush when someone tells me this, but she makes it sound like a compliment. She and Jane are both nodding. “There’s nothing I like more than a dreamer with a business plan. I’m sold.”

I could cry. I don’t, but I could.

“Who do we need to talk to with the Firebirds?” Jane asks.

Kayla looks at me inquiringly. “Do you want to meet with the VP of Partnerships for the Firebirds? I can’t make any guarantees, but I’m happy to put up the seed money in exchange for ten percent. Meant to Bean feels like a baseball coffee shop, doesn’t it?”

“I thought it felt more literary,” Jane says, “but I don’t see why it can’t be both.”

I’ve been holding back a smile, but now it breaks over my face.

Then someone in the nearby table curses, and a handful of people hiss.

We all look over to the TV to see Lucas hunched over as the announcer says something about him getting hit by a ball.

I make eye contact with Kayla.

“You know,” she says, “if you wanted to be in Chicago tonight⁠—”

“Georgie?”