Sixty-Seven

I HAD ONE MORE good cry about my brother Thomas.

In that time, I gave up waiting to hear from Bobby Erlich. I took a quick shower, repaired my face as best I could, got into the same dress I’d worn the day I’d been introduced as the managing owner of the Wolves.

At THEBlvd Privé, an extension of the Wilshire’s garden restaurant, there were two bar setups and white-jacketed waiters serving appetizers. By the time I got to the reception, it seemed like most of the other owners were already in attendance.

“It’s just a meet and greet,” Bobby Erlich had said. “Just make nice with the other boys and girls, and please don’t punch anybody.”

I told him I would be on my best behavior, and he said, “Low bar.”

I got myself a white wine and sat down at a table alone, seeing heads turn in my direction as I did. I pretended to wave at someone. Then I smiled and waved in the other direction, also at nobody. I saw Joel Abrams, the commissioner, in deep conversation with a man I knew was Lew Wyatt, the owner of the Rams. Cissy Meriweather, who had inherited the Seahawks after her husband died, was with them.

I saw Kevin Penders, the league’s only Black owner, having bought the Arizona Cardinals two years ago. I even managed a totally fake smile as I gave another wave to A. J. Frost, the owner of the Patriots, when I saw him staring at me. Frost, I knew, was pushing eighty. But he looked pretty good for his age—white hair worn long, somehow carrying off a skinny dark suit and black sneakers. A.J. was the chairman of the ownership committee and had been the one who’d led the charge against me after the pictures of my naked butt ended up in the Tribune. Bobby Erlich said I’d be fine with him as long as I didn’t make any sudden moves.

I got up and walked straight across the courtyard while he was still standing by himself and stuck out my hand. He shook it reluctantly, as if afraid one of the photographers wandering around might turn us into a photo op.

“Jenny Wolf,” I said.

“I feel as if I know all about you, even if we’ve never met,” he said before quickly adding, “Sorry about your brother.”

“So am I.”

He had a martini in his left hand, I noticed. My father had once told me that if you wanted to get any business done with A. J. Frost it was best to get it done early in the day, before he got into the gin.

“I’m not going to stand here and lie to you, young lady. You’re not going to have a very good week.”

“I’ve had worse,” I said. “But thanks for calling me young, Mr. Frost.”

“It’s not too late for you to call this off. Just withdraw your formal application and hand the team back to your brother and we can all move on.”

“I keep telling people,” I said. “I actually said this to Oprah Winfrey tonight. Joe Wolf didn’t raise me to be a quitter.”

“I’m asking you to stop because it will be for the good of the league.”

“And you know something?” I said, smiling at him. “I honestly believe that you believe that.”

Then I said, “You ought to check out the interview. It’s not half bad.”

“I’ll be out to dinner.”

“Same.”

We moved away from each other, like boxers retreating to neutral corners. I said hello to Sam Zorn of the Dolphins, who’d been one of my father’s best friends among the owners. I said hello to Karen Hooper, who owned the biggest real estate company in Los Angeles and had used part of her personal fortune to buy the Denver Broncos.

“If you ask me, we could use another girl in the old boys’ club,” she said.

“I keep thinking of a line my father liked to use. I feel like the whole world’s a tuxedo and I’m a pair of brown shoes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“But you volunteered. I was drafted.”

“I just thought it was about time a woman used her own damn money to get one of these teams,” Karen Hooper said.

I smiled. “Your truth is a little different from mine.”

“But you’ve managed to piss them off, and in a very short time, more than I have in five years,” she said. “I think you broke several league records in the process.”

Then she squeezed my hand and said, “Oprah. Damn, girl.”

I was about to leave on that note. I had texted Bobby Erlich to see if he might still be coming but hadn’t heard back. I didn’t take it personally. I knew enough about him by now to know that being this close to TV and movie people was like porn for him.

I was heading for the exit, and the elevators, when a tall, good-looking guy, one who appeared to be about half the median age in the room, wearing a sharp-looking blazer and an open-necked shirt and jeans and with a lot of wavy hair piled on top of his head, stepped out in front of me.

“I’m Clay Rosen. May I have your autograph?”

I laughed as we shook hands.

“I know who you are.”

He was the owner of the Los Angeles Chargers, is who he was. He’d inherited them from his father, Jerry Rosen, who’d owned most of the oceanfront property from San Diego down to Mexico. Clay Rosen reminded me of an actor, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember which one. It was happening to me more and more.

“You want to get a drink?” he said.

“More than you could possibly know.”

“You ever been to the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

I told him that sadly, I had to admit that I had not.

“The valet already has my car waiting.”

“I was supposed to meet somebody but got stood up.”

“A date?” Clay Rosen said.

“My crisis manager.”

He laughed loudly enough to turn heads. “I have mine on speed dial.” Then he said, “Come on, let’s blow this place. What else are you going to do, watch yourself on Oprah and drink alone?”

I told him that would pass for a big night with me.

“Before I give you my final answer,” I added, “answer this, Mr. Clay Rosen. Are you going to vote for me?”

“I’d vote for you twice if I could. It would give me more backup with the crypt keepers, so I wouldn’t have to keep feeling as if it’s me against the world.”

His car, a Tesla, was right where he said it was.

When he was pulling out of the drive between the two wings of the hotel, I said to Clay Rosen, “This may sound crazy, but I’m starting to think that maybe I might have a chance of getting approved after all.”

“You don’t.”