OOC: The contract offer to Ducky Fitzhugh has been revised to six years and $230 million; it still has yet to be made public.
The Headquarters of the New Llama Cyclones
"Jim, come on," said David Windhorst. "Yes, I know we just signed Quinlan, yes, he cost eighty-five million. But he's good, okay? We're getting more than our money's worth. Unless you wanna tell me you can just find a guy who goes 19-8 with a sub-3 ERA and FIP, with a strikeout per inning, on the open market for twelve million a year?" On the other end of the line, Jim Karlsson, the owner of the New Llama Cyclones, hemmed and hawed. Quinlan was only so cheap because they'd have him for the next seven years, nobody had expected him to do so well, and he hadn't exactly been leading Tenburg to much glory recently. "Jim. Come on. He's arguably our best pitcher and he costs twelve million a year. If you trust me - we need to get Fitzhugh."
Jim claimed he'd already agreed to a five-year offer, and that offer was final. "Listen. A team in Lycrabon just offered him four hundred million dollars. I'm not saying we need to go that high. But we need to at least meet his offer. Six years, $230 million." Protests on the other end. I don't have that money!, Jim was saying. "I'll slash the payroll if we need to make ends meet. But with the money Fitzhugh'll bring in, we won't need to." Jim had already extended Natalie Wu, Hector Rinaldi, Markus Wright, and Carsten Riviera. If Wu, Rinaldi, Wright, Riviera, and Rory Quinlan - all for a guaranteed four years - could bring the Cyclones a title, why pay for more?
But David Windhorst had anticipated this argument. "Jim, this isn't about winning a single title. We've won a single title. Winning a single title is easy. What this is about is winning three, four, five titles. This is about dynasty. You have the chance to go down as the owner of the best Cyclones team of all time."
A pause. "Fine. Six years, two hundred thirty million."
"Great, thanks." David Windhorst began composing the message immediately. He was halfway done when he felt something move behind the table.
"Ha! I got it!" said the unmistakable, nasal voice of none other than infamous reporter* Bryant Kennedy. Windhorst looked down, realized who it was, and before Kennedy could escape, began kicking him with his polished-but tough-dress shoes. "Ow! Stop it!" the reporter* said, before security was called.
They were about to lead Kennedy away when Windhorst remembered that last time he'd shown mercy towards the reporter. "Make sure he doesn't leave HQ. Take everything electronic off of him until Fitzhugh has signed. We do not want this leaking."
