[7th April 2000 – 10:00 AM,]
With the Keyshawn trade locked in, the Tigers' war room had momentum and leverage. Securing two first-round picks meant they could start considering their options. Nathan spent the next morning fielding offers from clubs that wanted their picks, or the Tigers' roster was open for market. Some offers were utterly ridiculous, forcing him to shut the door entirely on some, which ended in cursing matches.
"Baltimore wants thirteen and our second-rounder for Peter Boulware," Harris said, scowling.
Nathan shook his head. "Tell them, well, give them it plus our 13th pick if they throw in Ray Lewis."
"Boss David Modell cursed me out, telling me to shove it." One of the staff who had returned the counteroffer to Baltimore exclaimed from across the room, causing Nathan to chuckle in response. "Maybe they won't waste our time next time."
"Green Bay's calling — they want twenty-seven for a guard and a third," Dimitroff added. "Tell them I'll pass, it's not sweet enough."
By noon, Seattle's GM, Bob Whitsitt, called in. "Nate, we're eyeing a move up," Bob said. "We want to grab Alexander before Pittsburgh does. We'll give you twenty-two and our second-rounder, pick fifty-six, to move up from eighteen."
Nathan didn't hesitate long. "Done." He looked at his scouts. "Let's chase a corner or linebacker with those picks, compile a short list."
~~~
[8th April 2000 – 14:45 PM,]
Nathan's last call of the week came from Baltimore again — but this time, it was Ozzie himself. He was no longer using David as a shield and was making the call himself. There had been rumours around the league that he was the actual brains behind the Ravens' restructuring, but it was never confirmed.
The management seemingly didn't want to be the first to break that barrier. If his grandson had known that, he wouldn't have gone on a wild goose chase trying to hire the man. He didn't mind, though, because it forced his grandson to be more hands-on in what they were building.
Nathan leaned back in his chair, the phone pressed to his ear as he heard Ozzie's familiar baritone rumble through the line. "Nathan," Ozzie began, with that easy Southern lilt, "you've been busy. The whole league's talking about that Keyshawn trade. Two firsts? You fleeced 'em."
Nathan chuckled quietly, scribbling a note in his pad. "I didn't fleece anyone. I simply made them an offer tempting enough they couldn't refuse"
"Same difference, Al Capone," Ozzie replied with a low laugh. "Anyway, I figured I'd call you directly instead of sending my GM to make more enemies on your end."
"Appreciated," Nathan said evenly. "What can I do for you, Ozzie?"
"I heard through the grapevine you're still light at free safety," Ozzie said, getting right to the point. "You want a veteran, someone who can anchor your young secondary while you draft to fill it?"
Nathan's brow lifted. "You're dangling someone, aren't you?"
"Rod Woodson," Ozzie said simply.
The figure of Woodson, the now 34-year-old free safety, instincts still sharp under the forging of the Ravens' defence-focused system. "What's the cost?"
"Pick 136," Ozzie replied.
Nathan blinked. "That's it?"
Ozzie gave a short laugh. "He's a future Hall of Famer, Nate, but you and I both know he's not going to fit our youth timeline. We're retooling. You get a field general for pennies, and I clear some space. Everybody wins."
Nathan leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Alright, you've got a deal. But you'd better not be sending me damaged goods."
"Rod's still got gas in the tank. I'll have the papers drawn up by tonight," Ozzie said. "See you on draft Day, I'd be careful if I were you."
"Happy doing Business with you," Nathan stated, ending the call as he signalled for one of his staff to push the trade through. "Let's end predraft trades here, now let's focus on the draft."
~~~
[16:00 AM, 7th April 2000, Scarsdale, New York – 10:00 AM,]
About twenty-five miles north of Manhattan, nestled in Westchester County, just beyond the urban sprawl of New York City, the village of Scarsdale had transformed over decades from farmland into one of the most affluent communities in America. The community had grown from a modest 19th-century commuter town into one of Westchester County's most desirable zip codes. Its stately colonial and Tudor-style homes were often tucked behind brick walls or wrought-iron gates, offering privacy to financiers, surgeons, and entertainment executives who preferred their affluence to be hidden.
Property taxes alone could fund a small town's budget, and the school district was regularly ranked among the nation's best. It was the kind of place New York's elites who didn't reside in Manhattan sent their children to private schools in chauffeur-driven cars, with country club memberships being passed down like heirlooms.
At the far end of Elmwood Drive, behind a row of flowering dogwoods, stood the James estate — a three-story brick estate surrounded by a tall, ivy-laced wall. Wrought-iron gates framed the cobblestone driveway that curved up to the front steps. It wasn't ostentatious by billionaire standards, but it was worldly enough to raise a family in comfortable luxury.
The house had been Cassius's pride, purchased after his 1987 windfall when he could finally afford to give his family the kind of home he'd always dreamed of when growing up in Queens. Over the years, he had thoroughly renovated the estate, transforming it to match their needs and wants.
The third floor had originally been a finished attic, but when Maya became pregnant with Zoe, Cassius had it completely remodelled into Xavier's sanctuary. A sprawling bedroom with exposed wooden beams, a connecting bathroom with marble fixtures, and a walk-in closet that could double as a small apartment. It gave the teenage Xavier, who was already skipping classes, privacy and space from the self-imposed pressure of being Cassius James's son.
The west side of the second floor had undergone a similar transformation when Zoe was born. Two smaller bedrooms had been combined into one large suite for her, complete with a ballet barre along one wall—a remnant from her dance obsession at age eight—and enough space for the organised chaos of a fourteen-year-old girl's life.
The ground floor was where the family lived. A sprawling living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden, a chef's kitchen with Italian marble countertops where Maya spent her mornings, and a gym that connected to a sauna and an indoor pool that Cassius had insisted on despite Maya's protests about the cost. The game room held a pool table, dartboard, and vintage arcade machines that Xavier and his father had collected over the years.
The basement was Cassius's domain—a twenty-seat home theatre with plush leather recliners, a screen that rivalled most commercial cinemas, and a sound system that made action movies feel like you were inside them. Storage areas held everything from holiday decorations to boxes of the children's trophies.
Outside, the garden wasn't extensive, but it was thoughtfully designed. A half basketball court, a koi pond surrounded by Japanese maples and stone lanterns that Maya had commissioned after a holiday trip to Tokyo, and enough manicured lawn for Zoe to practice her gymnastics routines on summer afternoons.
Xavier's black Lincoln Continental rolled through the remote operated gates, tyres crunching softly on the brick driveway. He'd left the city early, after completing the last of his work. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the front of the house, and he could see lights on in the kitchen.
He killed the engine and sat for a moment, hands still on the wheel, letting the quiet settle over him. Not long after, two large muscular Dobermans appeared next to the car, and he could faintly see their old German shepherd named "General" in the distance.
Without fear, he alighted from the car, patting their heads in greeting. "Hello Axel and Brutos," the two of them nuzzled their heads against his body, prompting him to scratch their ears. "Good afternoon, General," he greeted the dog in the distance with a two-finger salute, earning a lazy bark.
The old Dog was his father's dog and had become rather listless ever since showing signs of depression. Sighing at seeing this, he reached for a paper bag in the back seat, pulling out three large cow leg bones from the butcher's. The two dogs barked in excitement the moment they caught the scent, and Xavier did not hesitate to give them their treat. Brutos Nturlay picked up one of the bones, rushing off to the distance, placing it in front of General before returning to pick up his share.
He grabbed his leather briefcase from the passenger seat, as the two dogs scurried away to their respective resting places and headed for the door. The front door was locked; it usually was, no matter who was home, so he had to use his key to unlock it. He stepped into the foyer, breathing in the familiar scent of home, which brought a smile to his face.
"Mom, I'm home!" he called out, setting his briefcase down on the console table by the door.
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To Be Continued...