Lukas had barely closed his eyes after a long day—his mind still racing with the latest server installations, the Tokyo expansion plans, and the weight of his Facebook empire—when his phone buzzed violently on the nightstand.
The clock read 1:12 AM.
"Who the hell..." Lukas muttered groggily, half-ready to ignore it. But the name flashing across the screen stopped him: Terry Francona.
The Phillies manager.
He picked up with a reluctant sigh. "Yeah?"
"Lukas," Terry's voice boomed, too alert for the hour, "we've got the city charity event this weekend. Huge crowd, ESPN's coming. You're the poster boy. We need you here."
Lukas rubbed his face and sat up, irritation building in his chest. "No, Coach. Not this time. I am very busy, so I'm not attending."
Silence.
Then Terry's voice turned cold.
"This isn't optional, son. You're under contract. You're a Princeton boy pitching 101s and making headlines, but don't forget who gave you that mound."
That was it.
