[2nd May 2000 – 7:15 AM, Mara Residence, White Plains, New York]
John Mara woke to the sound of birdsong filtering through the bedroom windows, a pleasant enough way to start any Tuesday morning in May. The master bedroom of his White Plains estate was spacious without being ostentatious, decorated in warm earth tones that his wife, Janice, had selected years ago. Sunlight streamed through gauze curtains, casting soft patterns across hardwood floors.
He lay still for a moment, listening to Janice's steady breathing beside him. After twenty years of marriage, her presence was as familiar as his own heartbeat. She stirred slightly, blonde hair splayed across the pillow, but didn't wake. John carefully extracted himself from the sheets and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
The morning routine was sacred for him, a key to success, as his late father called it. Fifteen minutes in the shower, water cold enough to wake him properly but not scalding. He shaved with the same methodical precision his father had taught him at 16: slow, steady strokes, no rush. The face in the mirror looked back at him with the same expression it had worn for forty-six years: serious, composed, carrying the weight and responsibility that came with being a Mara.
His family had owned the New York Giants since 1925. Three-quarters of a century. His grandfather, his father, now him and his brother. The franchise was more than a business—it was legacy, tradition, obligation. Every decision John made was filtered through that lens.
By 8:15, he had finished his morning Gym session, showered again, and was ready for the day. Standing in his private bathroom, his wife had already left, starting her day. He dressed in charcoal slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
He descended the stairs to find the house already awake. The smell of coffee and bacon drifted from the kitchen, along with the unmistakable sound of his four daughters and son in various states of morning chaos. His kids couldn't even see him, but they knew his routine so well that they knew they could bothere him now.
"Dad, tell Kourtney she can't borrow my sweater without asking!" Lauryn's voice carried from somewhere upstairs.
"Tell Lauryn she needs to stop leaving her stuff everywhere!" came Kourtney's retort.
John sighed, stepping into the kitchen where Janice stood at the stove, expertly managing scrambled eggs and bacon simultaneously. She was already dressed for the day in a navy skirt and cream blouse, her reading glasses perched on her nose.
"Morning," she said without turning around. "Coffee's ready. The girls are arguing again."
"I heard," John said, pouring himself a cup from the carafe. "What about this time?"
"Sweaters, apparently." Janice finally looked up, giving him that knowing smile that said our daughters are ridiculous, but we love them anyway. "Breakfast is almost ready. Can you wrangle the children?"
John moved to the base of the stairs. "Lauryn! Kourtney! Breakfast in five minutes!" His voice carried throughout the house without even trying, firm enough to cut through teenage drama.
By 8:30, the entire Mara household had assembled in the dining room. The long oak table could seat twelve, but this morning it held seven: John at the head, Janice to his right, and their five children arranged in descending age order like a staircase of personalities.
Lauryn, eighteen and headed to Notre Dame in the fall, sat flipping through a government textbook while buttering toast. Kourtney, sixteen, scrolled through her pager messages, texting on her new Nokia, earning a sharp look from her mother. John Jr., fourteen, was absorbed in the sports section of a newspaper he'd commandeered from somewhere.
Christina, twelve, was sketching something in a notebook she'd propped against her orange juice glass. And Eirene, ten and perpetually energetic, was narrating something elaborate about her upcoming school play to anyone who would listen. "Eirene, honey, chew first, then talk," Janice said gently.
John reached for the stack of morning papers that Geoffrey, their longtime household manager, had already laid out on the table beside his seat. It was a habit ingrained from childhood—his father had insisted that a Mara always knew what was being said about the team, the league, and the city —and he did the same once he became the head of the Mara Clan.
Three papers every morning: The New York Times, The Post, The Daily News, and, more recently, The Message. He flipped through the Times first—nothing remarkable. International news, politics, business. He moved to the sports section. A recap of last night's Yankees game, some analysis about the Knicks' playoff exit, nothing out of the ordinary.
Reaching for the next paper mid-bite, his hand froze as, right there in the folded paper of the Message, was a photograph that made his jaw tighten involuntarily. A grainy but unmistakable shot of Xavier James that wasn't unusual, as the young man had a tendency to make news in the city. He usually just ignored and planned to do the same after casually scanning, but this one seemed odd, almost like an expose rather than the usual hit piece. He was sitting in what looked like a deli booth, laughing over sandwiches with an older man John didn't immediately recognise.
---
The headline read:
NEW YORK'S MOST INELIGIBLE BACHELOR SPOTTED WOLFING MIDNIGHT SNACK WITH OLYMPIC IOC VP AT KATZ'S DELICATESSEN
Subheading: How much money did he waste on his meat sub? Two friends enjoying the city's best, or something more?
---
John's grip tightened on the paper. He forced himself to keep reading. Xavier James, New York's infamous billionaire, who shocked the sports world by purchasing the New York Tigers in February, was spotted last night at Katz's Delicatessen in the Lower East Side, sharing what witnesses described as "an animated conversation" with Peter Schumaster, Vice President of the International Olympic Committee's Executive Board.
---
The unlikely pair were seen leaving a charity auction at The Pierre Hotel around 11:30 PM before heading to the legendary deli. Sources say they stayed until nearly 1 AM, engaged in what appeared to be deep discussion over pastrami sandwiches.
"They looked like old friends," said one deli patron who requested anonymity. "The young guy was doing most of the talking, very passionate. The older gentleman seemed fascinated."
Schumaster, 56, is currently in New York as part of the IOC's ongoing evaluation of potential Olympic host cities and venue proposals. His presence at a late-night meal with the Tigers' controversial owner raises questions about James's intentions—particularly given ongoing speculation about stadium development plans in Manhattan, as Jess Person, his go-to lawyer, has been spotted evaluating commercial lots at the Hudson Yards...
---
"Damn it," John muttered under his breath.
"Language," Janice said automatically, though she was looking at him with concern now. "What's wrong?"
John set the paper down carefully, his mind already racing through implications. "Nothing. Just... work."
"Dad said a bad word," Eirene announced cheerfully.
"Dad says bad words all the time when he watches Giants games," John Jr. added without looking up from his own paper.
"Enough," John said, though there was no real heat in it. He stood, folding the Post and tucking it under his arm. "I need to make a call."
Janice caught his eye, her expression asking the question she wouldn't voice in front of the children. John gave a slight shake of his head—later—and headed toward his home office. The moment the door closed behind him, he pulled out his cell phone and dialled a number he'd memorised years ago.
Bob Quinn, the Giants' VP of Communications, answered on the second ring. "Morning, John."
"Have you seen The Message?" John asked without preamble.
"The Xavier James piece? Yeah, I saw it." Bob's voice carried that careful neutrality he used when delivering bad news. "Pretty cosy with an IOC Vice President, apparently."
"It's not 'apparently,'" John said, moving to the window that overlooked his property's expansive backyard. "That's Peter Schumaster. He's one of the four Vice Presidents on the Executive Board. If James is courting him..."
"Then he's making a play for Olympic consideration," Bob finished. "Which means he's serious about the stadium."
John was quiet for a moment, staring out at the perfectly manicured lawn. His children's voices drifted faintly from the dining room—normal, everyday sounds that suddenly felt very far away.
"I thought we had more time," John said finally. "The kid bought the team two months ago. I should have known that he is a Wall Street guy through and through; he won't wait to assess the situation if he can position his investment."
"Apparently, we underestimated him," Bob said. "Should I reach out to our contacts at the IOC? See what Schumaster's visit is really about?"
"Do it," John said. "Quietly. I want to know every conversation that German has while he's in New York. And Bob?"
"Yeah?"
"Find out what James offered him. The IOC doesn't take midnight deli meetings for charity. There's a play here, and I want to know what it is."
"I'll make some calls," Bob promised. "Anything else?"
John thought for a moment. "Get me a meeting with the Mayor's office. This week, if possible. If James is positioning himself for Olympic consideration, we need to make sure our Giants Stadium renovation proposal stays front and centre."
"On it. I'll call you back within the hour." He paused for a minute before voicing his question. "What about the Queens site acquisition?"
"Queens? What does that matter? If he gets the backing to build a stadium in Manhattan, it's game over for every franchise in the city, especially on the commercial side." John retorted, picking up the Post again, studying the photograph more closely. Both Men looked relaxed, not at all concerned with keeping up appearances with Schumaster, even leaning forward, clearly engaged. "No matter what, Manhattan is a no-go, and if he gets political help, the league won't care about our veto vote."
---
Please leave a comment, drop some power stones, and a review. It's what motivates me to write chapters and helps me tremendously as the story reaches more readers.
---
.
.
.
.
To Be Continued...