Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
And then the All-Star idea. The community campaign, the children from the Bronx, the organic groundswell that reframes the entire bid narrative. She built it at a lunch table while eating an eighty-dollar steak with the awkward restraint of someone pretending it wasn’t the best thing they’d ever tasted.
Then there’s the phone call I shamelessly eavesdropped on. I only heard her side of it, but what I did hear was magnificent. She listened attentively, giving nothing away in her expression or body language. She didn’t lose her temper but calmly identified the weakness in the principal’s position, applied exactly the right pressure, and extracted the outcome she wanted while offering enough concession to let the man believe he’d participated in the decision.
That was all street smarts, instinct and grit most likely shaped by years of only relying on herself to get things done. At least, that’s the image I’ve built in my head, but I’d love to know more about why she is the way she is.
Which brings me to what I don’t know.
I know she grew up on the Lower East Side and that she’s a hustler and a survivor. I know she has a younger brother she clearly adores and would go to war for without hesitation. I know she tried college, found it not to her liking, and walked away without apparent regret.
It could be considered way too much information for an employer to know about their new employee, and yet it isn’t enough. For the past two days, every time I’ve tried to find out more, she has closed the distance with the polite, practiced efficiency of someone who has decided exactly how much of herself is appropriate to offer an employer.
I get short answers in a professional manner. While I still insist on sitting in the front seat of the Range Rover, she doesn’t look at me at all. It’s eyes forward, hands on the wheel, attention focused on the road.
It’s not unfriendly but it’s deliberate. She’s intentionally putting up a wall between us and I wonder why. It could be simple professionalism—a boundary she’s drawn and intends to hold because that’s really the way of the business world. You don’t fraternize with your superior or your subordinate.
That I can respect. I drew similar lines myself for years, between what I offer and what I withhold from others, between the public version of myself and the real version only a select few see.
But could it be something else that has her maintaining a professional distance? Is she keeping the distance because proximity is dangerous to her in some way?
The thought arrives without warning, and I sit with it, turning it over.
Does she feel it too? That sensation of intrigue into the other person that seems to defy common sense? I know I’m obviously feeling it.
On the ice below, the referee whistles and play stops. The face-off moves to the neutral zone and I set my drink down.
I had given Harper the afternoon off today since I wanted her to drive me to the game tonight. Right now, she’s currently sitting in the Range Rover in the VIP lot, and it bothers me more than it should.
Behind me, one of the sponsors says something that prompts a round of laughter. I half turn, smile appropriately, and look back to the ice.
The puck drops and we win the face-off cleanly. I watch the play develop for approximately five seconds before turning away from the glass wall. “Excuse me,” I say as I weave through the room, accepting handshakes and handing out promises to reconnect later. But then I’m out the suite door with Marcus, my head of security, right behind me. “Mr. Langley, do you need—”
“I’ve got this,” I say without breaking stride, holding up a hand. “You can wait here.”
I don’t look back, knowing he will position himself against the wall and wait for me to return.
In the corridor outside the suite, one of the arena’s senior staff members spots me and straightens. “Mr. Langley, is there anything I can—”
“No, thank you.”
Two more offers of assistance between the suite level and the elevator, both declined. I take the elevator to the ground floor, cross the main concourse—quieter now that the period is underway, the crowd inside and settled—and push through the heavy exterior doors into the night air.
The VIP lot is tucked along the south side of the building, gated, well lit. The Range Rover sits in the first reserved space, exactly where I instructed Harper to park after she dropped me off at the main entrance.
Through the driver’s window I can see her—head slightly angled, the faint glow of her phone screen reflected on her face, earbuds in. She’s in the new uniform still but tonight she wore her hair loose. I wonder what type of music she listens to.