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)
A brief pause overtakes the table. They understand what I’m saying, or more precisely, what I’m not willing to accept. This isn’t a matter of meeting expectations. We’ve done that already.
“We need to think more critically,” I continue, my gaze moving from one face to the next to drive the point. “If the league has said no five times, it isn’t because we’ve failed to meet their stated criteria. It’s because we’ve failed to move them beyond it.”
“Emotion,” Tracey offers carefully, leaning forward far enough to signal engagement without overstepping. “The narrative angle we’ve been developing—”
“Yes,” I say, not dismissing her but refining the thought. “But not as something we present in a room. Not as a concept we expect them to buy into on the spot. It has to exist before we ever walk into that room. It has to be undeniable by the time we get there.”
I push one of the renderings aside, shifting the focus away from what we’ve already perfected and toward what still requires invention. “The community initiative—where are we with continuing to implement the secondary phases?”
A member of the marketing team straightens, clearly prepared. “After the success we had with the Manhattan schools, we’ve begun outreach to schools in the outer boroughs—the Bronx, Staten Island, and Brooklyn. Ticket allocations are being finalized for the next three home games, and we’re coordinating with social media to capture—”
“Not capture,” I interrupt, my words biting just enough to redirect without derailing. “Enable.”
He briefly falters before nodding. “Sorry, yes. Enable.”
“Don’t script it,” I say. “Don’t manufacture it. If this is going to work, it has to feel real. It has to be real.”
The words come easily, but I’m aware—uncomfortably aware—of where they originate.
Not from this room. Not from months of strategic planning.
From a lunch table in Tribeca, across from a woman who had I had no business asking to solve my problems and did so anyway, who then gave clarity my own team hadn’t reached.
Harper. She’s behind it all, and that’s the truth.
The memory of last night, our kiss, doesn’t drift in gradually. It arrives whole, cutting cleanly through the meeting in front of me. I see her exactly as she was—searching in the dark for those stupid lug nuts, her voice threaded with panic as though the entire situation rested on her shoulders.
And then she spun, right into me. The warmth of her body against mine and my fucking hands moved without thought.
Everything else fell away.
And then… I kissed her.
Couldn’t help myself.
I shift slightly in my chair, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough to remind myself where I am. The discussion continues around me with voices layering over one another, ideas building and evolving, but the words don’t take root the way they should. They register, but they don’t hold.
Because I can still feel it.
The warmth of her. The hesitation that wasn’t hesitation at all. The way she didn’t pull away—not at first.
And then, just as clearly, the way she did.
We can’t do that again. You’re my boss.
I draw a slow breath, steadying my focus, forcing my attention back to the table, to the people who are waiting for direction, for the version of me that does not get distracted.
“This initiative,” I say, picking up the thread seamlessly, “is the most compelling argument we have. Not the infrastructure or the numbers—the story. New York as a city that doesn’t just host hockey but expands the reach, opens it up to new fans, makes it accessible.”
There are nods now, momentum building again as the conversation regains its rhythm.
“And the team’s performance?” someone asks. “Shouldn’t that factor into how we position the bid?”
“Of course,” I reply. “Winning matters. The league wants to showcase excellence, and right now we’re giving them that.”
Five to one against Chicago. A decisive win, one that reinforces everything we’ve been building.
“All of it works in our favor,” I continue, “but it isn’t sufficient on its own. It never is.”
If it were, this would have been secured years ago.
The discussion deepens after that, moving into execution, timelines and deliverables. The level of detail I typically thrive in. I contribute where necessary, redirect where needed, push where they hesitate.
But beneath that control, a part of me remains unsettled.
Because no matter how firmly I tether myself to the work, no matter how hard I refocus, my thoughts return to the same place.
To her. To the way she looked at me after the kiss, her eyes wide.
To the way she said no. And the more I think about it, the more I recognize it for what it is.
Not rejection. Restraint.
Which, in its own way, carries far more awareness and maturity.
I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table as someone outlines the next phase of the campaign rollout, fully re-engaging because that’s what is required.
“Good,” I say, nodding once. “Move forward with that, and I want weekly updates—not summaries or high-level overviews. I want to see exactly how this is unfolding in real time.”